Locklyle One-Shots

𝕭𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖍𝖊

𝕾𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞: Lockwood wakes up with panic attacks from the death of the DEPRAC Agent at the Winkman Auction at 1 am every night...

𝖂𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘: Mild language, vivid description of anxiety, panic attacks, and hyperventilation.

𝕬/𝕹: I know it's a cliche but honestly with the way Lockwood reacted to the undercover DEPRAC agent dying in the show, I felt like it would stick with him and effect him for a while...

𝖂𝖔𝖗𝖉𝖘: 2168

☞ ☜

"𝕴𝖙'𝖘 𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖕𝖊𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖆𝖌𝖆𝖎𝖓."

Groaning, Lucy rolls over in bed and halfheartedly chucks a pillow at the ghost jar. His ectoplasmic face holds fast, both goopy eyes rolling back through the eye sockets of his skull to watch the pillow flop useless onto the floor. Lucy cracks open one eye and instantly regrets it. Why's the damn thing got to be so bright? He glows a horrendous lime green when he's active. When the rest of the room — and world for that matter — are pitch black, looking at the vibrant other-light is like staring head on into the sun. Stuffing her head between two pillows like an ostrich, Lucy moans mournfully over the loss of sleep, and thinks of how much worse Lockwood could have it, if he had a ghost skull glowing all night on his dresser. He'd have to sleep in the sunglasses, she remarks, starting to doze off again with the image of Lockwood in that dashing coat and pair of shades...

"Luuuuuucy—"

"What. Do. You. Want!?" Lucy hisses.

"You already know what I want..."

Right. To be set free. "So why the bloody Hell did you wake me up! I've told you a million times I'm no—"

"This isn't about me...it's about Lockwood."

Lockwood?

Lucy's head shoots up in the dark, her hair a rat's nest on her head and eyes crusty and weak. The skull laughs quietly, a sickly yellow patch of ectoplasm stretching across the damaged arrangement of teeth to form a Joker-esque smile.

"Knew that would get your attention..."

"What's this got to do with Lockwood?" Lucy demands.

The ghost recoils dramatically, "You don't realize what time it is do you?"

"No...?"

"It's one in the morning, Lucy....and you know what happens at one in the morning..."

Despite her frustration, she takes heed of the skull's words, immediately associating his vague panderings with a recent development in 35 Portland Row. Panic flares in Lucy's mind, waking her like a splash of cold water. She wastes no time in wading through her blankets until both bare feet hit the wooden floor. As she fishes for the socks she tore off in her sleep, she casts the ghost jar an incredulous look. "Everynight at one?"

He nods solemnly.

"Everynight at one."

Shit. How have either of them been getting any sleep? Lockwood especially...even as an agent, used to the come and go of broken nights and scraps of sleep, still loves and requires sleep. If he had his way, he'd nap once each day. Anywhere, come to think of it. Lucy's found him in his armchair, dozing on the rare occasion that they get a day off. It's too cute for words to describe, seeing the infamous Anthony Lockwood free of the 'adult' charade and reckless abandon and snoozing through the afternoon, a gossip magazine folded in his lap, one cheek smooshed against the wing of the chair and his parted lips quivering with every snore of a breath. With her second sock finally on, Lucy sprints for the door, nearly slipping down the stairs multiple times as she hurries towards Lockwood's bedroom.