Work Text:
“…And then my shift supervisor, who stayed late, noticed the lights flickering on and off– and we’ve never had electrical problems before.”
“How unsettling,” Lockwood said, leaning forward in his chair and doing his best to express interest in the client’s story, although his vision kept sliding in and out of focus.
“Quite so!” the client, Mr. Dawkins, said. “I make it a point to keep these things well-maintained, you know. It’s part of what makes my establishment one of the finest in Peckham…”
Lockwood sensed another tangent, and was grateful Holly was here to take notes as his attention wavered, then drifted away. For the past several minutes, his stiff white shirt had felt restrictive and itchy, and he suddenly had to put a lot of energy into staying upright without swaying. His hand gripped the arm of his chair, and he realized the room had gone silent.
“Mr. Lockwood?” Mr. Dawkins said, somewhat impatiently. “Your opinion on the matter?”
Lockwood opened his mouth, scrambling to find something to say that would make it seem like he’d been paying attention.
Luckily, Holly saved him. “We’ll have to do a bit of research before drawing any definite conclusions,” she said, glancing through her meticulous notes. “But it sounds to me like you most likely have a basic Specter on your hands, possibly a Phantasm, but we cannot know for sure until we get there.”
“And is there a significant difference in rate between the two?”
Lockwood frowned. Mr. Dawkins’s tailored suit and signet ring did not speak of a man who needed to be pinching pennies, but before he could find his voice, Holly spoke again.
“We actually use a sliding scale, based on the client’s means, and consideration for our field agents’ time, labor, and unexpected personal risk incurred during completion of the job. At the minute, I can provide you with a range and assure you that our invoice will itemize all charges.”
Mr. Dawkins said something vaguely indignant to that, which Holly answered with her usual cool politeness. Lockwood gave up on paying attention, trusting her to wrap it up quickly, as they tried to do with annoying clients.
People like him had been trying to stiff them lately, complaining about wait times and higher prices, as if the increasing rarity of hauntings meant the price of agency work should be lower, instead of the other way round. In fact, just for this conversation Lockwood was inclined to cook the books a bit and overcharge him. Mr. Dawkins could certainly spare the money, and they could certainly use it.
He’d done his best to keep it from everyone else, but last months’ bills had caused him several sleepless nights, as for the third time in a row he’d had to dip into some savings to cover all their expenses. He’d tried not to worry too much at first, but three months in the red was becoming a pattern.
His vision went fuzzy again, and he had to keep from shaking his head to clear it. Fuck, he must be sleep deprived. Maybe it would be worth taking a sleeping aid tonight, even though they always made him groggy and slow the next day.
When he stood up to shake Mr. Dawkins’s hand at the conclusion of the meeting, he held onto the back of the chair to steady himself, and allowed George to see him out. He ran a hand over the left side of his ribs where the itching was concentrated, and wondered if someone had forgotten to buy hypoallergenic laundry detergent again.
Suddenly, Lucy’s hand fell on his arm and he jumped.
“Lockwood?”
“Luce?” Still gripping the chair, he turned to her and tried to smile, although the movement made the room tilt dangerously.
“Are you alright?”
“Yes, fine. Hungry, maybe.” Perhaps that was the reason for his lightheadedness– he couldn’t recall having eaten anything all day, although when he thought about it nothing really sounded appetizing.
“Really? I think Holly’s making chickpea salad sandwiches.”
“Okay…”
Suddenly her hand was on his forehead and he hissed. “Oh, I knew it.”
“Knew what?” He thought he’d been hiding… whatever this was pretty well.
“I think you’ve got a temperature.”
Shit.
“Stay right here, I’m going to get the thermometer.” She guided him by his shoulders to the sofa, where he sat down heavily, scratching at his ribs. Perhaps he zoned out a bit, because she was back faster than he would’ve thought possible, along with Holly and George from the kitchen to call them down to lunch.
“Oh, so you’ve decided to admit it straight away.”
“Admit what?” Lockwood snapped, suddenly feeling self-conscious under all the scrutiny.
“That you’re ill,” George said. “We could all see it halfway through that meeting.”
Holly looked slightly reproachful, but didn’t contradict him, which only made Lockwood angrier.
“If I’m not feeling well, it’s probably because someone bought the wrong brand of laundry detergent,” he said, glaring at George in particular. Holly would never make that mistake. He went back to itching his ribs. “I’ve told you over and over to buy the unscented kind.”
“Lockwood, I did the last load of laundry and used the usual detergent,” Holly said gently, while Lucy finally coaxed their old thermometer into turning on, before giving it to him to hold under his tongue.
There was a rather awkward minute while they all waited, staring at him until it beeped.
Lucy took it before he could reach it. “Thirty-eight.”
What? “Guys, I really don’t feel that bad.” He stood up to prove himself, and might’ve fallen over if Lucy hadn’t caught his elbow.
“Alright, you need to lie down.”
“Oh, come on.”
But his whinging fell on deaf ears, and in short order he was herded up to his room, where he immediately stripped off his shirt. At first, the lack of fabric was a relief, until the cool air made his skin prickle, and he had to close his hand into a fist to keep from itching it again. He had a feeling if he scratched it directly it would burn .
He’d just flopped down on top of the sheets, careful to keep his left side from touching anything, when Lucy came into the room.
“Water and some paracetamol– oh, shit.”
“What?”
Her eyes fell to his chest, and he sat up halfway to look. “Shit!” Beginning on the left side of his chest and wrapping under his arm was a nasty-looking rash of angry red welts.
“Maybe you are having an allergic reaction to something,” Lucy said. “Shall I get you an antihistamine as well?”
“Maybe…” He sat up to take the pills and drink some water, shivering as he touched the cold glass. Damn, perhaps he was really sick.
Holly nudged the door open and entered with a steaming bowl in her hands. “Reheated adasi from a few days ago,” she said. “In case you can’t manage a sandwich right now.”
Lucy thanked her, and started clearing a space on the bedside table.
As she approached, Holly caught a glimpse of his chest in the dim light of the lamp and her eyes widened. “Oh, dear.”
“I know,” he said, taking the bowl. “Looks like we’ll have to switch detergents anyway.”
But she shook her head. “I don’t think that’s an allergic reaction.”
“It’s not?” He and Lucy looked up sharply.
Holly stared back at them. “Lockwood, did you have chickenpox as a child?”
“Uhh, I think so. Yes, I believe I was about seven.” It was after his parents’ deaths, but before Jessica’s, during the year and a half their uncle came to live with them. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Well, that looks a lot like a shingles rash.”
Lucy’s mouth dropped open. “That’s impossible!”
“Not if he’s had chickenpox before– speaking of which, if you haven’t had it, you should probably stay away, those blisters are contagious.”
“Of course I’ve had it,” Lucy said. “I just meant I thought you had to be like, old to get shingles.”
“It is less common for younger people to get it, but certainly not impossible,” Holly said, looking back at Lockwood. “Especially if they’ve been under a lot of stress.”
Lockwood looked away.
Of course, Lucy caught him. “What is it? What’s going on?”
“Nothing, nothing,” he said. “Just haven’t been sleeping well lately, you know.”
“Anthony…”
“I’m fine,” he said. “I mean, aside from–” he glanced down at his chest, winced, and looked back up. “Everything’s fine.”
Lucy and Holly both looked incredulous, but seemed to mutually decide not to contradict him in the moment. Holly left quickly, saying something about a run to Arif’s, while Lucy stuck around, fluffing pillows and fiddling with clutter around the room while he picked at the adasi .
“Luce, it’s alright. It’s all going to be okay.”
“I know.” She tossed a couple t-shirts into the hamper before turning back to him, coming to sit on her side of the bed. “But you’re going to be miserable, and there’s something stressing you out that you’re not telling me.”
He regarded her fondly. “While I do appreciate the concern, of course, it’s really not that bad.”
She still looked dubious. “Let’s hope it stays that way.”
It did not stay that way.
Lockwood was only able to eat about half the adasi before setting it aside, suddenly exhausted, and woke up from a nap with a migraine. The itching on his side had turned to burning, spreading from his chest to wrap around to his back. Already on top of the covers, he rolled onto his right side, awkwardly holding his arm so it wasn’t touching any part of the rash.
Fuck, that hurts. He breathed through another wave of pain, wondering how it had gotten so much worse. Someone opened the door and he closed his eyes against the light from the hallway.
“Hey.” Lucy’s voice. “We’ve just eaten dinner. I don’t suppose you want anything?”
He shook his head.
“…How are you feeling?”
He managed half a shrug.
She came around to his side of the bed, gently nudging his arm aside so she could palm his forehead.
She clicked her tongue. “You feel warmer than before.”
Yeah, he could feel it, too.
She moved the alarm clock to check the time. “Maybe you can have more paracetamol before bed.”
“Mm.”
“Oh, babes.” Her fingers brushed through his fringe “Let’s try and get some good sleep tonight, okay?”
Yeah, right.
“Maybe we’ll go to the doctor tomorrow, get you something more to help.”
He couldn’t hide a grimace, and she sighed.
“Well, just think about it, alright?”
“Alright,” he whispered.
The rash was even worse the next morning, and his temperature higher, so he ended up allowing Lucy and Holly to take him to the doctor. Unfortunately, this involved putting on some semblance of clothing, and even his softest, loosest t-shirt felt like a thousand needles to the skin on the left side of his ribs. He felt like he spent most of the ordeal trying not to scream or pass out from the pain, and only vaguely registered Holly getting into a heated argument with the NHS clinic triage nurse.
“They won’t believe me when I said you have shingles,” she said when she rejoined him and Lucy on the hard waiting room chairs. “But I think I convinced them to at least take a look at you.”
“Wonderful,” he muttered, head propped up on one hand. He was counting the minutes until he could lie down again, and even the hard exam room table was a relief, although he had to turn awkwardly on his side to keep pressure off the rash.
The doctor’s eyes widened comically when she saw it, gaze darting between the blisters and the age on her chart, so astonished he might’ve laughed if he didn’t feel so miserable. She ended up prescribing a course of antibiotics because some of the blisters looked infected, as well as extra-strength paracetamol for the fever.
“You should start to feel better in a few weeks,” she said, setting aside her prescription pad.
Lockwood’s heart sank. “Weeks?”
She nodded. “To be honest, you’re rather an unusual case. Is there anything in your life causing an undue amount of stress?”
“I…” Lockwood hesitated, glancing at Lucy in a chair off to the side. She raised her eyebrows, and he slid his eyes away. “No. Nothing.”
“…Okay, then.”
They let him go after that, although the following days had him seriously wondering whether the whole thing was worth it, given that the antibiotic, which he’d been warned “could be a little hard on your stomach,” caused him to violently regurgitate anything that wasn’t water or the thinnest vegetable broth Holly could make.
To make matters worse, the rash got worse before it got better, making it impossible to pull the quilt up past his waist, or lie in any position except on his right side. Since he couldn’t bear to wear a shirt, Lucy cranked the heat up as high as it would go to combat the chills, which gave him anxiety about the gas bill when he was coherent enough to think about it. Luckily or unluckily, the pain meant this wasn’t that often.
Lockwood liked to think that over ten years as an agent and more injuries than he could count meant he had a rather better-than-average pain tolerance, but this pain, nerve pain, threatened to put everything else to shame. As if the constant burning sensation wasn’t enough, sometimes additional waves of pain would shoot through his nerves, leaving him frozen, gasping, gripping the sheets under his hands and gritting his teeth so he wouldn’t cry out.
Although he was dead tired, he could barely sleep, passing the hours in an odd liminal space between conscious and not, watching Lucy, Holly, and George come and go from his bedside, coaxing tea, soup, and medicine down his throat. Lucy would sometimes lie next to him, holding him as close as she could without touching his ribs, rubbing circles into his shoulder blade or the small of his back, carding her fingers through his hair.
Occasionally Holly and George would read to him, or distract him with stories about the cases they were taking on without him, the latest clients’ ridiculous demands. Although their voices were comforting, hearing about work was the opposite of helpful. Could they be taking on more if he was healthy? Had they been forced to turn down any opportunities since he was sick?
Unconsciously, he began to feel his breathing speed up as George told a story of his and Lucy’s battle with a Phantasm in a cheese shop.
“Very hard to See,” he said. “So we missed you, of course. But it was the ghost of the former owner, and it reeked of French Brie. We fought it based on smell alone.” He chuckled to himself, then looked sharply at Lockwood. “Hey, are you alright?”
“Yeah.” Shit, he was starting to gasp a bit. He closed his eyes and tried to slow his heart rate.
“Do you need anything? Are you in pain?”
“No.” More panting breaths. “I mean– no more than usual.” He rolled onto his back, remembered that was a bad idea, and groaned.
“Fuck.” George’s hands found his, helping him sit up. “Mate, you’ve got to calm down. Breathe, okay? Just breathe.”
Lockwood nodded, unable to speak. “You needed– I need–“
“What is it? What do you need?” George put a hand on his forehead and hissed. “Besides more paracetamol.”
“I need to work.”
“What? No, Lockwood, what are you talking about? All you need to do right now is rest.”
“But the agency…” He was starting to get dizzy sitting up, and George helped him slump back over, careful to avoid touching the blisters.
“What about the agency?” George said. “The agency will be fine for a few weeks, Lockwood. Everything’s going to be fine.”
“No, no…” George didn’t understand, he couldn’t understand. And Lockwood couldn’t explain it to him with his side on fire and his head throbbing and his stomach… “George–”
“Oh, shit. Alright, I’ve got you.” George winced as he lurched up again, gagging into a bin over the side of the bed. “Jesus, that looks like your last dose of meds,” he murmured. “This is why you’ve got to relax– your only focus right now should be on getting better, yeah? That’s the only way you’ll get back to work.”
But Lockwood only whimpered again as he laid back down, feeling panicked and trapped in his own body. Vaguely, he was aware the only thing keeping this from becoming a full-blown anxiety attack was the fact that he was so weak.
“What’s going on in here?” Lucy’s voice drifted over from the door.
“Bit of a panic attack, I think,” George said. “Not sure what caused it, though.”
“Oh, dear.” Lucy appeared next to George, bending over him to check his temperature and adjust the quilt around his waist. “It’s alright, Lockwood. I’m here now, you’re safe, everyone’s okay.”
Not for long, was all he could think. What if I can’t pay you next month? What if I have to let Holly and Kipps go? Would you all leave me for greener pastures? Careers that won’t be obsolete in five years? An employer who would treat you better?
“Anthony?” Lucy put a cool hand on his shoulder. “Anthony, what’s wrong?”
He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a choked sob, and Lucy’s hand moved to his forehead. “Jesus. George, he’s boiling.”
“I know.” George picked up the bottle of paracetamol. “He’s not quite due for another dose yet, but given that he’s just thrown up…”
Lucy checked the time. “Close enough. Come on, Anthony, can you sit up for me again?” She helped him shift so he was sitting curled up against the headboard, left side carefully exposed, and held a glass of water to his lips. “Good, that’s it. Now can you take these pills? They aren’t the ones that make you feel sick.”
He managed to obey, and after a few sips of water his vision started to clear a bit, and her beautiful, worried face came into focus in front of him. “Luce.”
“That’s right.” She seemed to sag in relief, sitting on the bed next to his legs and rubbing his knees. “Good job. Now let’s just try to stay calm for a bit, okay?”
He nodded.
“Can you tell me what got you so upset? Is there anything we can do to help?” She gestured to George, sitting a bit further behind her on a rickety chair.
“No, no,” Lockwood said, taking a deep breath. “I just… worry.”
“I know.” She gave him a fond smile. “But you don’t have to. George and I are taking care of everything, I promise.”
She probably just meant fieldwork– it had been years since anyone besides Holly and himself had touched the books– but a knot of anxiety still formed in his stomach, and he could tell it showed on his face.
Lucy sighed and clasped his hands. “Are you sure you can’t tell me what you worry about?”
He shrugged, and shook his head.
She sighed and didn’t push it, but that night held him a little tighter than usual.
The next morning, he felt a little better. Some of the blisters had burst, which was kind of gross, but at least there were no new ones today, and the fever had finally backed off. But he was still far too sick to get out of bed for most of the day, and was left alone in the house while George and Lucy set off to deal with a poltergeist in Limehouse.
Or, he thought he was alone.
He was startled out a light doze around 7 p.m. confused, as it was far to early for Lucy to be back, and sat up to see Holly in the doorway, with a tray of soup and medicine. He grimaced, already bracing himself for the nausea the antibiotic was sure to bring on, but sat up straighter to take the tray from her hands.
“How are you feeling?” she said, sitting primly in what he’d come to think of as George’s chair.
He shrugged. “A little better.”
“That’s good. I think you’re through the worst of it now.”
He glanced down at his chest, which could still barely stand the softest touch. “That still leaves a long way to go.”
“You’ll get there,” she said.
“Mm.”
Holly licked her lips, fiddling with the hem of her skirt. “Lockwood, can I ask you something?”
He narrowed his eyes, suddenly deeply suspicious of her apparent decision to stay long past her usual hours. “…Sure.”
“Lucy told me you had a panic attack yesterday, and I was wondering if it might be about– about money.”
His stomach suddenly curled in on itself, and he set the spoon back down. “Why would you think that?”
“Lockwood,” she said gently. “I help with the bank statements. I’ve seen the books.”
Right. He sighed, and set the tray aside so he could rub his face. “It’s not good, Holly. And it’s only gotten worse every month, not better.”
“Not really,” she said. “The difference was smaller this past month than the month before.”
“But still bigger than the first time.” He made an effort to take a deep breath. “The trend isn’t looking good. If we don’t break even this month I don’t– I don’t know what we’ll do.”
“We’ll handle it, just like we always do,” she said. “There’s enough in the bank that we can survive for a few more months.”
“But what if it’s more than a few months?” he whispered. “What if… what if this isn’t a sustainable business anymore? I thought– I used to think it would last until all our Talents faded, but what if it doesn’t?”
Holly was silent for a long while. “All things come to an end, Lockwood, one way or another.”
“I know.” He picked at a loose thread in the quilt. “I think I just… don’t want to lose you all.” Even as he said it, his throat constricted. “This company is the closest thing to a family that I have, and maybe it’s fucked up that my closest friends are also my employees, but that’s sort of the way it happened and I don’t–”
“Lockwood.” Holly held up a hand to stop him.
“What?”
“You know you’re more than just our employer as well, don’t you? To Lucy especially of course, but to all of us.” She leaned forward, trying to meet his eyes. “We’ll all care about you no matter what becomes of the company. Even if we move on professionally, no one here is going to leave you.”
He swallowed, struggling to think of something to say besides, “Thank you.” He tried to be subtle about brushing moisture from his eyes. “Perhaps… perhaps I needed to hear that again.”
She gave him a small smile. “You should tell Lucy what’s on your mind. And George, as well. They’re worried about you.”
“I know.” He picked up the soup again. “I gave Lucy an equal share in the company. When she returned after Aldbury Castle.”
“I know.”
Right, Holly had seen the books. “I never told her about it.”
She raised her eyebrows, amused.
“Perhaps she deserves to know how poorly her investment is doing.”
Holly laughed. It was a light, tired sound, but he managed a chuckle as well, and ended up finishing two-thirds of the soup. Holly fetched him a heating pad they’d found helped somewhat with the nausea, and with some focused breathing, he managed to hold the antibiotic down.
When Lucy returned late that night (or early the next morning, depending on how you saw it), he rolled over to his bad side for the few precious seconds he could bear it to properly cuddle her when she laid down in bed.
“How was the poltergeist?” he said.
“Feisty,” she said, shifting around bruises that were sure to develop in the coming days. “Threw the book at us, literally. That and about half a dozen kitchen utensils.”
“I wish I could’ve been there.”
“I know.” She pressed a kiss to his temple as he rolled back over. “But you’ll be back at it soon, I promise.”
He reached behind him to grasp her hand. “I wish I could always be by your side.”
“Well you are, in the metaphorical sense,” she said. “Just like I’ll always be by yours.”
Even after the end of the company? The words were in the back of his throat, but he couldn’t seem to get them out. What he said instead was, “Forever?”
Then his heart nearly stopped as he realized the much bigger implications of that word.
But her hand only tightened around his. “Of course, Anthony,” she said. “Forever.”