Chapter Text
Four
George and Holly had gone back to Portland Row from the hospital earlier that day, bearing all of Lucy’s many gifts. Balloons and stuffed animals, blankets and cards and flowers. So many, many bouquets of flowers. Holly had roped George into helping her arrange them all along the foyer to welcome Lucy home that afternoon. He was just stepping down from the stool, finally finished hanging the “WELCOME HOME, LUCY!” banner Holly had painstakingly made last night, when Holly let out a rather dramatic gasp from her position by the front door.
“Oh, God,” she whispered. “Oh, no. This won’t do at all, oh no.”
“What, Holly?” George asked. The flowers and balloons were very…pink. Not Lucy Carlyle at all. But, George supposed, it was the thought that counted. And Holly had at least made the banner blue.
“George, the foyer looks like a funeral parlor!” Holly cried, covering her eyes with her hands.
George tilted his head and scrunched up his nose as he took in the foyer, considering. Holly wasn’t wrong.
His lack of response sent Holly into another fit.
“Oh, God. We need to spread out the flowers, maybe put the balloons and stuffed animals in her room. Oh, oh goodness, what a mess. George, help me!” Holly said sharply, immediately picking up two vases to move the flowers to other locations.
“Holly, they’ll be here in ten minutes.”
“Then we will work fast. Take the pink and purple balloons and that big teddy bear from Kipps up to her loft. I’ll get the flowers spread out.”
“Holly--,”
“Now, George!” Holly shouted, only slightly hysterical.
They’d all been tightrope-walking a rather precarious precipice the last three weeks. George liked to think they were taking turns pulling each other back from the edge.
“Right, yep, of course,” George replied quickly, snatching the balloons and the obnoxiously large teddy bear and scrambling up the stairs.
George’s guess had been ten minutes, but it ended up being five. George watched out the front window on the third story as the cab pulled up in front of Portland Row.
Kipps climbed out of the front seat, the last of Lucy’s bags evidently held in his lap for the ride. He paid the cabbie quickly, then slipped to the back door.
Lockwood exited first. He said something to Kipps, and Kipps hastened for the front door, Lucy’s duffle slung on his shoulder. Then, slowly, and so, so gently it made something crack in George’s chest to watch, Lockwood helped Lucy out of the car.
She was wearing a black beanie over her head, one that George immediately recognized as one of his own. Her frame seemed painfully diminutive wrapped up in one of Lockwood’s hoodies.
Lucy seemed smaller still when Lockwood wrapped his arm around her waist, stooping to take as much of her weight as she’d allow. His free hand reached across Lucy’s body and gripped her outside hand tightly, encircling Lucy in something like a hug as they made their way slowly up the front path.
Lucy made it to the foot of the stairs before she stumbled to a stop. Lockwood stooped further still and whispered something in her ear. He rested his forehead softly across the top of her head as she responded.
Then, Lockwood carefully bent and hooked his arm underneath Lucy’s knees and picked her up. He took the stairs slowly, Lucy’s head hidden in his neck, her hands clutching at the front of his jumper. By the time they crossed the threshold and entered the house, George was at the first landing, hidden from view.
“Sofa or bed?” He heard Lockwood ask; his voice was terribly soft. Thankfully, Holly must have realized Lucy would not appreciate a welcoming committee at the moment and had disappeared from the front hall. George noted that most of the flowers had been dispersed, leaving only a large bouquet of roses on the side table.
George couldn’t hear Lucy’s reply, but it must have been for the sofa, as Lockwood turned quickly into the sitting room and they both disappeared from view.
George slipped into his room to pick up the package and tromped lightly down the stairs to announce his presence.
“Long time no see, Luce,” George said with a smile as he entered the sitting room, package in his arms. Lucy was supine across the sofa, a large mound of pillows propped behind her head and shoulders along one arm as Lockwood tucked her under at least three quilts. The left sleeve of his jumper pulled back with Lockwood’s ministrations, giving George an unobstructed view of the red and scabbed ghost touch scar along his arm.
Lockwood pulled his sleeve down quickly once he caught Lucy staring at it, too.
Lucy shook her head then looked up at George, small smile on her wan face. The bags under her eyes were nearly worse than Lockwood’s. “Hey, Georgie. I assume the banner was Holly’s idea?”
George grinned and took a seat in the armchair across from Lucy, box still in his lap. “Took a bloody hour to hang up straight enough for her. Rather ironic, considering how little Holly usually cares about things being straight,” he added, and Lucy’s grin grew.
“Where is Holly, anyway?”
“Kitchen with Kipps,” Lockwood answered gruffly. He took a seat in the chair next to George. “They’re sorting your prescriptions.”
Lucy nodded slowly in answer, then turned her head, taking in the room. “Where on earth did all these flowers come from? Did Holly raid the florist, too?” For, though the flowers had been dispersed, they still covered every available surface of the ground floor of 35 Portland Row. Every table, bookshelf, windowsill and mantel had at least one vase full. Even the top of the piano had not been spared.
George shrugged. “We brought most of them back from your hospital room, the ones that were still nice anyway. The rest, people sent to the house.”
“But, who?” Lucy asked. She sounded genuinely baffled.
George shrugged again. “Lots of people. Barnes, Arif, Jake, my parents,” George pointed out each bouquet as he listed, “Norrie’s parents, Wendy Armstrong from Armstrong and Atkins, Holly’s father, Kipps’ aunt. The Maders have sent at least four so far, and oh. Yes, that one’s from your sister. The one in Manchester, ‘bout to have a baby? Her note made me laugh.”
Thank goodness you lived! Caroline Carlyle’s note began. Otherwise, we would have no choice but to name the baby Lucy. He would have learned to like it eventually. Love you to the moon and back, my sweet and wonderful Lulu. I think of you always and miss you even more. -Carrie
Caroline Carlyle sent her sister blue flowers.
Lucy’s response was interrupted by Kipps and Holly’s arrival in the sitting room. Holly gave Lucy lots of hugs and kisses; Kipps dragged the telly in from the library and messed with the antennae to try and find something to watch.
“Karim, what’s in the box?” Kipps finally asked, once everyone had been settled, the telly playing quietly in the background.
“So glad you asked, Kipps,” George said with a flourish. He stood up from the chair and laid the box on the floor at Lucy’s side. “This is my get-well gift for you, Luce. Though, gift is a bit of a stretch. I believe we’re contractually obligated to provide them to you.”
“Contractually obligated?” Lucy muttered, as she leaned to the side and opened the rather large cardboard box. Lucy let out a breathless laugh, and the smile on her face brightened the whole room. “Oh, George, you didn’t.”
“It astounded even me, the number of biscuits we went through in your absence. I blame Holly, she’s a secret stress-eater.” For the box was filled to the brim with unopened packages of Lucy’s favorite biscuits. 17 packages, to be exact. George had done the math.
“It was a very difficult time!” Holly protested immediately, but the grin on her face contradicted her tone.
Lucy’s smile widened. Her hazel eyes were bright. “Thank you, Georgie. I’m glad to take back my place in the biscuit rotation. It’s—it’s so good to be home.”
Lockwood cleared his throat very loudly and stood up quickly from his chair. “Tea? Tea, Luce? Anybody? Great, I’ll go put the kettle on, shall I? Wonderful.” Lockwood exited the room before anyone had a chance to reply.
They sat in silence for one beat. Two.
“You should--,”
“Is he--,”
“I’ll go,” George said with a sigh. Lucy looked at him with grateful eyes. George brushed his hand across the top of her head as he circled behind the sofa and left for the kitchen.
Lockwood hadn’t yet put the kettle on the stove as he’d promised, so George went and got that sorted. Then, George turned to Lockwood, who was sitting at the kitchen table, his head buried in his hands as his shoulders heaved with quiet sobs.
George took a seat at the table beside Lockwood; he put his hand on the back of Lockwood’s neck and gently kneaded the muscle as slowly Lockwood’s sobs turned to tears turned to sniffs. George reached across the table and grabbed a few napkins which he handed to his friend.
The kettle began to sing, so George got up and turned off the stove. When he turned back to the table, Lockwood was sitting up in his chair, wiping his eyes.
George began fixing the tea when Lockwood said hollowly, “I really didn’t think she was going to come home from this one.” George got Lockwood a glass of water from the tap. He nodded in thanks when George handed it to him, took a sip, then said, “I didn’t think either of us would.”
If George was being honest with himself, he hadn’t expected them to, either. Especially after the phone call from Kipps.
They managed to neutralize the Source, Kipps had explained over the phone at midnight, his voice clogged with tears. But Lockwood was ghost touched getting Lucy out of there. They’re talking about amputating his arm. And Lucy. Kipps hadn’t been able to speak for a long moment. The medics thought a brain bleed, exacerbated by the Screaming Spirit. She was having fits on site, and when she—she wasn’t—I don’t think she was breathing when they got her to hospital, George. I don’t—you need to be here. You need to be here now.
“You did, though.” George said calmly. He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there that night. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.” He’d never regretted losing his Talents more than after receiving that phone call from Kipps.
Lockwood’s face blanched. “God, George, it’s not your fault. Don’t even think on it.”
“It’s not your fault either, Lockwood. I’ve been over that night backwards and forwards, the research, your notes, the casebook, the DEPRAC reports, even your medical records and there’s nothing—you did everything you could, you and Luce. It was just bad luck.”
“That’s what makes it so terrifying.” Lockwood said softly. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “I don’t--,” he whispered. “I don’t know if I can do this anymore.”
“Then don’t.” Lockwood opened his eyes and stared at George. “If you want to be done, be done. You’ve given enough, Anthony.”
Lockwood swallowed thickly. “It’ll be up to Lucy, I think.” Of course, it would. If Lucy wanted to come back, Lockwood would never let her go alone.
“She’s given enough, too.” Lockwood nodded in agreement. “You should—you should be happy. You both deserve to be happy.”
Lockwood’s eyes were very bright. He smiled slightly and patted the top of George’s hand.
“Thank you, George.”
***