Chapter Text
There’s a way these things go, or have gone. George doesn’t see much point in marking the difference. The facts are this: he lives with Lockwood, eats with him, works with him, gets pulled into life-threatening hijinks at an alarmingly high frequency with him, et cetera—but at the end of the day, Lockwood’s as allergic to vulnerability as he is to dogs, which means that George spends three hours listening to him sniffle after they run into a terrier on the street, and also that after a particularly tough case, when they don’t get home until the sun’s half-risen, when stray plasm hangs around their shoulders like thick fog, Lockwood goes to the basement, and George goes to his room.
It’s a habit. George is a creature of those. He always takes his tea with half a sugar and a splash of milk, showers only in the evenings, and when the aftershocks of Touch overuse lock his joints like rusted metal couplings, he deals with it. There’s no obtainable cure that he’s found—nothing but time, and so George gets very good at wasting it, huddling up in some corner with a stack of books and blankets and something ice-cold to tap against his inner wrists whenever they start to go numb. Perhaps not the most efficient method, but it functions. George is a creature of that, too.
When they take Lucy in, some things change—she cracks Lockwood open like a geode, like it’s easy, like George hasn’t spent a calendar year working up the courage to try—but some things stay the same. That’s the deal with habit, he supposes. Lucy is kind and sweet and smart, and maybe he could tap her shoulder and say well, we’ve left the Source bagged in three layers of silver net and I still feel its blood running down the back of my neck, can you help me make it stop? But that’s the sort of choice that rips a new branch in the world, sets down a path with no clear finish line, and in the end it’s simply less frightening to tug on two sweatshirts and hole up in his room until all the parts of his body feel like they belong to him again. Some people might call it cowardice. George has bigger things to worry about.
And then there’s the Bone Glass, and the catacombs, and George lamenting his complete and utter uselessness only for Lucy to show up like fate itself in size seven shoes, quite literally throwing herself into the fire for him, for him. And there’s her hand tight around his as he tells her not to look, and there’s Lockwood’s arm heavy over his shoulders, his chest one long line of heat against George’s side. And it’s not until they get back to 35 Portland Row that George realizes he can still feel the mirror under his skin, a million tiny bugs crawling between the dermis and subcutaneous tissue.
So, in the end, there’s George, with a habit he doesn’t quite know how to go about breaking. It is a frustratingly pedestrian problem to have.
Their latest case involves a Poltergeist, which means Lockwood’s Sight is near-useless, and he spends a good portion of their time in the house sulking about it. Separated from context, this is objectively very funny, and George and Lucy share at least seven amused glances about his retributive fussing over their chains, their rapiers, the state of the floorboards, and anything else that might cause them undue harm. However, it also means that they’re relying a lot more heavily on George’s Touch than they usually do, and by the time they get home, his entire body feels like one big bruise. Every step he takes is the jolt of a door slamming shut, the shattering crash of dishware flung to the floor.
Lockwood and Lucy are concerned—George’s sense of self worth is an ongoing project, but he’s not stupid enough to misinterpret the worried set to their shoulders—but they don’t stop him from trudging up to his room, closing the door behind him. They’ve always been less pushy with him than they are with each other. Sometimes he’s grateful for it, as Lucy’s fury is not something he enjoys being turned on himself. But sometimes, he wishes they would just—
It’s stupid, he thinks, snatching his heaviest blanket from its spot in the corner of his closet. He settles onto his desk chair, wraps the blanket around himself, and tries to steady his breathing. Any kind of movement triggers the aftershocks—the slower he breathes, the less it will hurt. If you want something, you can use your words and ask for it.
They would give it to him, he knows. Anything they could reach, and if it was too high, they’d grab a ladder. He knows because he would do the same for them. He knows.
But that’s the deal with habit.
Last time he was at the Archives, they let him make a photocopy of one of the Early Problem-era articles, and it’s that packet of paper he pulls towards him now. The buzzing has started by his right ankle, along the length of his Achilles tendon. It’ll move around his leg for a bit, and then up his spinal column, like a moth fluttering towards the light. And then it will be over. George grips the paper, and the brush of the fore-edge against his palm is a thousand shards of glass jutting into his skin. He grits his teeth against a pained noise, shuts his eyes. Breathes.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Come in,” George says. That’s Lockwood’s weight and cadence. He always knocks like it’s an apology.
The door creaks open, and Lockwood walks in, hesitant at first, quicker once he’s crossed the threshold. He strides over to the desk. “You alright?” His gaze sweeps over George, curled up on the chair like a pillbug, knees pulled to his chest, and George, not for the first time, wonders if Lockwood’s Sight lets him see through more than just ghosts.
“Fine,” George says, a little haltingly. He pulls the blanket tighter around his shoulders, but it doesn’t really help, just shifts the fabric of his t-shirt over his skin, and everything sparks into bursts of white-hot ache all over again. He shudders, muffling a small noise with pursed lips.
And then Lockwood is much closer, kneeling before him, which is—something, and before George can speak or protest, his long fingers are combing back the sweaty curls over his brow, pressing his hand to George’s forehead like he’s testing for a temperature. George stiffens, prepares for this new weight to throw him headfirst into total sensory overload, but—
It doesn’t. Hurt, that is. Lockwood’s hand is slightly cool, firm against George’s clammy skin, and it only takes a moment to realize that the cacophony beneath his temples has gone completely still and silent. Like Lockwood’s fingers are a silver net, and he’s trapped all the remnants of long-gone ghosts in his loose grasp. That’s scientifically impossible, of course, seeing as the rings he wears are nickel, and they don’t eat enough red meat for him to be going spontaneously hemochromatic. And yet—George breathes, and it doesn’t hurt.
Further experimentation might be required.
“You’re a bit warm,” Lockwood says, moving to pull his hand away. George, without really thinking about it, flings his own hand up to hold Lockwood’s there. And that’s even nicer, Lockwood’s palm twitching slightly against his, Lockwood’s eyes dark and wide and shining in the low light, pink mouth opening and closing as he stammers a quiet, “Oh.”
“Hold still,” George requests, brow furrowing. He squeezes Lockwood’s hand. “Let me try something.”
Lockwood’s other hand is still half-buried in the curls near the front of George’s head, but it’s easy enough to untangle his fingers and extract it. George holds it, notes academically the quiet calm that settles over his forearms. He scoots forward, presses the palm of it against his cheek, barely noticing Lockwood’s half-strangled gasp over the rush of pure, serene stillness that sweeps down his spine. It’s like the Poltergeist’s ghostly grip is slowly slipping away, fading out underneath the reality of Lockwood’s touch. He isn’t dousing the fire, not immediately, but maybe—maybe he’s starving it out.
This has such fascinating implications that George is almost entirely distracted from the fact that he was feeling so poorly in the first place. Theories swirl around his head, electrons around the nuclei—signs point to some physical effect over psychosomatic, judging by the lack of replicated results with the blanket earlier, though admittedly, his methodology is all over the place—given the circumstances, he reckons he can go a bit easy on himself, and besides, this is all just preliminary, he still needs to test—
Lockwood clears his throat. “George?”
“Hm,” George responds. And then he realizes just how long he’s had Lockwood’s hands stuck to his face, and it’s like dropping twenty meters into ice-cold water. He jerks backwards—winces, because as soon as they separate, the ghosts scream to new life beneath his skin—and starts to ramble an apology. “Sorry, sorry, I have no idea what that was, I’ll just—”
“Was it helping?” Lockwood interrupts, leaning forward. His hands land on George’s knees, movement so natural and fluid as to appear unconscious, and even in the midst of George’s rising panic, the tension bleeds from his legs, easy as anything.
Christ.
George swallows. “Yeah,” he says. He should explain, probably, or at the least elaborate. But his tongue is heavy, all of a sudden, and none of the words that come to mind feel right.
“Okay,” Lockwood says. He stands, using his grip on George’s knees to leverage his way up, long fingers flexing over the fabric of his trousers. When he looks down at George, his gaze is dark and determined and beautiful, mouth curved into the smallest of fond smiles. It’s not the first time he’s looked at George this way. Still, George doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it. “Come on,” he says. “Up you get.” He must see some concern or confusion on George’s face, because he shifts to hold his hands, thumb settling across the line of his knuckles. When he speaks, it’s with the certainty of a prophet. “We’re going to go get Lucy, and we’ll sort this out, alright?”
Patronizing, surely, except George is the one sitting there clutching Lockwood’s hands like he’ll die if either of them let go. “Sir yes sir,” George mutters, if only for his dignity’s sake, to which Lockwood kicks him very gently in the shin, smile spreading enough that his one asymmetrical dimple peaks through. He pulls George to his feet, then—carefully, as if threading a needle—wraps a steadying arm around his waist.
It’s just on the edge of too much, but still grounding, still good, so when Lockwood murmurs, “Okay?” George just nods.
They make their way downstairs. Lucy is sketching something on the kitchen table, admirably pretending she hasn’t been waiting for them, though the effect is ruined a bit when she leaps to her feet and rushes over, eyes wide with worry. “George,” she says, more breath than word, hands curling in front of her like it’s taking conscious effort to hold herself still.
George realizes the picture they make, then, Lockwood’s arm holding him up, a mirror of the image that still stars frequently in his nightmares. He shakes his head, ignoring the burst of lightning this sends to the spot between his eyes. “I’m fine, Luce.”
“You are not fine,” Lockwood protests, arm squeezing just slightly around his waist. He turns to Lucy. “He’s aftershocking.”
This does not seem to relax Lucy, whose mouth goes very tight and still. “Why didn’t you tell us?” she asks.
“I—” George blinks, gaze skittering towards the floor. “I’m sorry, I just—I didn’t think—” There’s a conversation happening over his head, he realizes belatedly. Lucy and Lockwood are mouthing frantically to one another, and the sight is so equally comical and frustrating that he risks the stabbing pain in his chest to interrupt them with an explosive sigh. “Don’t have fits,” he snaps. “I manage well enough on my own.”
This is the absolute wrong thing to say. Lucy’s eyes narrow. “And how often is it that you’re managing well enough on your own?” she asks, like she already knows the answer.
George gives a tiny shrug. When Lucy’s eyes continue to slim, he settles a little further into Lockwood’s side. The buzzing is starting up near his temples again. “Can we have this discussion later?” he pleads, feeling altogether rather pitiable.
“Fine,” Lucy says, softening. “Sofa or bed?”
Bed is the obvious choice, though it does mean trudging back up a flight of stairs, and that’s unpleasant even with Lockwood’s arm around him and Lucy’s hand tucked in his. Still, he can admit to himself that it’s immensely preferable to curling up on his own. George has never been a fan of hugs, or really any kind of physical contact—the various expectations he failed to meet were suffocating enough without their weight being physically pressed into him. But Lockwood and Lucy are different. They always have been. Sometimes he thinks he could crawl inside either of them and never want to leave.
They get him into bed, taking turns running off to change into their own pyjamas. Racing footsteps thunder through the halls, like they’re afraid to leave him for one second more than what’s necessary, and George stifles a snort into the collar of his t-shirt. Part of him still smarts at it—that they think he needs looking after—but the rest of him is quietly pleased, following Lucy’s firm hand on his shoulder down into the mattress.
The covers still sting against his sensitive skin, so they leave them off. Lucy curls immediately around George’s left side, chin digging slightly into his shoulder, and the warm weight is so good he could cry. Lockwood hesitates, as though after everything he’s not sure if he’s permitted to cross this incredibly arbitrary line, so George raises an eyebrow at him, like, what can you do? And then he’s sliding in right next to them, tucking his nose into the side of George’s head.
For a moment, they lie quietly in the dark. George tries to steady his breathing, though it doesn’t hurt anymore. Barely anything hurts.
Then Lucy says, “Skin to skin contact’s usually best,” as if George doesn’t know, as if he hasn’t spent years trying to figure out an alternative to the only thing his research has ever told him would help. Because he thought he wouldn’t want it or because he thought no one would give it—it doesn’t matter, anyways, because he’s here, and the two best and smartest and kindest people in the universe are here with him. Lying over the blankets in the middle of winter, all to give him a bit of comfort.
“Reminds your body that you’re still alive,” Lockwood adds. “Plus, there’s—chemicals. And stuff.”
Chemicals and stuff. Christ. George sighs, as if this is going to be some great hardship. “Knock yourselves out,” he says.
Lucy hums, wriggling forward so that her forehead presses against his jaw. Lockwood wraps his arm back around George’s stomach, cool fingers sliding beneath the rucked-up hem of his t-shirt. At the foot of the bed, their legs all tangle together.
And just like that, the very last remnant of the Bone Glass’s crawling itch dies off, choked into stillness by the people on either side of him, who love him, who will never let him face another aftershock alone.
“Thank you guys,” George whispers, like anything louder will shatter the pure stained-glass specialness of this moment.
“We love you, Georgie,” Lucy murmurs, breath fanning soft against his ear.
“Go to sleep,” Lockwood says, warm and fond.
George closes his eyes. If nothing else, he wouldn’t mind making a habit out of this.