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The Bone Glass ordeal had shaken up the residents of Portland Row in different ways. Their physical injuries were healing, although Lockwood could have been better about resting. He had been shot after all.
Mentally, however, there was a lot for them to process. Lockwood tried his best to let them in even as Lucy pulled away a bit. She would still participate in conversation over tea or in the library, but George often caught her lost in thought, gazing at the now-silent Skull.
Occasionally Lucy would look at him and Lockwood and he would see the worry between her brows. He knew that almost losing both of them had been rough on her. George and Lockwood were her found family. He fully felt the same way about them both, even if he didn’t believe he deserved them.
They both carried a lot of guilt still for not picking up on the signs that George was in danger. He couldn’t explain to them that it was his own stupidity and naïveté that had led him to follow Joplin so blindly.
There was still so much that he hadn’t told them.
Sure, they knew the broad strokes. How he had been lured into trusting Joplin, mesmerized by the Bone Glass. How for several long moments he had truly thought both he and Lucy were the ones about to lose their lives because of that damn glass.
Instead, there had only been one casualty - Joplin herself. And while George knew he hadn’t killed her directly, well, dealing with ghosts and watching someone disintegrate into nothing in front of you were two different things entirely.
As he did every time his thoughts strayed in a distressing direction, George focused on the task ahead of him. Or tried to, at least. He was at the stove, cooking dinner for the three of them.
Being in the kitchen preparing food was normally a calming activity for him. Like the Archives, the kitchen was his domain. He felt comfortable, free from the anxieties he felt on a job or in large social situations. The kitchen was also the one place where his brain would be blissfully quiet.
Or, it was. Before.
Now instead of focusing on the measurements and flavor profiles, his mind would wander. He had burnt dishes lately that he had made countless times before. Lucy and Lockwood didn’t say anything, of course. George usually managed to salvage the meal and they would eat like nothing unusual had occurred.
George told himself that he wouldn’t get distracted tonight. He would make a nice dinner, the best for his friends. So far he had been successful, a colorful sauce with vegetables bubbling away while he waited for the pasta water to boil.
Standing at the stove, he took the lid off of the pot to see if it was ready for the pasta. It wasn’t quite at a full boil, so he went to put the lid back on.
The water caught his attention, roiling slightly in the pot. As he watched, the water seemed to swirl, round and round, his eyes following the movements. A faint buzzing sound began between his ears. His hand hung limply by his side, still holding the lid.
They say a watched pot never boils, but this one eventually did, even under George’s direct gaze. It happened so suddenly that he didn’t have a chance to move away, the water bubbling up and over the sides. The boiling water splashed onto his arm, the lid falling to the floor with a metallic clang.
Breathing heavily, George stood there clutching his burnt arm. He heard a gasp and then Lucy was in front of him, deep concern on her face. Her lovely face, one he couldn’t bear to look at right at that moment.
“George, what happened?”
George stared at the ground resolutely, at the fallen pot lid. Lucy turned off the stove, bending down to pick up the lid and setting it on the counter. She then gingerly pried George’s fingers off of his arm to get a better look.
Lucy winced as he revealed the angry, reddened skin.
“Oh, Georgie,” she whispered.
He couldn’t look at her, too ashamed to meet her eyes. Instead he shook his head, pulling his arm out of her grasp. How could he face her after letting himself get drawn in like that? And burning himself while making pasta, that was just the cherry on top of his embarrassment.
As he turned away from her, he found himself face to face with Lockwood.
Great.
“What happened? I was in the basement and heard a bang from in here,” he asked, glancing between the two of them.
“Ah, it seems that George had a little mishap with the cooking,” Lucy explained, frowning at George, who still wouldn’t look at either of them.
Lockwood stepped forward, trying to get George to look up.
“Hey,” he said softly. “What’s going on? You can talk to us, you know.”
At that George let out a derisive laugh, a harsh, broken sound that echoed off of the kitchen walls.
“Nothing is going on,” he mumbled. “Just George being an idiot again.”
“Don’t talk like that!” Lucy burst out, moving into his line of sight, if he would only lift his gaze upward. “You’re the farthest thing from an idiot, George.”
Her small hand came up to cup his cheek, urging his eyes to meet hers. He obliged her with a sigh, worried about what he would find there. But instead of derision or annoyance, all he saw in Lucy’s eyes were care and concern.
“You were staring into the pot when I came into the kitchen. I called your name but you didn’t seem to hear me.” She spoke quietly, as if afraid he would startle.
“I…I thought I was past this,” George finally said, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Were you mesmerized?” Lockwood asked, his own voice as gentle as Lucy’s had been.
George nodded, and finally let Lucy lead him to a kitchen chair.
“I thought that it wouldn’t happen after the glass was destroyed,” he said with a sigh. “I even heard the buzzing, Lucy. I’m probably going crazy.”
“No, George,” Lockwood said firmly. “You’re not. It makes sense, that there would be lingering effects. But I just wish you would have told us.”
George shook his head stubbornly.
“No, Lockwood. Both of you have your own stuff to deal with and I don’t want to add to that.”
Lucy scoffed, reaching for his hand. Instead of holding it like she would with Lockwood, she gave it a gentle squeeze and then let go. Despite himself, George felt warmth in his chest at the small gesture. To him, it wasn’t small. It meant that she understood him, that she knew that he didn’t like lingering touches but wanted to reassure him.
“That’s just the problem, though, isn’t it?” Lockwood leaned forward, voice urgent. “We were so caught up in our own stuff that we didn’t see what was happening to you.”
He sounded bitter, but it wasn’t directed towards George. No, he recognized that tone as one of self-hatred. Wait…
“Lockwood, you don’t blame yourself for what happened with J…with the Bone Glass, do you?” George swallowed roughly, hoping neither of them noticed his little stumble.
He couldn't say her name, not without hearing her voice as she promised him she understood him.
Of course they noticed, exchanging a worried look.
“I do,” Lockwood said after a moment, looking away from both of them. “But it sounds like you blame yourself.”
“Because it was my fault!” George shouted, loudly enough to make Lucy flinch.
Shit, he hadn’t meant to raise his voice. He knew enough about her past, that yelling or other loud non-ghost noises made her shrink into herself.
“It’s all my fault,” he said again, much quieter now. “If we hadn’t made it out of there, that would have been my fault, too.”
“But we did make it out, George. We’re okay,” Lockwood insisted.
“You’re joking, right? You got shot!” George’s eyes slid to Lockwood’s sling for just a moment.
“Is that why you barely look at me, lately?” Lockwood couldn’t hide the hurt from his voice.
George looked at him in shock, shame coloring his cheeks. It stung too much, to look at the evidence of Lockwood’s injury. He nodded, and Lockwood blew out a harsh breath.
“There were a lot of factors at play that night,” Lucy interjected. “Neither of you is to blame.”
She reached for his arm again, turning it to look at the burn. Lockwood made a pained sound, swallowing as he noticed the burn for the first time. His fingers reached out as if to touch his arm, but then retracted just as quickly.
“You think I don’t hate seeing you hurt, either?” Lockwood whispered hoarsely. “I can’t - I can’t stand to see either of you in pain.”
George was silent for a moment, taking in Lockwood’s words. He wasn’t usually forthcoming with his emotions, so this felt like a revelation. A step forward, if only George would walk with him.
“We can’t help you if you don’t want us to,” Lucy said, grabbing George’s hand again. “But we want to help, Georgie. We want to make sure that you’re alright.”
Her lip quivered and he squeezed her hand, surprising her by not pulling away.
“I’ll try,” he said finally, meeting first Lucy’s eyes and then Lockwood’s.
“That’s good enough for us,” Lockwood said. “Now, can we finish making dinner for you?”
George didn’t mind the shift away from their emotional conversation. He had a lot to process, but that would best be done alone in his room later.
“It’s mostly done, just missing the pasta,” he answered, starting to stand up.
“I’ve got it,” Lucy said firmly. “Lockwood, can you see if his arm needs any first-aid?”
Lockwood nodded and scooted his chair closer to George’s. His warm hand gripped his forearm, bringing it into the light.
That touch didn’t bother George either, he realized. Both of them could touch him and he wouldn’t pull away. That was another thought to process later, he decided.
“He’s a fully qualified doctor, you know,” Lucy threw over her shoulder as she turned the stove back on.
They all laughed at that, and George soaked in the sounds of Lockwood’s deep rumble and Lucy’s higher pitched peals.
There was still a lot for them to work through. But for the first time since that night, George felt like they just might be okay. If he was with the two of them, he’d be okay.