Chapter Text
Holly
~
There was something final in the use of paper clips, Holly Munro thought, as she navigated through the landscape of unsorted papers that the agents of Lockwood & Co had cultivated on their desks. Small and larger stacks, intersecting, mountains and valleys of receipts, reports, briefings, used train tickets, chewing gum wrappers - often with old pieces of gum still inside - and with a bit of luck, you might find a dried-up apple core or, luckier still, a slightly mouldy one amid the papers.
She had started with Lucy's desk, which had been offered to her for work in Lucy's absence. Judging by what Anthony Lockwood, a 16-year-old acting strikingly mature with a questionable reputation but a captivating smile, had told her about his colleague, she had to be an impressive figure: athletic, attractive, spirited, and very gifted. However, her desk's condition suggested she was more of an average teenager, lacking any form of self-organization and having a distinct aversion to office work and disposing of her gum wrappers. Nevertheless, her approach, as Holly could gather from the case notes she had received from George for orientation, demonstrated solid training, sharp intelligence, and excellent senses - even if she felt that the case notes weren't always perfectly documented. That, she should mention, was not always the case with George and Lockwood. George, it seemed, preferred to avoid conflict in general and was generally late to fieldwork, as Lockwood had hinted between the lines that George much preferred the library over haunted houses. Lockwood, on the other hand, as George had quite openly indicated, was a hot-headed show-off with more luck than sense who, if not restrained, would chase a ghost through a house rapier-waving, unprepared and sometimes with half-forgotten equipment, until he stumbled upon the source of the haunting, nose first, if luck allowed it. Based on what she had heard and read about Anthony Lockwood in the media over the past year, George's assessment wasn't entirely unfounded.
Despite their respective flaws, the two young agents made her feel welcome and appreciated. In her two days on Portland Row 35, she had been showered with kindness, tea, and biscuits, her work's results had been acknowledged with wide eyes and gratitude, and at least Lockwood had continuously and extensively apologized for the state of the house. In fact, the house's condition had been the only topic that Anthony Lockwood had displayed a hint of youthful uncertainty about. And not without reason, she would like to add. Unsorted laundry from all three agents had piled up in the laundry room (and all sorts of other places), which also served as a training area, while salt and magnesium residue scattered over the worktable and its edges. Dirty dishes were stacked in the kitchen, and it seemed that the two boys had been using the same cup since the day the girl had left the house, rinsing it briefly in the sink before using it again the next day. The house was dusty and untidy, the rubbish bins overflowed, the bathroom was in a dreadful state, and in a corner of the kitchen, partly covered by a stained dishcloth, a Spectre trapped in a jar from the Sunrise Corporation kept watching her as she cleaned, making the most horrifying grimaces.
Yet, she was happy. Not only did the boys make her feel welcome and valued, but the house also exuded a refreshing sense of adventure. She had reasonable working hours, even though she had to compromise on her salary, and, last but not least, every day was a day without Steve Rotwell. Additionally, she had the pleasant feeling of actually being needed here. It wasn't that she didn't trust the agents to do their own laundry, take out their own trash, and run their own errands (after all, they had been doing it for two years now and survived somehow), but she could deduce from the case files and the bags under Anthony Lockwood's eyes that they took on a multitude of poorly paid minor cases, often split up, and probably hadn't had a full night's sleep in quite a while. Clearly, what was lacking wasn't an extra pair of hands to do the cleaning. What was lacking was an adult who would give them permission to decline cases, focus on the essential jobs, and take the rest and recuperation they all desperately needed.
That. And a conductor.
How the three of them had managed not to lose life or solvency over the past two years was a mystery to her. The "Thinking Cloth" alone, a white cotton tablecloth on the kitchen table used for note-taking, scribbling, and mutual teasing, was evidence of the team's low organizational skills. Vital case notes were tightly packed alongside comments about laundry, the purchase of shampoo, and accusations about improper biscuit consumption (though the rules underlying biscuit consumption remained unknown to her as of yet). There was a lengthy speculation about the street and house number of a client, rendered unreadable by a tea stain ('it's clearly a 68' - 'no, an 83, can't you read?'). Moreover, during the two days she had been there, she had already taken numerous calls from people complaining about poor phone availability, which was no wonder considering both boys seemed to have the habit of sleeping until noon.
She sighed and tossed an empty biscuit wrapper into the trash bag, then followed it with a half-eaten, dusty, and unsavoury biscuit.
A sound caught her attention - first a scraping from above, then soft steps on the spiral staircase, and finally Anthony Lockwood appeared in the doorway, dressed in trousers and a crisp white shirt, but looking sleepy. She let the stack of receipts and the stapler sink and smiled at him.
"Morning, Holly," he said cheerfully, "Wow, what you've done with the kitchen! Thanks a million!"
"Hello An - Lockwood!" she replied. She wouldn't make the mistake of calling him Anthony again. She had done it once and had seen from his forced smile that it wasn't welcome, even if he hadn't corrected her. So, she had quickly adopted the somewhat strange-sounding "Lockwood" that George used.
"Making tea, would you like one?" Lockwood asked, and she nodded, "Yes, that would be wonderful!" She glanced at the clock - a quarter to twelve, time for a break.
While Lockwood made tea, she finished sorting Lucy's desk: tossing some final papers into the bin, securing the last case report of the previous week with a paper clip. Eventually, he returned to the office with two cups of tea in hand, placing one on Lucy's tidy desk and turning the chair at the adjacent desk around to face her. He cleared a stack of papers, managing to create space for his own tea cup, all the while giving her a somewhat uncertain smile.
"What's your plan for today?" he asked, crossing one leg over the other, resting an elbow on the backrest of the chair in a gesture of casual authority, as if this way he could make the chaos on his desk cease to exist.
She smiled again. It was her professional smile. It wasn't easy to get used to the fact that this child in a suit was now her new boss. She had worked with young agents at Rotwell too, but she had been more of their supervisor, not their assistant. His affected behavior was somewhat unsettling, making her wonder what lay beneath the façade, what he was hiding. Was it merely the vulnerability and insecurity of a parentless child burdened with too much responsibility, trying to compensate for lack of life experience with exaggerated self-confidence? Or was there more to it? Her thoughts briefly wandered to the door on the first floor, behind which Lockwood's sister's meticulously cultivated bedroom lay, her death glow so vivid that even she could see it, and the story behind it so grim that it seemed to evaporate a layer of sorrow that coated the house. She thought of his deliberately nonchalant voice as he showed her the room and explained its origin during the house tour. She thought of George's glance in her direction as Lockwood had opened the door for her, incredulous and possibly a little hostile.
"I thought I'd start with the desks, then the shopping list errands, and then the attic?" she suggested. She pointed to the shopping list she had written the day before and pinned to the board next to the office door. By Lockwood's hesitant expression, she could tell that at least a part of those didn't fit into his plan.
"Ah... The attic...", he seemed hesitant: "It's actually still in pretty good condition. There sure are other things to prioritize." Holly frowned. During the house tour, Lockwood had shown her the attic - he had opened the door just a crack, let her take a quick peek through the gap, told her it used to be his childhood bedroom and Lucy was sleeping there now, and then quickly closed the door again.
"Fine!", she agreed: "Then I'll just collect the laundry and the used dishes and do the rest tomorrow after the other rooms are finished...?" she cautiously suggested, realizing even as she spoke that this wasn't the kind of compromise he was aiming for.
"To be honest, I think it's better if you avoid the attic for now," he said, and even though he sounded polite and almost carefree, there was a definite determination in his voice that made it clear the subject was closed, "Just until, you know, you can talk to Lucy about it." She nodded quickly and and opened her mouth to go on discussing the shopping she planned to do in the afternoon, but he continued, "And I'll take care of the errands. That way, you'll have the whole day to focus on the paperwork and the rest of the laundry, and settle in comfortably." He reached for the list on the board, tore it off without getting up, and placed it on the tallest stack of unsorted papers on his desk, which looked even worse than Lucy's. She was worried it might have disappeared, become part of the paper landscape in a minute, but she said nothing, simply observed him silently as he settled deeper into his chair, took a sip of tea, and smiled warmly at her.
They remained silent for a moment before he said, "Lucy will be thrilled when she comes home. The mess was driving her crazy. Well, all of us, to be honest. Okay, mainly Lucy and me. Actually, just Lucy and me." He grinned mischievously. She grinned back, because she had an idea what he was hinting at.
George poked his head through the door, "Did someone mention mess? Because I can't seem to find any." He held a cup in one hand and a biscuit in the other. He was wearing a t-shirt and trousers, and she had been informed that this wasn't necessarily a given at this time of day, so she was thankful for his efforts. When neither Holly nor Lockwood responded, George added, "Breakfast?"
After a leisurely yet hardly luxurious late breakfast (toast with butter, orange juice, a few biscuits - the fridge didn't offer much more), they split up again: George went to the library, Lockwood into town for errands, and Holly tackled the washing up before tidying up the other two desks in the office and starting on the bookkeeping.
It wasn't until late afternoon when Lockwood returned, carrying a tray full of tea cups and an old-fashioned large plate with a gold rim, loaded with buns, that they gathered again in the office. Lockwood hung the shopping list back on the noticeboard, having crossed out most of the items, and announced that he would get the remaining items (chain oil, magnesium flares) the next day. George shared a story while chewing about a confrontation he had with Bobby Vernon in front of the library. They all laughed about it and Holly tried to overlook George scattering crumbs heartily over Lucy's freshly wiped desk where both of them were leaning, but leveled him a particularly pronounced smile for it. He paused in his chewing, swallowed, wiped his mouth, and ran his hand over it. Perhaps she was mistaken, but she had the impression that from then on he crumbled a little less. The mood was cheerful, and she was touched that the two younger agents made her entry so pleasant and easy.
"What kind of flares do the Rotwells use, Holly?", Lockwood asked.
She was about to answer, but a sound from the staircase made her look up. In the doorway stood a girl, tall and sturdy, with thick, slightly disheveled chin-length hair framing a soft face with piercing dark eyes. She wore a black sweater, a black skirt, and black leggings. Everything about her was black, except for her pale face, a patch of skin below her knee revealed by a spacious run in the leggings, and a large plate full of pastries. There was something wild about her that disturbed and attracted Holly at the same time. Something that told her she would look much more authentic with a sword in one hand and a salt bomb in the other than with a plate of pastries in her arms. Her stomach churned slightly, and she wished one of the boys would notice her, sparing her the task of being the first to comment on the young woman's appearance, but neither of them did.
"Hello," she eventually said with a forced friendly and questioning smile, looking from the girl to Lockwood. He paused mid-sentence, glanced at her, then quickly turned around, and Holly's stomach tightened at the expression that appeared on his face as soon as he laid eyes on the person. He didn't even need to speak for Holly to know that it was Lucy. Lucy, who had gone on vacation and whose desk she was currently sitting at. Lucy, whom Lockwood had wanted to call to tell her about finding a new team member, the day before yesterday, yesterday and today (she had asked multiple times, and he had evasively changed the subject). Lucy, who clearly had no idea what was going on and - Holly couldn't even blame her - wasn't amused about it.
"Lucy, hello. What a lovely surprise!" Lockwood said - he straightened up from his position hunched over the table and his expression was unnervingly nonchalant. One didn't need to be an expert in facial expressions to see that her sudden presence triggered a multitude of mixed emotions in him, none of which were 'nonchalant'. An icy, brief silence followed, so he continued, "You're back early! How was your trip? Nice weather, I hope?" The iron silence persisted. "So... Good journey? Oh, more buns? How lovely!" he continued to try. Holly turned to George, who was looking from Lucy to Lockwood, and whose expression was hard to read. He didn't seem to feel caught in the act like Lockwood did, but similar to Holly, he appeared uncomfortable with the atmosphere in the room.
"There's a girl," the young woman - Lucy - finally said. Her voice was deep, and her accent was distinctly northern. "A girl in my chair."
Holly looked at Lockwood in alarm. While she was still contemplating whether to stand up, he waved her off. "Oh, don't worry! That's only until the new desk arrives. Should be tomorrow, or Wednesday at the very latest. Nothing to worry about... We didn't expect you back so soon, you see." Holly inwardly cringed. She had hoped for a bit more finesse, but she kept her mouth shut.
"A new desk?" Lucy asked.
"Yes, for Holly. Well now, where are my manners?" Holly breathed a sigh of relief. Everything would fall into place. He would stand up, walk over to her, welcome her, then introduce Holly and apologize for her sitting in her place without prior notice, he would tell her he had been trying to reach her to share the good news, and that of course, they valued her opinion in the hiring process, but they were under a lot of time pressure, an unforeseen sequence of events, and Lucy would then say -
"This is a time for introductions! Holly, this is Lucy Carlyle, the perfect Agent, whom you've heard so much about. And Lucy, let me introduce you to Holly Munro, our new assistant."
Well, maybe not.
Holly and Lucy stared at each other. Everything in Holly wanted to say, 'I'm sorry. It's not my fault. I didn't want this. I can't help it. Please don't hate me.' But it was too late. She could see it in Lucy's gaze. This moment had definitively and irreversibly set the tone that would prevail between them from now on.
Holly stood up, and in that exact second, Lucy placed the plate on top of the only stack of freshly organized papers on Lockwood's otherwise empty desk, turned around, and said, "I'm very tired," already leaving the room.
Alarmed, Holly looked down at Lockwood, who was still sitting in his chair, giving her a look that was hard to decipher.
"Don't you want to..." she began softly, but Lockwood just smiled his trained little smile. He patted the air above her chair to make her sit back down, and said, "Don't worry, you'll get to know her soon enough. She's a wonderful agent; you'll get along just great!" His face, masked with forced cheerfulness, looked like a dog caught with a chewed-up shoe.