Chapter Text
Lucy
Lucy awoke to the soft sound of water hitting tile. The gentle rhythm it played against the cold porcelain was doing nothing to lighten the weight of her eyelids as she fought against a wave of exhaustion. She moved a finger carefully, then another, experimenting. Each cold droplet that splashed against her skin spurred her on - though as she began to take in her surroundings, a small voice in the back of her mind cursed her newfound awareness.
It had happened so quickly - one minute George was admonishing her for finishing the last of their thermos tea stash (with Lockwood definitely not quietly amused by the whole thing in the corner), the next both boys were shouting, hands outstretched towards her. Whatever they’d said, the words hadn’t quite managed to reach her as the floor swallowed her whole.
Lucy supposed, now that she lay in what was presumably the basement of a very dark, and according to George’s research very haunted building, that if she were to die, then at least she’d managed to nab the last cup of (somewhat stale) Earl Gray. And on the brightside, if she were to die down here, George could hardly hold a grudge over it. Or, knowing him, perhaps he could. It served him right though, he shouldn’t have taken the last of Arif’s donuts the night before. A soft chuckle escaped her lips at the thought, which morphed quickly into a sharp painful intake of breath. Broken ribs, almost definitely - she was familiar with the ache. Nothing Lockwood couldn’t tape up - his fingers moving deftly despite the blush creeping up his neck as he fixated on an apparently fascinating section of the carpet. Ever the gentleman.
Satisfied all of her fingers were (thankfully) still attached, she lifted her right hand and gently touched the back of her head. Her fingertips came away slick, and in the darkness she prayed that the liquid pooling beneath her head had come from the broken pipes overhead. The dull throb spreading across the back of her skull, however, suggested otherwise. Lucy had taken some tumbles in her career, but this felt different. She felt searing heat spreading from her upper left thigh, and yet biting cold was working its way up from her toes. That probably wasn’t a good sign. After a few failed attempts to sit upright, a painful thought hit her. Lockwood and George were going to find her dead down here. The silly idiots would find some way to blame themselves. Not enough research, too many jobs in a row leaving them far from their best. Anything, any reason to punish themselves with. Panic rose in her throat, sharp and stinging, but no noise escaped her lips. Her grip on her consciousness, tenuous at best, was slipping through her fingers.
Lockwood
Lucy was fine. She had to be. Nothing could hold Lucy Carlyle down for long. She was surely brushing off rubble somewhere and swearing about the scuffs blemishing her brand new boots. They’d laugh about her terrible luck later - and in a few nights time, when she squeezed his shoulder goodnight and made her way up the narrow steps to the attic, he’d grab the black shoe polish underneath the sink and get to work. George would walk by on a quest to procure fresh tea, and shake his head when he found him sitting on the floor, holding one of her shoes up to the light.
“Lockwood”
“Lockwood”
The sound of George’s voice shook him loose from his thoughts.
“We’re not getting down that way, the blueprints show a staff entrance down to the basement” he said quickly, wrestling with a piece of paper curling at the edges and twice the size of his arm span. Lockwood tried to pretend he didn’t notice the slight shake in his friend's hands.
“Are you listening?”
“Yes…yes. Staff entrance. Basement. Got it” Lockwood stumbled backwards slightly, unsheathing his rapier without an ounce of his usual flourish. His eyes bore into the spot Lucy had once stood, now caved in and blocked by several tonnes of rubble and ugly floral tile.
If he’d just been a little faster. He could swear he’d felt his fingertips brush hers.
Lockwood had grown accustomed to fear. He knew the shape of it well. It had become comforting, in a strange way. The rush of adrenaline it gave was a powerful tool in his line of work. Over time though, his overexposure to it had dulled its blade. These days it barely broke his skin.
He was now discovering a whole new brand of fear. It was choking him, carving out his insides and presenting them unceremoniously at his feet. Nausea, stifling heat, sweat pooling at the base of his neck. Every symptom he'd thought himself long since immune to. His stomach turned itself over and over, forcing bile up his throat.
Lucy. Lucy. Lucy.
He heard the sound of his boots hitting tile. Of George swearing under his breath repeatedly. But he was merely a passenger in his skin. Watching, detached. Until he saw a burst of blue. His favourite colour, as of late.
“Lucy?”
A voice, panicked, rang out. He wasn’t sure if it belonged to him, or George.