This is a dark fanfic based on season 1 of the Netflix adaptation. It takes place about a year before Lucy joins the Co.
Phoebe and Lockwood meet under a rather sad set of circumstances. She has a ghost, and although Lockwood's agency will take on...
*Feel free to leave feedback and/or suggestions. I'm writing this having only seen the Netflix version and not having read the books so..., but don't worry, I am in the process of acquiring the books so I can read them and educate myself of the world of Lockwood and Co.
**Original characters belong to Jonathan Stroud. Plot is my own, and female MC is my own.**
~Personally, I love when authors include pics of their characters' outfits just so readers don't accidentally imagine them ugly lol so here ya go!!~
Phoebe: Minus the ring ofc.
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A jacket along these lines just a corduroy brown instead of green, over a plain, dark, long sleeved shirt. And no bag. As for appearance, Phoebe has green-gray eyes, and hair a color that resembles burnt caramel.
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Lockwood: His usual white button up and black tie with black coat outfit :)
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Lockwood knew he should not be standing where he was. Just like he knew he shouldn't have opened the door, used the staff stairwell, or come up onto the roof of this building. The least he should not have done was step up onto the ledge.
It was about eight stories down, but the view made it seem like much more.
He wasn't actually going to jump. He knew this. But the sensation of being on the edge hardened his grip on reality, and caused his occasional thoughts of 'being better off dead' seem meager next to the prospect of actual death.
Like he had done a few times before, today he came up here to sober his mind, get out of that dark place in his head. It worked.
The cold air and the step-off in front of him reminded him of how far he had come, and how much there was left to do in the way of solving The Problem, one ghost at a time.
There was a chill in the air today, as if the weather matched his somewhat frigid thoughts. Lockwood had his hands in the pockets of his coat as he stared out at the furling city of London.
He took a minute to mentally toss recent recollections of his past off the ledge to their death below. They would remain there, dead in traffic until their ghost caught up with him again, re-inhabiting that corner of his mind.
But until then, he was satisfied of their absence and would remain off of this ledge until he needed sobering again.
Collecting himself with one last deep breath, Lockwood noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned his head and saw a girl standing on the same ledge as him, about thirty feet away.
She didn't seem to notice him a ways to the left of her, or if she did, she didn't care.
She stood staring out at the downtown like he had done, but the movement he caught was her stretching out her arms, as if to jump.
Time seemed to slow down as Lockwood watched her close her eyes, take a deep breath, and inch forward to the edge.
Without thinking, he ran towards her and knocked her backwards over the ledge onto the floor of the roof so they both lay sprawled on the pavement.
For a second, they both lay there panting and not saying anything.
Then Phoebe untangled herself from him and scooted a few feet away. She sat with her knees up and her head in her arms.
Lockwood sat up himself and looked at her.
"Hey," he said gently.
She looked up at him irritated and with unspilled tears in her eyes, "Why did you do that?"
"Don't jump," was all he managed to say.
She studied him for a second and then, "but you were gonna."
"No I wasn't. I came up here to remember why I'll never jump."
"I don't believe you."
Lockwood could only shrug and stare at her in wonder of the coincidence that they had both come up here and stood in contemplation of death on the roof of this building at 4:32 on an insignificant Thursday.
He noticed she had a scratch on her cheekbone from when he knocked her onto the pavement.
"What's your name?" He asked her.
"Phoebe." She didn't ask for his in return. Instead she looked over at the ledge they both stood on moments before.
"Don't think about it," he told her.
She shook her head at him.
"You don't understand. I'm not some sop story of a girl who needs saving from a shitty life by a strange boy."
"So if it's not a shitty life you're running from why were you up there?"
She smiled weakly. "It's complicated."
He nodded. "How so?"
"I'm haunted," she huffed, "Quite literally. Have been for my whole life. This ghost is straight from hell I tell you. And no agency cares enough or is strong enough to help me. They gather I'm it's unfinished business and there is nothing they can do about a case like mine. So, I figure if I'm dead the ghost will somehow be satisfied and stop tormenting not only me but those around me. Well, I haven't actually got anyone around. Obviously no one wants to be in close proximity to a girl whose nights consist of running from a deranged chaos-causing ghost who follows her all around London."
"Jesus."
"No I've already tried that, he can't help me either."
A crooked smile passed between them at the joke before she sighed and rested her head on her arms again.
Lockwood got up and offered her a hand. "I'm Anthony Lockwood. But mainly just Lockwood. C'mon. Let me fix you a cuppa and find a bandage for that scratch. I owe it to you."
She looked up and took his hand after a moment, deciding for the moment that there would be infinite opportunities for her life to end, and she might as well have another cup of tea before succumbing to her ghosts.
