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Lockwood -- after awhile of awkward silence -- swiftly swiped the cup from your hands and placed it back on the table. Lucy shifted in her seat, crossing her legs and picking at her nails. George looked left to right, scrunching his nose. It was as if you could hear each and everyone's heartbeat, a thump that crawled up into your throat.
The air was tense, still and warm. You didn't like this bit of it, where everyone decided if you were worthy of their time.
At last, the pesky ticking of his foot came to a stop when Lockwood clapped his hands onto his knees. He glanced between the two of you, tilting his head. "The two of you wouldn't mind sharing the attic, would you? We don't have any extra rooms to sleep, unless you count the parlour." He bit the inside of his cheek, clicking his heels and muttering. "Though I doubt you wouldn't mind, who wouldn't?"
Lucy looked to you, and you merely shrugged. Sure, she was a stranger, but on the bright side, she wasn't the worst. You had nothing to fear.
She turned to Lockwood, scratching the back of her neck. "I assume there will only be one bed in the attic."
"Only one frame," he corrected. "But we've got plenty of mattresses. Frames don't cost much -- George and I have only procrastinated going out and buying another." He cracked his knuckles, making eye contact with George, who continued the sentence they both seemed to be thinking.
"We weren't expecting two people to be joining us." Standing, he excused himself from the room. You watched him walk out of the living room and turn down the hall, presumably to the kitchen.
Lockwood clapped his hands, shaking his head. "Lucy has already agreed to being a member of the team, but I've got to know if you do too."
"Er, yes," you said.
With the confirmation, he arose and straitened his suit jacket. "Let's get on with the tour, then."
Lucy stood, too, and you quickly followed, making sure not to stray behind. You played with the hem of your shirt, rocking on your heels when she stopped in front of you.
"I can understand why you might think our setup's a little unusual," Lockwood said.
You glanced in the large mirror to your left, locking eyes with Lucy's reflection. She gave a soft smile and then turned, facing Lockwood, who stepped up only two stairs before spinning and speaking again.
"We're a new agency, been registered three months. We're accredited with DEPRAC, but we're not on their payroll like Fittes or Rotwell." He whirled back around, continuing up the steps but halting at the top. "We're independent, and we like it that way."
You trailed after Lucy, following her line of sight to the wall, where numerous news paper clippings hung. Your hands dragged up the rail as you went up, looking over her shoulder to get a better view.
As it turns out, Lockwood, as a young teen, participated in fencing. The head title a mere: TEEN PRODIGY SLAYS THE COMPETITION with a black and white picture of him. He couldn't be more than fourteen in the photograph.
Lucy straightened, continuing moving up the stairs until you were the last to arrive. "Who are your supervisors?"
Lockwood shrugged. "No supervisors here. No adults. It's my company, hence the name. That bother you?"
You waved your hand dismissively. "Not in the slightest."
Lucy hesitated. "Uh... Sounds all right."
"Bathroom," he said simply, pointing down the stairs. "My room," he looked to the room with its door open, "George's room," and then to the one with its door closed. "Wouldn't go in without knocking. Walked in on him doing yoga once, totally naked. Got quite an unusual view." He laughed weakly, patting down his trousers and spinning on his heel.
Lucy grimaced, looking around. Other than the two bedrooms, there was a desk littered with papers, and a stool thats surface was barely visible. You followed her eyes from each crevice and crack in the wall until they made their way to another closed door -- one up another set of stairs. "Huh?" she whispered, her voice early audible. "What about that room?"
"That's private." The sentence sounded like it had been rehearsed a million times, and even so, it wasn't that convincing. "Nothing very interesting. Follow me, lots more to see."
He jogged down the stairs, and you raced after him -- like George, he was agile. You looked over your shoulder, watching Lucy. Her gaze lingered on the shut door, wondering, just like you, what was inside. She followed quickly after, trading a sheepish smile.
Lockwood ceased his walk once you had made it down to the ground floor, waiting for the two of you. "The library is through there," he said, and pointed behind him, "but this is the most important room."
Once again, you began your descent. You had been there once before (when George had led you down into the kitchen), so it wasn't at all groundbreaking. You knew what was behind the wall, and where everything was.
Lockwood wavered in front of the door, knocking on the wood to let George know he'd be coming in.
"We call this the thinking cloth." He tapped on the messy table, moving around to the side. "We jot down memos, theories, trains of thought. It's a very useful tool."
You tuned him out, looking around the dimly lit room, only now noticing the scribbles of nonsense and insults written in ink on the tables surface. There were a few... adult images sketched onto the table, following with a mocking word or two.
You took a deep breath, and your eyes widened at the smell of tomato. Specifically, tomato sauce. You never had a problem with it -- only that it was a delicacy, which meant you couldn't have it very often, and it was a pain to make. Too much onion, too much tomato, no matter the amount of ingredients used, it was never the one made by your mother. Arguably, hers were the best.
Following the smell that wafted in the air, you turned, seeing George in a patterned apron. He held a ladle, stirring the tomato sauce in a pot. "When a case goes badly and we're not talking to each other, it's good for exchanging insults too."
"Ah," Lucy said. She looked away and traced one of the many drawings on the table. "How often does that happen?"
Lockwood shrugged, holding the handle to a door you hadn't observed was there. "Almost never. Now," he tugged on the handle, opening the door to reveal a bland wall, that maintained hooks and brown bags. "The basement. Follow me."
Lucy locked eyes with you, and you merely shrugged, motioning her towards the door. She went first, and you went after, giving George a last look before shutting the door behind you. House-wife.
You squinted your eyes, adjusting to the dark. The stairs down were black and spiral, and you held onto the railing, making sure not to fall. It would certainly hurt a lot, seeing as the floor was cement.
"Offices," Lockwood said, pointing vaguely, too fast to make out where. He was practically running.
He tapped boxes at the end of hall. The light was on but barely emitted any light at all, and it flickered ever so often. "Case files. George is obsessed with the history of the Problem. He's a fastidious record keeper. It's a good thing, too. I get brain-ache writing a shopping list." He walked away, hand trailing on the concrete beams.
"Training room." He pointed up, waving his hand around at the ceiling. "Randomized smoke jets simulating a variety of attack and defence patterns."
He walked away, leaving you confused and trying to comprehend what he had said. Shaking your head, you watched as he leaned forward and clicked a button.
You hadn't noticed the smoke spew until Lucy screamed, and you jumped, wrapping an arm around your torso at the high pitched yell.
Lockwood turned it off quickly, and the flashing red light turned back into a dull grey. "George came up with it. Every now and then, it actually works." He looked to Lucy, then to you. "You'll be proficient with a sword already, as you've passed your Fourth Grade." He circled around the two of you before sauntering backwards (show off), keeping his gaze on Lucy.
She hesitated. "Of course."
You merely shrugged. There was no reason to answer. He had read over your CV, and there wasn't much more clarification than that. You had left without notice, so you didn't have a reference.
Lockwood faced a metal door, speaking as if you were in front of him. Someone ought to tell him that with his position there wasn't a chance you would hear anything but mumbling. "Now, finally, our high-security storeroom." He tried to put a key in, but it refuses to turn.
Lucy leaned over his shoulder, and you leaned over hers. It was unlocked.
"Note to self," he muttered. "Heighten security on high-security storeroom."
He put the key into his suit pocket and opens the door. It makes an unbearable creaking sound, but you push through the pain (and any thoughts of a possible migraine in the future), until you're all the way in. Lockwood flicked on the switch, and once more you found yourself squinting and covering your eyes, as if it would do anything against the bright light.
The first thing you noticed upon walking into the room was a tall metal rack, heaped with boxes and boxes of flares. It was a wonder how they managed to get ahold of that many while being an independent agency. Aside from the rack of flares, across from it was a shelf, piled with an assortment of ugly things. Large, glass containers held a variety of weird and creepy things inside, and you would rather not get a abetter look.
"Wow," Lucy said. She looked awestruck, like she had seen something utterly magnificent and couldn't wrap her head around it.
Lockwood shrugged. "You never know what's coming."
"You still haven't said where you got that haunted skull." She looked towards Lockwood.
You agreed with her, nodding your head, curious as to where it's from.
"It's George's." His answer was quick, and it didn't explain at all where they got it. "He likes to experiment on it. See how it responds to different stimuli."
Lucy narrowed her eyes. "You still haven't told me."
For a brief moment, they made awkward eye contact. Even though you had meet them no more than twenty minutes ago, it felt awfully like third-wheeling.
"He stole it." The corner of his mouth quirked up, and he whirled around. "Come on. I'll show you the attic."
It didn't take long before you had left the room, venturing up the spiny stairs and back into the kitchen. In the few minutes you had been down there, George had done something to make the food smell even more -- if possible -- heavenly. Your stomach rumbled, and you sucked in an embarrassed breath, laughing weakly at Lucy when she turned to look at you and giggle.
Even though you were hungry, you could probably wait until morning. In every other circumstance, that is. You could still smell the onion and tomato when you had closed the door behind you, and there was no way you'd be able to sleep with an empty stomach. Hopefully George had made enough for everyone.
Once you had made it up to the top of the stairs, you were stood in front of the 'forbidden door'. You could see Lucy peeking glances at it every once in a while, fidgeting.
Lockwood turned to face you. "This is where I slept when I was little. You two can use it, if you like. Unless you've other arrangements?"
"Yes," Lucy said hastily. "No. I mean..."
You laughed and cracked your knuckles. "Nope. I came to London oblivious to the fact that I'd need somewhere to stay."
Lockwood nodded, starting up the stairs once more. "Of course -- we'd deduct the rent from your wages." He stepped forwards, towards patterned brown blinds. Light streamed through, though it didn't do much. "Nothing too steep, just enough to cover the bills. I'm a very reliable landlord."
Lucy stared, speechless, for just a moment. You did, too, your mouth agape as you looked out the window. She stepped up slowly, dragging her feet against the wooden flooring.
She tugged on your sleeve when you didn't follow, motioning for you to walk after her. You stopped at the window, gazing outside.
The view was beautiful -- as pretty as a picture. Trees with thick, dark leaves lined on the right, and buildings on the left. The sky was pale, the sun setting, and the colour reminded you of the cup George had. Thin clouds scattered across the sky like dots, drifting lazily in the gently breeze. It looked ethereal.
"It's, uh... got its own bathroom."
Lockwood's voice startled you out of your daze, and your head snapped back as you turned.
He pointed vaguely behind him, where a shower was, hidden by a curtain. "There's a bigger one downstairs, but that'd mean sharing with George, and I wouldn't wish that on anyone." He let out a dry chuckle and let his smile fade. He shifted on his feet. "Right, well, I'll leave you to unpack. Settle in. That's assuming--"
"--Those newspaper clippings on the wall..." Lucy interrupts, and you glance between the two of them.
He laughs sheepishly. "Oh! You saw those. Not very modest, is it?" He pursed his lips, murmuring to himself. "Should really take them down."
"No, it's more..." she was reluctant to finishing her sentence, blubbering until she found the right words. "It's just... Well, it's just, you haven't said anything about... I mean, who are you?"
You stood awkwardly, swinging your arms and tapping a rhythm onto your leg.
"Plenty of time for that. You should rest. Get some sleep." He paused, sucking in a breath. "That's... if you'll take the job?"
"Yes," Lucy answered.
A beat passed. You thought it was quite obvious that you'd take the job. Why else would you have been there, interviewed, in the first place? "And so will I," you said.
"Well, then," Lockwood smiled. "Welcome to Lockwood & Co."
You grinned back, dropping it quickly. "Right, well, wake me up when you get the mattress up." You flopped onto the bed in front of you, not caring that you weren't under a blanket. "For now," you continued, voice muffled by the sheets, "I'm sleeping. G'night."
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You had slept for a good thirty minutes, out like a light. You hadn't dreamt of anything, and all you could see was dark.
A knocking sound was what woke you, and it didn't take long to realize that it wasn't, in fact, knocking, but rather someone moving up the stairs. George made an appearance in the doorway, slouching and tired. "Um, I made supper, if you want to eat. Lockwood and Lucy are already down in the kitchen."
You shifted in the bed, yawning and propping yourself up on a pillow so that you could see him. "Yeah," you mumbled, sniffing. "Just give me two minutes and I'll be there."
He left soon after, and you were left in silence. You rolled around bed for a while longer, letting yourself wake up. Even though you hadn't gotten nearly enough sleep (and would much rather if you hadn't been awoken until morning), you were still hungry. You sprung up quickly when you felt a sharp pain in your stomach -- you hadn't eaten since the morning, and tea did nothing to help the hunger.
You stood, stretching, and rubbed the sleep out of your eyes.
Yawning -- once again -- you blinked quickly, hoping to clear your vision. In the midst of dragging your hands down your face, you failed to notice your satchel sitting on the floor, tripping over it but managing to catch yourself last second. You held a hand over your heart, almost as if it would slow the beating.
You dragged yourself down the stairs, missing a few steps and holding your breath, careful not to fall. You paused at the forbidden door, only to shake your head and continue down.
Reaching the bottom, down at the ground floor, you hesitated; listening for the sound of something. When all there was to hear was only quiet chatter and the clatter of utensils against plates, you shrugged, resuming your walk until you had made it to the door. Surprisingly, it was left open.
Upon entering the room, all eyes turned to you, and you stood awkwardly, confused as to where you should sit. Lockwood was at the head of the table, and George was on the left. Lucy sat on the bench, criss-crossed and leaning forward.
She waved to you, motioning to sit next to her. Not long after, you were sat down and making yourself comfortable.
"Hullo," Lucy said, and gave a bright smile. It seemed she enjoyed the food.
"Hi," you replied, turning to face her, and then back at the table.
George -- whose mouth was still full with food -- reached into the middle of the table and pushed a bowl closer to you, as well as a salt and pepper shaker. His hand recoiled when your fingers brushed his, picking up his spoon once again and eating.
The food looked amazing, and you silently thanked George for being a good cook. It was penne, you could tell, with slits that made room for the tomato sauce. There was no doubt that it would be delicious, so you hastily grabbed your fork (which was conveniently in the middle of the table) and stabbed at the pasta until there was enough to eat.
You practically shovelled the fork into your mouth, chewing and swallowing, and then back for another.
George nodded, appreciative that you liked what he made, and so did Lockwood. Lucy was too busy devouring all that was in her bowl to notice you had done the same.
It was like tasting a paradise -- one so far away even the best of the best couldn't reach there. Just from the cheese that melted on your tongue could you could taste the trees, and a beach, maybe some juice. By the time you had finished eating, you wanted more. You wiped your mouth and stood to put the dishes in the sink. As you did, Lockwood spoke.
"You don't need to wash them. It's Georges turn."
"Wha-- no, it's not!" His voice grew louder, and he, too, stood up and walked towards you, dirty dishes in hand. "I washed them yesterday, so now it's your turn, dimwit." He stacked his dishes next to yours and smiled with his lips pinched together before turning on his heel and slapping Lockwood on the back of his head.
"Ow," he groaned, rolling his eyes. He looked first at you, then at Lucy. "Tomorrow we'll explain the gist of how things work around here. The rules and such."
"Alright," Lucy stood. Your eyes followed her figure as she walked to the sink, placing her bowl down cautiously and washing her hands. "Uh, I'm going to go unpack the rest of my belongings."
"Me too," you said, and followed her out of the room.
As soon as you were gone, you breathed a sigh of relief. It was strange to eat with people you had met not long ago. You'd have to get used to it, though, as you would be staying there for a while. You could only hope that the tension would ease the longer you were with them.
You dragged yourself up the stairs, hand trailing on the wooden rail. Everything was quiet, only the sound of your footsteps echoing in the corridor. It seemed like a million years had past by the time you had reached the first floor, and by then your eye lids were drooping. If only teleportation was a power you possessed -- you would be in your bed and under the sheets.
Only problem was that there was only one bed.
Lucy turned to you the moment you had made it up into the attic, slumping. "Oh, jeez, that was awkward."
"I know, right!" You let out an exasperated sigh, flopping onto the bed. "I want to sleep already," you whined, rolling over until you had made it to the end, then rolling back. "But I can't 'cause the mattress isn't here yet."
She fell backwards, head hitting the pillow. The two of you stared up at the ceiling in silence, revelling in the moment.
"I should unpack," you said, running a hand over your face. Sluggishly, you rolled onto your left, sitting with your head tilted. Eventually (after what seemed like barely any time, though was probably a good few minutes), you were up, but dawdling, making sure to take your time. When you finally accomplished the goal of making it to the closest, Lucy was already standing in front of you with your satchel in hand.
"Here." She handed it to you, opening both doors of the cabinet.
"Thank you," you smiled, hollowed-eyed.
It was time to begin your work -- work which in every other circumstance you would have delayed doing. And so you did, opening your bag and rummaging around in it until you found an unfolded shirt; attempting to fold it in the air, but giving up after a short while and folding it on the ground.
When your folded clothes took up too much room, you moved on to the wardrobe, hanging trousers, blouses -- and everything else you had remaining -- up.
Lucy helped, putting your clothes and belongings on the right side of the closet, while hers went on the left. It didn't take long before the two of you were finished with yours, and afterwards you helped Lucy sort the rest of her things.
By the time both bags were empty, the two of you were exhausted.
Fortunately, Lockwood and George marched up the stairs -- just in time -- with a mattress in hand. They held it as if it were weightless. "Um, hello." Lockwood stood on the top step and blinked at you.
George's head peeked out from behind Lockwood, a cheeky grin adorning his face, his eyes lit up with a bright glint. "Wouldn't mind helping us, would you?"
You rolled your eyes at his childish behaviour, nevertheless moving closer to assist them. Lucy walked behind you, and while you gripped onto the front of the mattress with Lockwood, she held onto the back with George. You yanked it forwards, and luckily no one was thrown forward in the process. Instead, everyone was up all the stairs and ready to put the bed down.
Lockwood nudged you, and you took that as a sign to continue on. He almost tripped over your foot, catching himself at the last moment and letting out a huff.
When you had finally laid the mattress down, everyone visibly relaxed. Lucy, whose shoulders were previously tense, sagged as she sat. George swung his arms back and forth, and Lockwood shifted on his feet.
"Uh, now that the bed is in place, don't we need sheets, blankets and pillows?"
"Oh, yes." Lockwood perked up, remembering what it was that he had forgot with the help of your reminder. "I left them downstairs, but it won't take long for me to fetch them. I'll go do that now."
Without another word he was gone, practically leaving the three of you in his dust. He trudged noisily down the stairs until he reached wherever it was that he was getting them from, and you winced when the sound resumed as he continued back up.
He held his arm up triumphantly when he made it back, holding it like a trophy. "Shall I do the honours?"
Well if this wasn't an interesting way to start a new adventure.
significantly shorter my ass. 3969 words