Chapter Text
George was sick of Lockwood and Lucy’s bickering. They’d been at it from the moment they set foot in the haunted house on Amherst Street. Likely they’d been at it all day, but George had been at the archives since early morning so he couldn’t be sure when or how it had started. By the time he arrived at the site, they’d been arguing over where to set up the chain circle, immediately turning to him to break the tie.
“Back me up, George!” Lucy had practically shouted at him the moment she spotted him. “We don’t need four chain circles! One on each floor is plenty!”
“We want one to retreat to in the kitchen and we need one in the living room since that’s where the client reported most of the phenomena to be occurring,” Lockwood said calmly but with a slightly clipped cadence that George associated with a loss of patience.
George considered their arguments as he dumped his rucksack on the kitchen table and pulled his glasses off to polish on his shirt. Truthfully, he had an opinion already, but he was taking the time to read the temperatures of his teammates. Lucy was wild eyed, her hair tangled and clothes rumpled. Lockwood was as crisp as a new book, his spine ramrod straight. They both had dark circles under their eyes. This was definitely not about the chains and looked like it had probably been simmering for a few days.
George thought back to supper the night before, the last time he’d seen the two of them together. He hadn’t clocked any strange behavior between them. Perhaps Lucy had been a little quieter than usual, Lockwood carrying the conversation with his usual manic gleam.
“Another circle won’t hurt,” George said, shoving his glasses back up his nose. “My research indicates this could be a fairly nasty type 2. And it is protocol.”
“Hah!” Lucy shouted angrily. “Whose protocol, Marissa Fittes? Do we really want to trust anything that woman wrote?”
George glanced at Lockwood whose jaw tightened like he was grinding his teeth. Lockwood reached for the kit bag but Lucy beat him to it. “Fine, if you want another circle so much, I’ll do it.” And with that she stomped out of the room, chains clinking.
“Much obliged,” Lockwood muttered under his breath. Then he turned to George, pasting on a professionally interested expression. “So what did you find?”
Things had only gotten worse the longer the night wore on. Any time they were in the same room they found something to argue about. Lucy sniped at Lockwood about his clothes, his plan, his manner. Lockwood maintained a chilly aloofness that George hadn’t seen since the beginning of the Black Winter, over two years ago.
George, exasperated and alarmed that they would bring this kind of energy to the site of a haunting, acted as a reluctant buffer between them. He wished Holly or Kipps was here to help him out. They could pair off then and keep the pair of them from having their lovers’ quarrel while on the job.
The Visitor had indeed been nasty, a phantasm with a penchant for leaping out of the walls to attack when they least expected it. Lucy wanted to use her touch to keep tabs on it, while Lockwood had insisted she wouldn’t be able to pull back in time if the ghost snuck up on her.
“It won’t be able to if I’m touching the wall, that’s the whole point!” Lucy snapped.
“It’s too risky,” Lockwood insisted.
This time George jumped in voluntarily, not wanting whatever was simmering between them to boil over in such a precarious situation. “Lockwood, unless you have a better idea, I think we have to chance it. Let Lucy keep watch while we look for the source.”
Lockwood’s eyes had narrowed dangerously, but he had finally nodded and began searching for the source in earnest, banging around loudly. George thought he must be trying to draw the ghost’s attention to himself and away from potentially harming Lucy.
It had actually worked out surprisingly well, because when the ghost did finally appear, Lucy was able to shout a warning as it dove out of the chimney at Lockwood’s head, throwing a salt bomb at it with her trademark accuracy. Lockwood ducked instantly and rolled out of the way, popping up once more with rapier in hand to battle the Visitor. In the end, George had found the Source and wrapped it in a silver net while Lockwood and Lucy kept it caged between their whirling rapiers. George turned to them in triumph as the phantasm disappeared, expecting the elation of a job well done to soften them both. But Lucy had huffed an “I told you so,” under her breath and they were right back at it.
George sat on a rumble seat in the night cab, watching his two best friends fuming at one another in silence. Lucy was staring resolutely out the window while Lockwood kept stealing glances at her, then rolling his eyes and turning away again. George had watched these two dance around and towards each other for years and he considered himself something of an expert, but he was at a loss on this one. Lucy usually wore her emotions on her sleeve, but it must be something big for Lockwood to be so on edge he was letting it spill over into the job. George polished his glasses and mulled over the possibilities until they pulled up outside 35 Portland Row.
“Here, Luce, let me take…”
“I’ve got it Lockwood,”
“At least let me carry…”
“I said I’ve got it!”
George sighed as he trudged up the steps and unlocked the front door. Maybe he should just hide in his room for the rest of the night and ask Holly or Kipps in the morning if they had any idea what was going on.
George heard a click as his key turned over in the lock and he pushed through the front door into the dimly lit front hall. He stepped on something odd shaped on the floor, rolling his ankle slightly. He cursed and looked down to see what it was. That was when he noticed that the temperature had dropped several degrees as he crossed the threshold. A panic gripped him, making the world seem to move in slow motion as he raised his head and stared into the ghostly face of Julius Winkman.
Lucy heard George’s cry of pain and fear just as she was hauling the bags across the iron line in front of Portland Row. She knew instantly that it was not something trivial. She had heard George’s frustrated shouts from the kitchen when a baking project went wrong, his excited shouts from his room when an experiment yielded results, and his angry yells, mostly at her, but occasionally at Lockwood or Holly or even Kipps.
This was none of those.
She could feel the vibrations in his voice in the back of her teeth, a spike of fear triggering a wave of adrenaline to wash through her.
“George!” Lockwood yelled, leaping up the front steps in two long strides, his rapier flying to his hand. She wasn’t the only one who could read George like a book.
She dropped the bags and was up the stairs only a half second behind Lockwood. The world froze for a moment as she reached the top and took in the scene before her between one blink and the next.
George lay crumpled on the ground, a dark mass in the dim light of the skull lamp. Lockwood stood over him, his coat flying out behind him as he lunged across George’s body. And hovering above both of her boys, Winkman. The Spectre of Julius WInkman, his face a grotesque mask picked out in Other light.
The fury that shot through Lucy then was white hot, burning away any trace of fear. Her belt was still nearly full and two salt bombs flew from her hands with as much thought and effort as taking a pair of breaths. Lockwood’s rapier was a spinning wall of steel, holding WInkman off George and himself, forcing him up towards the ceiling to give Lucy an easy target. She threw her last salt bomb, a shower of sparks falling on Lockwood’s coat. Lucy dove for George, scrabbling at his kit belt.
“Lu–”
“George!” she yelled, half in relief, half in anxiety over the weakness of his voice. She put a hand to his cheek, but his eyes were still shut tight behind his glasses, his face tight with anguish.
“Source,” he choked out, his heel kicking against the floor in pain or perhaps frustration. He had seen the Source, he knew what it was. Lucy looked around, at the walls, the door, the stairs, the floor. George kicked his foot again and Lucy stared at it, her brain struggling to understand.
“Any time you want to throw another salt bomb would be just fine,” Lockwood’s voice came from above her, as calm as if he was asking her to pass the butter.
She tuned him out. She needed to concentrate, to think. What was George trying to tell her? With a gasp she had it. George had stepped on the Source!
Lucy stood, whirling around, her eyes on the floor, looking for something out of place, something… there! She whipped a silver net from her belt and scooped an object lying incongruously on the carpet, right where the mail usually landed.
The Spectre above Lockwood vanished instantly.
“Oh, or that works too I suppose,” Lockwood said, turning to grin at Lucy. The grin dropped from his face in an instant as his eyes landed on George. Lucy saw the first flutter of panic behind his eyes. “Where’s the kit bag?” he asked, his voice suddenly rough. “He needs adrenaline, now!”
Lucy ran for the bags, ripping the zipper open in her haste to reach the preloaded shot. She swore viciously as her trembling hands pawed through the contents, finding seals, and a half eaten sandwich, and there it was! She picked it up and tore back up the steps. Lockwood was kneeling over George with the phone in his hand, speaking to the emergency operator.
“35 Portland Row, Marylebone… We’re just inside the front door… Yes he’s an agent, what the fuck does that matter?” A slight tremble in his voice betrayed the depth of emotion he was trying so hard to keep in check. There were times Lucy loved his ability to control his emotions and times it made her furious. Right now, she just needed him to hold it together, for her and for George.
Lucy didn’t want to wait for Lockwood to get the shot into him so she stuck it right through his jeans into his thigh muscle. She was not as deft as Holly, but she got it into him as quickly as she could, and from what she understood that was the most important thing. George barely even twitched as the needle sank home.
Lockwood finally set down the phone. “George?” he asked. “George, can you hear me?”
“Huuurts,” George moaned.
“Can you tell us where?” Lockwood asked, but George was shaking, every muscle tense.
“Let’s get him undressed,” Lockwood said to Lucy. “Save the paramedics some time.”
They worked together to sit George up and pull him out of his jacket. Lucy whispered soothing words to George as they did so. “You’ll be alright, Georgie. Just hang on, we’ve got you. It’s going to be…” George’s shirt came off and Lucy had to bite her knuckle to keep from screaming.
Red welts spread over one shoulder and streaked across his ribcage. If you didn’t know it was Ghost touch, it wouldn’t look so bad. But Lucy knew what it was and she could see the skin already fading to a greyish blue in places. The marks on his ribs were razor thin, like they’d been grazed by claws or a knife, but they were so close to his lungs. If the ghost touch spread to them…
Lucy met Lockwood’s eyes over George’s body. Lucy felt a sick, self loathing starting to take root deep in her stomach and she was sure she saw shades of the same thing in Lockwood’s face.
“We should move him down to the sidewalk,” Lockwood said, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Make things easier for the paramedics…”
“He’ll freeze!” Lucy protested.
“We can cover him with his jacket.”
“What if Leopold or Adelaide is out there watching?” She couldn’t stop her voice from climbing an octave, sounding shrill in her own ears.
“Then I will end them!” Lockwood spat furiously, his eyes flashing.
“Don’t…” George gasped out. “Don’t argue.”
Lucy could feel the bile rising in her throat. She swallowed it ruthlessly. That would have to wait.
“Alright, let’s move him,” she said. Lockwood clamped his jaw shut and nodded curtly.
Together they carried him down the front steps to the sidewalk. They wrapped him in his jacket and Lucy held him in her lap, gently stroking his dark curls, damp with sweat, as he shivered and groaned in pain. Her cheeks were wet with tears, but she didn’t care.
Lockwood paced back and forth, keeping watch for the ambulance, or possibly for the WInkmans. Lucy fervently hoped that the Winkman’s did not appear just then. She wanted to murder them herself and she didn’t think Lockwood was in a mood to share.
Luckily, the ambulance was there a bare minute later. The paramedic who opened up George’s jacket hissed through his teeth and immediately reached for a second shot of adrenaline. George was shaking, his eyelids fluttering.
“He’s seizing,” the second paramedic said. “Keep hold of him, love.”
Lucy wrapped her arms around George as the shaking became more violent. The tears were coming fast and hot, but she held on while the medics got the stretcher set up. She looked up into Lockwood’s eyes as he hovered over them, body coiled like a spring, his hands twitching uselessly by his sides. It was as though he thought he could jump in and save George if he just waited for the right moment.
George suddenly went limp in her arms and Lucy cried out, but the first medic slipped an oxygen monitor on his finger and it chirped reassuringly. The medics took him from her then, deftly rolling him and sliding the stretcher beneath his body.
Lucy scrambled out of the way to stand next to Lockwood, scrubbing at her eyes and cheeks. The medics got George into the ambulance a few minutes later. Lockwood tried to go with them but they told him no. Holly had told her they did that when they thought they might need to use the crash cart on the way to the hospital. That thought caught in Lucy’s throat and wouldn’t let go, choking her.
Lockwood watched the ambulance as it sped away, carrying a piece of both their hearts. Lockwood turned and walked back to her. As he looked down at her, lost and afraid, Lucy wondered if their hearts would still fit together if they never got those pieces back.
“Luce…” he whispered, holding his hand out. Lucy shook her head.
“I’m sorry, Lockwood,” she choked out, “I’m sorry I can’t…” And then Lucy was running inside and up the stairs to the bathroom to throw up.
Lockwood brought the kit bags in and dumped them on the floor in the front hall. Then he bent and gingerly picked up the sealed Source from the floor. Ensuring that the silver net remained firmly wrapped around it, he slipped the bundle into his coat pocket.
He could hear Lucy retching upstairs and considered going up to comfort her, but decided against it. She didn’t like to be coddled, particularly when she was feeling vulnerable. Instead Lockwood made some phone calls.
“What?” came Kipps sleep-roughened voice after the second ring.
“We need you,” Lockwood said, his voice flat and emotionless, a side effect of how hard he was having to clamp down on the fear that was gnawing at his heart. “Portland Row, quick as you can.”
“Who?” Kipps asked immediately.
“George.”
“Alright, ten minutes.”
Lockwood nodded and hung up. Then he dialled Holly. If the situation had been any less fraught he would have let her sleep until morning so that at least one member of the team would be well rested. But if George died in the night and he hadn’t woken her, she would never forgive him. Lockwood squeezed his eyes tight, his leg bouncing nervously as he listened to the ringing on the other end of the line.
Holly finally picked up on the sixth ring. “Mmph ‘ello?” she answered groggily.
“Holly, George has been ghost touched.”
“Oh. Oh no. Is he…?” She was fully awake now, her voice sharp with worry.
“They took him to St Mary’s.”
“Is it bad?” she whispered.
“Yes it’s… Holly it was all over his shoulder. Even some marks on his ribs. Has anyone ever, I mean do you know if it’s possible…” Lockwood could feel his control cracking. He desperately wanted to know if there was any chance at all. But he was afraid the answer would shatter him.
“Did you get adrenaline into him immediately?” Holly asked with her usual brusque efficiency.
“Yes, as soon as we could. Maybe a few minutes.”
“Did the paramedics give him a second dose?”
“Yes, maybe five minutes later?”
“Good. He should have a chance.” Lockwood let out a breath he’d been holding, felt like he’d been holding since he turned around and saw George lying there on his floor. His eyes were drawn to the spot. He could still see the faint outline of Carver’s deathglow, shimmering like a mirage even when he wasn’t tuned in. Two and a half years since he’d bled out on the old carpet. Two and a half years since they’d first drawn the notice of Julius Winkman. Two and a half years for his vengeance to finally hit home.
“Is everyone else okay?” Holly’s voice mercifully called him back to the present.
“Yeah, we’re fine. The job was… we’re fine,” Lockwood said hollowly.
“Okay, I’ll meet you at the hospital.”
“Right,” he said and hung up.
Lockwood took a breath, blanking his mind once more, eschewing the ghosts of the past for the looming spectres of the present. He dialled one last time.
“Barnes,” came the deep voice on the first ring.
“Commander, it’s Lockwood. There’s been an incident.”
“I know, I just got the call from the hospital. Are you there?”
“No, we’re still at the house. We needed to secure the Source.”
“How the hell did a Source get loose at Portland Row?” Lockwood could hear the barely contained rage in his voice. For once, they hadn’t done anything wrong. That didn’t mean nobody was to blame.
“It was Winkman,” Lockwood ground out. “Someone must have posted his Source through the letterbox while we were out.”
“Shit,” Barnes said with feeling. “The Winkmans aren’t even supposed to be in the country.” Barnes sighed. “Alright, can you stay put? I’ll be there in five minutes.”
“Yes, Sir.” He heard the line go dead and hung up the phone.
The house was quiet around him, utterly silent. A sudden panic gripped him and he was up the stairs before he even became conscious of what was driving him. Lucy. Where was Lucy?
He burst through the bathroom door to find her curled up on the floor. All the air was sucked out of his lungs at the sight and he could feel the scream building at the back of his brain. But then she looked up at him and her body convulsed with a great sob and he realised she was crying. He’d never been so relieved to see Lucy crying.
His legs turned to jelly and he sank down beside her. No tears came, just an echoing emptiness in his soul that he knew all too well. He placed a hand on Lucy’s leg, feeling her shake and shiver, a constant reminder that she was alive.
He knew exactly what she was thinking, because he was thinking it too. They were both right and they were both wrong, but it didn’t matter. The thought lodged in the brain and refused to go away, whispering with its forked tongue.
It should have been me.