Chapter Text
Soft music swirled around the room, as Lockwood curled up in his mother’s old chair. He was in his own mind, alone in the library. But it wasn’t a terrifying loneliness, one that sat deep in his bones. It was more like the soft quiet of the wind in the trees at the park, when you can hear people in the distance, but you somehow feel like you’re in your own world. A world away from the rest of everything that plagues your every waking moment. It was peace.
George was coming back late tonight from whatever conference or the other Lockwood was supposed to have remembered the name of. And he could hear the patter of footsteps, as Jessica was almost certainly whirling around her room, like a pink tornado, getting ready for whatever thing she was going to at the local pub with her friends.
Lockwood didn’t really have friends. He had bandmates, that was enough for him. They were unprofessional at times and all that, but in general, they were rather focused on the work of it. George was likely the closest thing he had to a best mate, but at the same time, it was more of a roommates with benefits situation—the benefits obviously being George getting free rent in trade for the two Lockwood siblings not ever having to cook their own food. Last time Jessica tried to cook, she lit a tea towel on fire. Last time Lockwood cooked, it exploded in the oven. What exploded, George had asked? The consensus was that even he didn’t know what exactly he’d been making. It smelled like eggs for weeks.
“Anthony,” Jess called from upstairs. “Anthony, I’m about to head out! Are you good on your own for dinner?”
He rolled his eyes. He was twenty one, for crying out loud, he could be left home alone. “I’m fine, Jess,” he shouted back. “I’ve got some of those leftovers George put in the freezer before he left! Just try to be back at a reasonable hour, alright?”
“Us? A reasonable hour?” A deep voice huffed.
Lockwood jolted to attention, his eyes snapping to the doorway. He loudly groaned at the redheaded twit in jeans and a turtleneck, wandering around like he owned the place. Lockwood scoffed, glaring pointedly at his sister’s friend’s presence. “Who on earth gave you permission to waltz into my house without permission?”
Kipps just chuckled, a rude and unseemly thing. “Try your sister.” He leaned against the doorframe to the library, hands in the pockets of his stupid jacket. “What are you listening to?”
Lockwood crossed his arms, straightening up in his chair. “The radio,” he said, impassively. Yeah. Yeah, that was good. “What, have something against the arts?” Lockwood cocked one of his eyebrows at Kipps, challenging
“Obviously not, Tony, I-“
“And that was Miss Etta James, a true classic,” a bright voice crackled through the radio, cutting into the conversation. “Miss James has always been a favorite of mine, and her music is truly timeless. I’ve always been a huge fan of how jazz music can tell the story of a moment in the same breath that it tells the story of a century,” The Listener continued, her voice filling the library. “What are some musicians that have told your favorite stories, or musicians that you find to be entirely timeless? Like always, I’m here for you, just to listen. But now, for a little shift in mood, may I present the wonderful Miss Kate Bush.”
As the notes started creeping through the heavy weight of the library air, Lockwood couldn’t think of a time he’d been more uncomfortable. His ears were warming and he was almost positive he was turning a deeply unfortunate shade of red, especially for in front of Kipps.
“I see,” Kipps smiled darkly.
“See what?” Jess’ head poked around Kipps’ shoulder. Her hair was neatly pulled back into a perfectly curled ponytail, and her coat was draped over her arm. Lockwood couldn’t help but admit that she looked rather nice. Especially for someone who was vomiting into his shoes from the stomach flu less than a week ago. He cringed, thinking about his poor trainers, still drying from the wash in the basement. Luckily enough, though, they were one of his least favorite pairs he owned, and it got him out of dishwashing duty for the next two weeks. So, all in all, it could’ve been worse, Lockwood had to admit, looking at Jessica and Kipps getting ready to head out.
“What is he doing inside,” Lockwood groaned, putting on his best pout, the one that used to get him out of chores and early bedtimes. “I thought we agreed that Kipps had to wait outside on the porch.” He looked back at Kipps, tilting his chin challengingly. “Like a dog.”
Jess just laughed while Kipps visibly bristled. But, of course, his hackles went down just as she slid past him, brushing his shoulder lightly to ask for her pink scarf. Kipps just smiled dopily and draped it around her neck for her. Lockwood wanted to vomit. “Quill has been my best friend for too long for me to leave him outside, Anthony. Plus, you never know,” Jess shot Kipps a small wink. “He might just give Ms. Avery’s cats fleas.”
“Oi!”
Jessica ruffled Kipps’ hair affectionately, as he complained. Lockwood himself couldn’t help but chuckle at the mental image of fleas running amuck in Quill Kipps’ ginger curls. At least, as long as Kipps and his fleas stayed off of his sister. “Would you just get him out of here already and go have fun at trivia night? He’s interrupting my programming.”
“Oh,” she laughed, “you mean your chance to listen to your radio girlfriend?”
“Jessica!”
She laughed, wrapping a light pink scarf around her neck. “Come on, Quill. Wouldn’t want to ruin Anthony’s date.” They disappeared from the doorway, Kipps trailing after Jessica like a dog on a tether. His sister’s complete obliviousness was honestly hilarious, Lockwood couldn’t help but think. But thank god she didn’t see how in love with her Kipps was, or else she’d probably date him out of pity, and Lockwood couldn’t have that happening. He’d rather die.
Or kill Kipps. Which certainly couldn’t be too hard, right?
“And would you just put the radio away already,” Jessica called out from the hallway. “You can’t just sit and listen to her forever!” The door slammed closed, and Lockwood relaxed back into his chair, huffing.
“I’ll put the radio away when I’m good and ready,” he mumbled, turning it up spitefully. His sister might not be here to hear it, but at least he got her. Or something like that. It didn’t matter anymore, because sooner than later, The Listener would be back on the air, with her soft voice and strong consonants and warm soul. Every moment she spent talking was like she was speaking straight into his soul. Like she saw him, even though they hadn’t met.
It was a parasocial relationship, Lockwood knew that. It was completely made up in his head, he’d never meet her and she’d never meet him and she was probably not someone he’d ever be interested in if they met in person. It was entirely irrational. Then again, he just… liked her. Wasn’t anything wrong with that, right?
And he really would put the radio away. Eventually, you know. After The Listener finishes her program.
——
“Thank you for listening to London’s favorite independent station, 105.2!” she called into the microphone. “Signing off, The Listener. Have a great night out there, folks!”
Lucy slammed the mute button, and the red ON AIR sign went blissfully dark. She finally let herself sigh, sliding off her headphone and sagging comfortable into the cushioned chair of the production booth. Tonight had been a long night, even Skull, her technical assistant, had to agree. There was something about the end of the month that sapped their energy like nobody’s business. She heard a faint humming from her headphones, thrown haphazardly on the soundboard. Slowly she picked them up.
“You can’t just take off your headphones to ignore me, you know,” his grating voice crackled through the speakers.
“Can too,” Lucy couldn’t help but smile. “Guess I could also hit mute, but that just seems rude.”
“Oh, ha ha,” Skull said mockingly. “Alright, I’m headed out once I sync us up with the national broadcast, so... Yeah, we are done for the day, thank fuck.” Lucy nodded, silently agreeing. Skull always had the worst way of phrasing things, but she couldn’t exactly say he was wrong. This time, at least. “Oh, by the way, I think Mustache said something about wanting to meet with you. Don’t totally remember. Anyways, good luck, Lucy-Loo.”
Lucy groaned, letting her head fall next to the soundboard. Barnes was a good boss, the best really, but she had been looking forward to heading home and just collapsing. She hadn’t been expecting anything else popping up keeping her from her short walk to the tube, the trip to the wrong side of town, and her shitty little flat that even she didn’t like. But that was the life of an illustrious celebrity, as Skull often liked to call her. Lucy hated the idea of being some well-known, up-and-coming radio personality.
She’d never wanted to be famous. That was Norrie’s dream, not hers.
When she’d first come south after the accident, Lucy had gotten a job at a small coffee shop in Central London. It was difficult to learn the coffee machine—the one at the pub where she and Nor worked was not only rarely used, but at least five years their senior. It was enough for her, though, making coffee and running the playlists. Then, she’d made the stupid, stupid mistake of telling her boss that she used to love it when pubs and coffee shops would have open mic nights. Suddenly, it was on the schedule, and she was emceeing for some godforsaken reason, and Montagu Barnes, a local radio station owner, had wandered to search for some new talent.
And all he'd found was Lucy.
He came in a few more times and listened to what she played in the coffeeshop before finally asking her to join his little ramshackle team. Apparently, he’d been impressed by how she’d organized the setup and thought she had a fresh new sense of the music scene. Well, that, and he was looking for anyone desperate enough for some extra cash to come work at his sinking ship of a radio station. His on-air talent had kept getting poached by bigger companies, and the station was just getting increasingly unpopular. Honestly, that had been a selling point for Lucy. She didn’t want anything big. She just wanted to live, and she’d needed some extra money to make rent that month. In spite of her best intentions, their popularity skyrocketed. Lucy went from being a mostly-silent DJ to a full on-air personality, running wegular weekday programming. Barnes practically left her and Skull to take care of the stations themselves most nights, said he trusted Lucy’s judgement implicitly. Of course, he couldn’t have just left things well enough alone tonight. Not when Lucy was practically dead on her feet.
Lucy made her way out of the production booth, slinging her messenger bag over her shoulder. She wound through the singular hallway of the tiny station, finding her boss’ door with ease. A note was stuck to the outside of Barnes’ door, a few inches above her head. She sighed, reaching up to pull it down. A piece of paint flicked off with the pain, landing on her nose, making Lucy scrub at her face in disgust. She hated this tiny station as much as she loved it sometimes. She leaned against the closed the door, attempting to decipher Barnes’ handwriting.
Ms. Carlyle
I ordered out for lunch, and it seems I ordered too much. Afraid I’m traveling this weekend, can’t take the leftovers with me. Please take care of them for me, if you wouldn’t mind.
Montagu Barnes.
Lucy scoffed and rolled her eyes. Not only did she slave away her evenings alone in a production booth with practically vintage equipment, now she was custodial staff? If she wanted to clean rooms and throw things out, she’d start with her own shitty flat, thank you very much.
She slunk through the hall, finding the small kitchen. Barnes kept it stocked with Pitkins tea, some of her favorite biscuits from up North, plus lots of toxic-looking energy drinks for Skull. It always made Lucy smile, how he kept it up for them. That is, when she wasn’t having to deal with his trash.
Lucy leaned down and opened up the fridge, spotting a plastic takeout bag. Now, she was upset about being treated like cleanup, of course, but a small part of her wanted to swallow her pride for just a moment. It had been a hard month (or two or six). Least she could do was check how much was left, right? She sat it down on the table, untying Barnes’ neat knot. Two to-go containers sat inside the carefully organized bag. Lucy slowly opened them up, wondering if it would be enough to warrant even taking it home. The first smelled heavenly as she opened it to reveal a completely untouched order of pad see-ew. The second was almost better, filled with eight dumplings—maybe pork?
Leftovers my arse.
Lucy smiled, against her better judgement. She’d mentioned to him last week that the coffeeshop was cutting her weekend hours and that her landlord had raised the rent. Barnes knew her well. She didn’t normally accept help. Help means people and people suck. Objectively. But, he wasn’t here to argue with, and that made the very ideas of putting the still-warm food back in the fridge almost impossible to handle. Her stomach rumbled softly, and the decision was practically made.
Lucy tied the containers back up, holding them tightly as she prepared to set out in the dark London night. Perhaps alone, perhaps afraid, but at least not hungry for long. At least feeling like, somewhere out there, she’d figure out how to manage.