Lockwood and co: fan fiction

Headquarters

Once we managed to convince the owners of the house that the attic was now spirit free, and also break the news about the "minor collateral damage" to their property, we made our way back to the head quarters. Covered in dust, soot and grime, wearing ectoplasm smeared clothes and gleaming rapiers on our waists, we were regarded with a mixture of apprehension and awe on the streets. However Lockwood was too preoccupied in thought to notice and I was too tired to mention it. He was no doubt preparing for the next newspaper interview :
"Of course it was a very dangerous mission and did indeed threaten to demolish the property, but myself and my excellent colleagues managed to reduce the damage, destroy the spirit and escape unscathed. Thanks to miss Lucy Carlyle and her sensitive talents........best agency in London ......to contact"
It would go on like that, so professional yet passionate, and he would flash his trademark smile, blinding the cameras.

George meanwhile was crunching on his potato chips, spewing food all over his disgusting jumper, and continued to do so till we reached our building, and then at once flopped down on the front couch.

"George maybe take a shower or something?' I hinted, sitting on the rug, easing my bag off my sore shoulder.
"Why?" He asked nonchalantly, still munching on those chips.
I shook my head, and drew towards me the pile of letters on the tea table.

It was morning, almost noon. Sunlight filtered in through the windows, lighting up the living room in a golden glow. In the brilliance of the light it was more prominent how messy our living conditions were. There were bread crumbs on the carpet, mugs with coffee stains and a teetering pile of letters on the tea table, George's clothes on the couch, cobwebs netting the tapestry, and a jar with a skull in it on a chair that was in the centre of this whole set up.

Lockwood sank down beside me on the rug. He leaned back against the couch, running a hand through the messy locks that fell on his forehead. He seemed lanky and bonier than ever, his long cloak almost slipping off his youthful figure.

"Anything interesting for us to investigate Lucy?"

I shook my head, in the process of opening envelopes. "Not yet, I've read two of them. One is a mysterious man with a bloody hand near Denvers creek. Seems to me like a mild Type on ghost. The other is a screaming closet in a city apartment"

"Probabaly just a cat that was locked in" George said with his mouth full of food.
"Yes, because that's what cats do. They scream" I remarked sarcastically.
"Nothing serious for us to investigate then" Lockwood said lightly "we might even pay Denvers creek a visit tonight. It might only take us 15 minutes max to finish off a type one ghost"
And he was right. Because we, Lockwood and co, an agency comprised of three teenagers, were the best in the whole city of London. Whether it was a type one or a type three ghost, with Lockwood's sight, my sense and George's brains, it would be a piece of cake. (Unless of course you count the fact we nearly die at least three times a day)

"Hey Lockwood don't you feel like tea?"
"Yes I do" he grinned back at me "I always feel like having tea"
"Alright then. George make us some tea. And also some cookies please"
George scowled, in excellent resemblance of a pit bull terrier. "Why is it always me?"
"Because" Lockwood said airily "you've had lots to eat and we haven't. Besides I need to talk to Lucy about something"
George rose, the couch shifting in the momentum. He left, still muttering under his breath.

The atmosphere was suddenly awkward. I looked at my stockings, picking wooden splinters off it.

"Lucy, what happened in the attic?"
"What do you mean?"
He was looking intently at me, trying to read my facial expressions "you seemed to share an emotional connection with the ghost".
I didn't reply. The topic was making me uncomfortable.
"Luce you know that this is dangerous" his tone carried a warning "your sense makes you vulnerable. Easily exploitable by the visitors"
"I think I can handle it thanks"
He leaned in closer. So close that I could feel the warmth of his breath. I could see the flecks of gold in his eyes. "I know. But it's not very pleasant is it? I don't want you to feel their sorrow, their pain....."
His voice trailed off. I still couldn't look away. We were involved in nonverbal communication, his concern, my gratitude, intangible emotions hovering between us.

The door was kicked open. George's eyebrows were raised high up above his rounded spectacles. "I see that the tea isn't the only thing hot in this room"