Chapter Text
Lucy wasn’t sure if she was imagining the sound. She crept down the stairs, straining to hear and wishing she’d grabbed her rapier.
“Calm down, Luce, it’s just Lockwood.”
Lucy jumped. “Jesus, George, you scared me,” she said.
George stood in the doorway to his room, his glasses pushed the top of his head and making his unruly curls wilder than usual. “I scared you? Sure you’re cut out to be an agent?” he said dryly.
Lucy rolled her eyes. “Oh, come off it,” she said. She heard the sound again, louder this time, and tilted her head. “What d’you mean, it’s just Lockwood? That sounds awful.”
George shrugged unhappily. “You know the business,” he said. “Nightmares are just part of the full package experience.”
“That doesn’t sound like just a nightmare,” Lucy said quietly. “It sounds like he’s crying.”
“He is,” George said. He sighed and leaned against the doorframe. “It just happens, Luce. He gets bad nightmares, a lot, but nothing can be done.”
She gazed over her shoulder at Lockwood’s closed door. “He can’t be helped?” she said.
“Can’t, won’t, something like that,” George said. He shifted his weight, his eyes softening. “Listen, Lucy…I’ve known him a lot longer than you have. I’ve watched him throw himself into situations that will probably get him killed, I’ve seen deathglows give him migraines so bad he can’t say his own name.” He nodded towards Lockwood's door. “I’ve listened to him have night terrors. I’ve tried to get him to open up, let me help him, but there’s a part of him that’s just…completely closed off.”
Lucy bit her lip. “So there’s just…nothing that can be done?” she said.
“Not really,” George said. “Don’t worry, I check in on him if he sounds like it’s a particularly bad one. But there’s not really much I can do.” He adjusted his glasses. “You might as well get some sleep while you can. Tomorrow’s going to be busy.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Goodnight.”
George closed the door. Lucy lingered in the hallway a bit longer, listening. But she didn’t know what to do, and she reluctantly retreated up to her attic.
It still surprised her to see him the next morning, his hair styled and his shirt pressed, smiling brightly and asking her if she wanted strawberry jam or honey on her toast. She caught George’s eye across the table and he shrugged. See? I told you , his expression said, and Lucy didn’t bring it up again.
She still heard him, though. It wasn’t every night, but it was most nights. Sometimes she would pause and press her ear to the door, and hear his faint crying or mumbling. Sometimes it was loud enough she could hear him from the stairs. Once he screamed loud enough that it woke her up, and she held her breath in panic trying to figure out what exactly had happened. But every morning he was fine- maybe a bit paler or quieter, but he gave no indication that he’d been trapped in nightmares for hours the night before.
She didn’t understand it. But there was a lot she didn’t understand about him, and she supposed eventually she would end up like George- worried, but unable to do much.
The only good part about a hard case was unwinding afterwards.
It had been a rough night- their case was in the charred shell of an apartment complex that had burnt down six months prior. Lucy’s Sight had never been her strongest suit, but she’d had to squint against the dozens of deathglows. Even George was struggling. She could only imagine what Lockwood was going through.
But they made it home by six in the morning, and they staggered inside and dropped their things on the foyer floor. That could all be taken care of later. Right then there were more important things. The three of them had settled into a routine for post case rituals. Lockwood went to the library to write down all the details he could remember from the night’s adventure, George made them a midnight dinner, and Lucy took a shower.
Her attic bathroom was tiny, not even a true separate room, but it was all hers. Not a shared bathroom with her older sisters banging down the door, not the mildewed locker room at Jacobs and Co. All hers.
She always took her time after cases, washing her hair thoroughly and scrubbing off the grime and sweat and salt. Usually afterwards she patched herself up, treating speckled flare burns and skinned knees and elbows. She wasn’t much for beauty routines, but she liked to slather her dried-out skin with lotion that smelled like lavender and sage afterward. It felt splurgey.
She changed into her pajamas and combed out her wet hair before jogging down the stairs. “What’re you making, Georgie?” she asked, trying to peek around his arm.
George swatted lightly at her. “It’s just breakfast,” he said. “Stop touching things.”
“You’re just grumpy because you’re hungry,” she teased as she reached around him and snitched the corner off a crumbly slice of cake.
“That’s correct, none of us have eaten in twelve hours,” George said. “It’s almost ready, go get Lockwood.”
Lucy licked a soft crumb off her thumb as she padded down to the library. It was quiet, which was a little odd. Lockwood liked to turn on music while he was writing. But she found him sitting in his favorite chair, scribbling away on a yellow legal pad.
She lingered in the doorway, watching him. His tie was loose around his neck, his collar rumpled, and his ash-stained sleeves were pushed up to his elbows. “Lockwood,” she said. He kept writing. “Lockwood?”
He glanced back then, tilting his head back to see her. “Hm?”
“George said to come get you for breakfast.”
Usually he was up and moving immediately, bounding down the hallway when he was told there was food waiting, but he turned back to his writing. “I’ll be there in a second,” he said.
“I can wait for you,” she said.
Locked set the legal pad aside reluctantly and pushed himself up. “All right, all right, I’m coming,” he sighed.
Lucy frowned. “You all right?” she asked.
“Yeah, why do you ask?”
“Nothing, you just…seem a little off, that’s all.”
Lockwood smiled at her, but it still didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’m fine, you don’t need to worry about me,” he said.
George had set everything out on the table by the time they got there. The kitchen was warm and cozy; the curtains were open and let light from the ghost lamps shine through. “Finally,” he said. “I’m starving.”
Lucy plunked a full slice of lemon cake onto her plate. “I don’t know what I’m more excited about, food or going to bed,” she sighed.
“Please say the food, I worked hard on this,” George complained.
She set a piece of cake on Lockwood’s place for him. “Then yes, I’m excited for middle of the night breakfast,” she said.
George always outdid himself after big cases, and tonight was no exception. He’d made scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, a huge bowl of mixed fruit. The three of them passed plates around, falling silent as they finally got the chance to eat.
It took Lucy a moment to realize Lockwood wasn’t really eating anything. He was pushing his fork around as he leaned his cheek in his hand, staring off in the distance. “Lockwood, are you sure you’re all right?” she said. “Aren’t you hungry?”
He didn’t answer her. George frowned at him, his glasses sliding down his nose. “Lockwood?” he said, and Lockwood raised his head. “Everything okay?”
He blinked. “Oh, yes, I’m fine,” he said. He nodded towards the window. “It’s just the ghost lights, it’s a little…” He paused, swallowed hard, tried again. “‘s a little…the lights…ligh’s’re…”
Lucy straightened up. “Lockwood?” she ventured.
Lockwood shuddered, like an electric current had shot through him, and made a soft scraping noise in the back of his throat. “Hurts,” he mumbled, and he pressed his hands over his eyes. “Head hurts.”
His voice was thick and slurred; the lisp that came out sometimes when he was tired or stressed was in full force. George was up in a second; he moved Lockwood’s plate out of his way. “Lucy, close the curtains,” he said.
Lucy got up immediately. George gently guided Lockwood to rest his head on his folded forearms. “What’s wrong? What’s happening?” Lucy asked.
“He’s got one of his migraines,” George said. “I should have guessed it earlier. All those deathglows.”
“Why can’t he talk?” she asked.
“It’s called aphasia, he’s hurting so much it’s making it hard for him to talk,” George said. “It makes it harder for him to understand things too.” He rested his hand between Lockwood’s sharp shoulderblades. “How’re you doing, mate? Am I still making sense?”
Lockwood kept his head down but raised a hand, tilting it in a so-so gesture. His slender fingers trembled. “I’ll go get your meds before we try to move you,” George said. “Are they still in your nightstand drawer?” Lockwood didn’t respond, and George asked again, a little more gently. He finally nodded and George ran out of the room.
Lucy picked anxiously at the chipped polish on her thumb. She wasn’t sure what to do. Lockwood kept his head down; she could see his shoulders rising and falling as he tried to breathe slow and deep.
“Anything I can do?” she asked softly.
He didn’t answer and she wondered if he even understood her at all. Gingerly she touched the back of her hand to his forehead, and to her surprise his tense shoulders sagged in relief.
“Cold,” he mumbled into his arms.
Lucy scooted closer and pressed her cold hands against his temples. He leaned into her touch and sighed. “Norrie always says my hands are like ice,” she said. Her fingertips tangled in his dark hair. She wanted to keep talking, to say something soothing, but she didn’t know if he would understand her.
George jogged into the kitchen with a pill bottle in his hand. “I’ve got it,” he said. Lucy drew back reluctantly as George nudged Lockwood to sit up. He looked awful, his skin pale and sallow and the bruises under his eyes deep purple and blue. His brown eyes were hazy and unfocused, and he tried to cover them as soon as he was back in the soft cozy light of the kitchen.
George pressed a pill into his hand. Lockwood popped it clumsily in his mouth, then took the glass of orange juice he offered. His hand shook so badly that some of it spilled down the front of his shirt, but he managed to take it.
“Let’s get you upstairs,” George said. Lockwood rubbed his eyes. “Lockwood? I’m going to take you to your room.”
Lockwood mumbled something completely unintelligible, his face screwing up in pain as George helped him up. “Do you need me?” Lucy asked anxiously, her hand hovering close to Lockwood’s arm.
“I’ve got it,” George said as he slung his arm over his shoulder. “I’ve done this before. Don’t worry, he’ll be fine. Just eat, you haven’t eaten in ages and I don’t want my hard work to go to waste.”
Lucy sat back in her chair as George helped Lockwood out of the room. She felt useless, and she hated feeling useless. She wanted to fix things, and instead she could only sit there and watch him suffer.
Next time I’ll help , she told herself sternly. Next time.
Lucy rolled over and thumped her pillow impatiently, cursing under her breath. She couldn’t sleep. Usually she had no problem. She didn’t necessarily sleep well, but she’d gotten to the point that she could close her eyes and fall off with little resistance.
But now sleep evaded her. She had never felt this alert in her life.
She cursed again again and stumbled out of bed, untangling her legs from the sheets. George had a tea that he always bragged about, something lemon balm and lavender, it made him fall asleep in minutes. Couldn’t hurt to try.
She wandered down the stairs, her fingers trailing along the banister as she found her way in the dark. Portland Row tended to creak and groan at night, but it still felt peaceful rather than unsettling. She’d been in enough haunted houses in her time to know a safe place from a dangerous one.
But she paused on the landing. She could hear soft noises. Faint mumbling.
Another nightmare , she thought. She thought about George’s words, that there wasn’t much to be done. She thought about his migraine a week earlier, how he couldn’t speak clearly or walk on his own.
Before she realized what she was doing, she opened the door.
She slipped inside Lockwood’s room. He kept his space mostly clean, just a little cluttered with books and magazines. There was nothing truly personal in it though- no signs of things he liked, no hobbies, no photos.
Lockwood was a shadowed shape under the covers, shifting restlessly. Despite the size of his double bed he slept on the right side rather than the middle, and he was tossing and turning so much she was afraid he might tumble to the floor.
She crept a little closer. Now that she was this close, she didn’t know what to do. She didn’t want to wake him up and then have to explain why she was in his bedroom in the middle of the room, but now that she was here she couldn’t very well just back away slowly.
He rolled over onto his back, one arm flinging above his head so she had to jump back to narrowly avoid being struck. His face contorted with stress, his chest heaving as he let out a strangled cry. One of the buttons on his pink pajama top was buttoned wrong.
Lucy leaned over him. “It’s all right,” she whispered. She rested her hand lightly on his chest. “You’re all right.”
His heart thumped against her palm. Lucy rubbed a light circle on his chest, trying to soothe him. His mouth pulled in a tight unhappy line and she sat down gingerly next to him, trying not to shift the bed too much. “It’s just a dream,” she said softly. “Just a bad dream. You’re safe.”
She kept rubbing his chest and talking to him softly, until the tension in his expression finally started to unravel. Before long his mouth relaxed as his breathing began to slow and deepen, and finally he wasn’t mumbling or crying out. He was just sleeping.
Lucy fixed the buttons on his shirt and adjusted the covers around him. Lockwood seemed peaceful for once. Maybe he’d finally get some decent sleep.
She slipped out of his room and closed the door behind her. The reason for leaving her attic had completely escaped her and she went back upstairs without getting herself the tea, and when she crawled back into bed she was asleep seconds after her head hit the pillow.