lockwood and co♡ locklyle

01・❥・reckless and regretful

Lucy ♡ 

1386 words 

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

Confusion in her eyes that says it all. 

She's lost control. 

And she turned around and took me by the hand 

And said, "I've lost control again"

♩

ᴺᴼᵂ ᴾᴸᴬᵞᴵᴺᴳ: She's lost control. Joy Division 

a/n Hello! Thank you so much for reading. Just a foreword, this story will probably contain minor spoilers from the book series so if you haven't read the books yet/ are coming from the amazing tv show then there may be a few things in here that will be new to you. Don't forget to vote and have a great day/night. 💗

Chapter One. Reckless and regretful

I heaved my aching body onto the last step. My right leg had not stopped shaking in the last hour and the rapier belt slung around my waist sat at an uncomfortable width, pressing against my bruised ribs. I peered up at 35 Portland Row, the house was dark excluding the soft orange glow that winked from the sitting room window. A cool breeze threaded itself through the branches of an old oak tree, its limbs creaking wearily. The night was silent, and the street was gloomy except for the few ghost lamps that quietly hummed, radiating soft blue light every few houses or so.

I stretched a wounded hand into my satchel, fumbling for the house keys. The clinking of metal upon metal sounded disturbingly loud in such a still environment. I reached up for the lock only for it to be swung open, the old frame shuddering as it collided heavily with the wall behind it. That's sure to leave a dent. I took in the spectacle of George in the door frame. His long pyjama t-shirt swam just above his knees and his absence of pants was an oddly welcoming sight.

I waited for George to make some snarky remark but instead, he stepped aside, patting my shoulder lightly as I trod inside. "I'll put the kettle on then, shall I?" He said without waiting for a reply before disappearing into the kitchen.

I shrugged off my belt, satchel, and combat boots, leaving them in the hallway. I glanced around with a frown, before making my way to the living room. I pushed open the door and leaned against the frame. The warmth of the room embraced me. The oil lamp in the corner cast a deep orange glow over the teetering piles of books and ornate armchairs, the closest one draped with the sleeping form of Lockwood.

I padded softly over and crouched beside him. Lockwood was stretched out in a jumble of long limbs, his button-up shirt untucked and tie askew. His head fell limply to one side, covered by dishevelled curls that now stuck out at funny angles. I pressed my hand lightly against his forehead. He was cold.

"Luce?" He whispered, reaching up to grasp my hand. His eyes cracked open, taking in my sore body. He gripped my hand tighter, "You're back. I stayed awake wait-"

"Stayed awake?" George exclaimed, backing into the room carrying a tray of steaming mugs. "This one," he said pointing a thumb in Lockwood's direction, "has been out cold for the last half an hour whilst I paced up and down worried sick. Some friend you are, Lockwood. I think I wore a path into the carpet with all my pacing."