Archive of Our Own ^beta

When he’s feeling sorry for himself, this is where he goes.

The leaves crumble beneath his feet like sawdust, the dirt kicking up around his sneakers. If he ever wears wingtips, they’ll be ruined in an instant.

The night air is chilly, but he doesn’t mind. The cold slices through his coat, a piercing reminder that he’s still here, still alive, still breathing. Sometimes he thinks he shouldn’t be.

No, scratch that.

He knows he shouldn’t be.

He should have died a long time ago. It’s only through some twist of fate, some backhanded miracle that he’s still up top, the earth beneath the soles of his sneakers. He knows without a shadow of a doubt that all of his luck is expended towards keeping him alive.

It’s amazing. It’s the one thing he’s not even sure he wants some nights. Yet here he is, still walking, still breathing. A living corpse, if he wants to get into it.

The cemetery gate creaks beneath his fingers when he attempts to put weight on it, rusted from lack of use. This whole place is falling into disrepair, and the fucking gate won’t open.

No matter. He didn’t really think it would. It hasn’t in the past. He just checks every time he comes here, in case something has changed. Nothing ever does, but he holds out hope. Maybe when the gate swings open, it will be like Death beckoning. But no, the gate is still rusted shut, and so he launches himself over the wall instead.

He imagines Lucy storming down the stairs, back at Portland Row, ready to yell at him. He deserves it after tonight. He was reckless again. He’s always reckless. What does it even matter? She might as well just shout at him in advance for next time, because there will be a next time.

There’s always a next time.

He lands neatly on the ground, his one saving grace: He’s light on his feet. Maybe he should have been a cat, but instead he’s a stupid teenage boy who has, once again, let down one of the only people who cares about him.

George will ignore him, no doubt. He’s got his own methods for dealing with Lockwood, and usually they involve ignoring.

It’s a great feeling, especially after going so long without a family. Without anyone to talk to.

Lockwood is meant to be alone. Lucy and George are temporary, just like the mugs he recently purchased from Tesco to replace a couple of chipped ones. They’re cheap, probably won’t even last a year. Just like Lucy and George. They’ll be gone, onto bigger and better things, and Lockwood will once more find himself all alone in 35 Portland Row.

It’s where he belongs.

They don’t.

The house is dead. It’s a symbol of his family’s history, of the way one by one, they all slipped away from him, out of his grasp. The house is dead and Lockwood should be, too. But he’s not, and he’s not sure what to do about it. Being alive is so much work. He’s exhausted. He’s sad. He’s mortified. He’s angry. A part of him wishes he’d stuck around for the fight with Lucy, but he knows it’s better that he got out of the house. In theory, the walk was to clear his head. In reality, it’s to remind himself of all the ways he’s failed.

The path leads him to the familiar graves, to his parents’ and Jessica’s. He stares at them, searching for some sort of connection, for a reason to stay here, but there is none.

They’re dead. There’s an empty grave – his – but he’s not there yet.

This is pointless. His family can’t help him. No one can.

He laughs to himself quietly, and it’s not a joyous sound. How ironic. He came here looking for reassurance where there is none. There never is, not for him.

His arm throbs and he winces. He took a knife to the arm tonight after he and the others interrupted a couple of Relicmen. From what Barnes shouted across his desk, Lockwood should have seen this coming. He should have known that the Relicmen would be hiding out amongst the graves of the cemetery they’d been working that night.

Of course Barnes would say that. According to Barnes, Lockwood is the devil reincarnate. He exists to torment the inspector.

Lockwood wishes. His life would be so much more fun that way.

Shaking his head, he spins on his heel and heads back to the wall. This was a pointless venture, but he’s glad he’s out of the house. He supposes he should check the bandages, but he’d rather just…not bother. It’s too much work.

Once he hoists himself over the wall, he turns in the direction of Portland Row. He could go back there and face Lucy’s wrath and George’s silence. Lucy’s anger is preferable. Lockwood can’t handle silence. It’s his biggest fear. The walls close in on him and he wants to scream, but he can’t. Who’s going to hear him? If there’s silence, no one. That means he’s all alone.

He’s shaking now. Shivering. The cold is sharp now, and feels like a blade against his bare skin. He should probably make his way back to the house. Let Lucy yell at him. If she’s yelling, that means she cares. It shows that she hasn’t given up on him.

Lockwood slowly makes his way back towards the house. His energy feels zapped, drained. His arm throbs. The DEPRAC medic bandaged him up quickly and sent him on his way. With his luck, the knife was poisoned. But it won’t matter if he dies. No one cares. The medic didn’t care. Barnes didn’t care. Lucy didn’t care. George didn’t care.

His vision isn’t blurry, though. His heartbeat feels normal, and his breath is coming out evenly. If he’s dying, he’s not doing a very good job of it.

Maybe he’ll catch a cab to the train station and hop the first train out of London. He can start over fresh, settle down someplace new. That way he won’t continue to disappoint Lucy and George with his presence. With his mistakes. With his carelessness. With his past.

Especially with his past.

He can’t fix that. He can’t correct it. He can’t bring his family back to life. Everyone expects him to just snap out of it, but what is he supposed to do? He’s seventeen-years-old, and he’s been living life as an adult since he was fifteen. He’s treated like one, even though legally he’s still underage. Barnes acts like he should know everything there is to know, but he’s seventeen.

It’s not fair. He wants so desperately to be a good leader for Lucy and George, but how can he be when he’s so fucked up? He never really had a chance.

He’s not going back to Portland Row.

The walls would only close in around him.

He’s too scared of the silence.

The silence of lost hope. Lost love. Lost family.

He stops beneath a Ghost Lamp and finally rolls his coat sleeve up. The bandage isn’t holding; it’s sticky with blood. Perfect. His night is getting progressively worse. He might as well just bleed out in the middle of the street while he’s at it. Lucy and George can identify his body in the morning. They’ll probably even be glad for it. He won’t be hanging over their heads any longer.

He loves Lucy, but he knows she doesn’t love him back. How can she? People like him don’t get loved back. They never win the girl. Boys like Kipps get their happily ever afters, but the Anthony Lockwoods of the world never do. They end up face down in gutters or sliced up by a Relicman.

Lockwood is already dead, he realizes. He’s going to bleed out in the street. The bandage is quickly disintegrating. Guess someone should have done their job better.

Someone should have cared.

Well, he’s nothing if not dramatic. He begins the trek back to Portland Row once more. If he dies, it’s going to be on the motherfucking doorstep. Then Lucy and George won’t even have to get called down to the morgue to identify his body. It might be an unpleasant surprise to wake up to, but they’ll get over it. After all, he’s temporary.

They’re not, but he is.

He reaches the house and climbs the stairs. He’s still breathing. The bandage is a mess, but it’s just managed to hold up.

He lets himself into the house and the door snaps shut behind him.

Lucy is down the stairs in an instant, her face white with worry. “Where were you?” she demands. “Where did you go?”

“For a walk,” he responds casually as he tugs his coat off. “Do you mind helping me? I don’t think the bandage worked very well.”

“Oh my god!” Her eyes widen and she grabs his arms, no doubt getting his blood all over himself. “Fucking DEPRAC. They had one job and they can’t even do that. GEORGE! GET UP HERE!” She turns back to Lockwood and guides him into the kitchen, forcing him into a chair. She’s not yelling at him, so that’s something.

“What?” George pounds up the steps from the basement. “Did Lockwood finally – holy shit.”

“Yeah, he’s home,” Lucy says grimly. “Look at the fucking horrible job that DEPRAC did!”

“They’re useless,” George agrees. “I’ll go get the first aid kit.”

It’s beginning to sink in that Lockwood isn’t going to die, and that Lucy and George aren’t currently inclined to leave. Lucy seemed very concerned before, and he’s not sure why. He can’t be that important to her. He’s just her boss.

George returns a minute later with the first aid kit and a tub of supplies, and Lucy peels off the bandage, chucking it in the bin.

“I’m going to bleed all over you,” Lockwood complains as she snatches the dripping washcloth out of the tub.

“I don’t care. I prefer you in one piece, thanks.”

“I don’t know why.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know why?” she snaps. “Of course I prefer you in one piece. I like you alive .”

“Maybe I should get that in writing.”

George is frowning slightly. “Did you think we were mad at you?” he asks Lockwood.

“Well…yeah. After what I did –”

“You mean taking a knife for Lucy and getting us the fuck out of there before the Relicman could kill us?”

“I led us right into a Relicman nest. That’s what Barnes said.”

“Barnes is…Barnes. He was pissed that the Relicmen weren’t rounded up, and he took his frustration out on you,” Lucy explains. “I heard him talking while the medic was doing the world’s worst first aid job.” She dabs at his arm, attempting to clean it up a bit. “Not that that’s an excuse,” she adds darkly. “Barnes should have held his temper, especially considering you were bleeding all over his desk.”

“You’re not mad at me?” Lockwood asks in a meek voice.

“No! When you vanished, I was so worried about you!”

“So was I,” George adds. “I was trying to take my mind off the situation with some stress cleaning. The basement has never looked so spotless.”

“Oh.” Lockwood isn’t sure how to take this. He didn’t mean to scare them, and now he feels awful.

“Lockwood, tonight was terrifying, but we weren’t angry with you,” Lucy presses. “Okay? It wasn’t your fault. How were you supposed to know that the Relicmen were hanging out at our fucking job site. God. I hope DEPRAC does something about them once and for all.”

“They won’t,” George says grimly. “It’s job security, isn’t it? As long as Relicmen are in business, half of DEPRAC will stay around. You know how it goes.”

“They almost killed Lockwood tonight.” Lucy dabs a bit of rubbing alcohol onto a cotton ball. “This is going to sting,” she warns him.

“Story of my life.”

She works on cleaning his wound, and he winces a bit but doesn’t yell. He doesn’t have the energy for it.

Once the gash has dried a bit, Lucy wraps a bandage around his arm, holding it with medical tape. George putters around the kitchen, fixing Lockwood a ham and cheese sandwich, and Lucy nearly forces chocolate biscuits down his throat. He thanks them both, suddenly realizing how numb he felt on his walk to the cemetery. It was as though his mood had sunk so low that it had nowhere else to go.

Maybe he needs therapy.

There’s a novel idea.

He’ll never do it, but it’s a good idea.

“You should go up to bed,” George tells him after he finishes eating. “Get some sleep. And don’t worry about getting up bright and early tomorrow. If you bleed through your bandages again, we’ll take you back to A&E, and have them stitch you up.”

Lockwood nods. “Thank you. Both of you,” he adds. He still doesn’t feel entirely back to normal, but his mood isn’t quite so low now. A bit of hope has returned for the moment.

He wonders how long it’ll last.

Lockwood climbs the stairs to his room, and closes the door. He changes into joggers and a t-shirt, and slides into bed. He’s still not happy, but just as he was downstairs, he’s better.

It’s something.

He’s just trying to get himself comfortable in bed when there’s a knock on the door.

“Yeah?” he calls, wondering if George is already checking to make sure that he hasn’t bled through the bandage again.

Lucy pokes her head in. She’s wearing her pajamas now, he notes, and she still looks upset.

“What’s up?” he asks her curiously.

“Can I join you?” she requests in a small voice.

“What? Yeah, I guess. I mean…is something wrong with your bed?”

She shakes her head. “I just…I really was scared tonight, especially after you took the knife in the arm. I just…can I just sleep down here with you?”

He nods and scoots over. She crawls in on his right side, his good side.

“I might bleed out in the middle of the night, though,” he warns her.

“You better not,” she tells him sternly. “If you do, I’ll never forgive you.”

He smiles slightly and reaches for the lamp. “Well, we don’t want that, do we?”

“No. No, we don’t.”

He flicks the light off. “I really did think you were mad at me,” he admits quietly. “Both you and George.”

“I’m sorry if we gave you reason to think that. I don’t remember us saying anything, though.”

“It was the silence,” he explains. “Silence is…bad. It means that something awful has happened. There’s always silence after death,” he continues on. “And when people leave. I was in this house for ages before George moved in, and when he’s angry, it’s just…silence.”

“Did you think we were going to leave?”

“A little bit, yeah.”

“We wouldn’t. We’re a team,” she reminds him. “We’re family. Okay? We’re not going to leave you just because…just because you fucked up, or just because you’re having a rough time. That’s not what families do.”

He doesn’t want to be that sort of family with her. He wants to be…something else. But in his very limited experience, found families are generally pretty unconditional, so maybe that’s okay. It’s a start, at least.

“If you say so.”

“I do say so.” She lays her head on his chest. “We love you, okay?”

“I love you both, too.”

“Good. And you know, silence isn’t always bad.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No, not always.”

“I’m going to need examples in order to believe you.”

She lifts her head and crawls up his body, before pressing her lips to his. It’s a simple kiss, but it’s sweet and tender. Unexpected. Beautiful.

Lovely.

He loves her.

She pulls back after a moment. “That’s the only example I can really give you at the moment,” she whispers. “But there was silence for a few seconds, and nothing bad happened.”

“No.” His voice cracks. “Nothing bad happened.”

“Exactly.” She rests her head on his chest once more. “Silence can be good sometimes.”

And as she drifts off, Lockwood realizes that he sort of believes her. Silence isn’t always the terrible beast that he’s known it as. Sometimes silence means something else.

Sometimes it’s as simple as a first kiss.

Sometimes silence is poignant, the stuff that dreams and wishes are made out of.

Sometimes silence is filled with hope and happiness.

He hopes he gets to experience this more. He drifts off with Lucy, smiling slightly for the first time in hours.

Maybe he’ll be okay after all.

Maybe.