Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

George dashed towards the form keeled over by the sidewalk. The scrawny, bloody, familiar form he recognized so well. Shoulders shook and knuckles scratched the ground; a crooked smile glinted in the dark.
"Hi, George," Lockwood croaked.
"What the fuck."
~
It didn't take long for George to yank a dazed Lockwood off the ground by the arms, who managed to stand up straight enough and offer a slight explanation. "You're probably wondering what... happen," he attempted. Lockwood tried another smile.
"Indeed," George told him.
"Well, I don't know." Lockwood looked expectantly.
George blinked. "Oh," he told Lockwood. "That's wonderful."
"My nose," Lockwood added distantly, swaying again. "It's dripping to my throat." His words were slurred. "Also smells funny."
George tightened his grip around Lockwood's wrist, trying to yank his body straight. "Yeah, that's blood, and you're swallowing it," he grumbled. "Stop that. Spit it out. It makes your stomach hurt."
Lockwood gave a small grunt. "I know it's blood, George. And as for my stomach? Hurts right now." Lockwood bent over and tipped his head forward. Blood splattered at his feet and he swayed, swayed, grew steadied by George's hands. He spat a spray of red. "Yuck."
"No shit. Stand up straight."
Lockwood breathed shakily. "Stop! Be gentle." And, as if those words reminded him, he added, "We're gonna see your mum, right?" Hopeful, dazed eyes glanced in George's direction. He liked Mrs. Cubbins. He liked her a lot. Her house smelled nice, her voice was soft and kind, and, most importantly, Lockwood could brag to George that his mother likes him more than she did her own kid.
"Yeah," George told him. "We a--"
And then Lockwood proceeded to retch in the direction of the sidewalk.
George yelped, jumping back. "Ew, no! Don't puke!"
"I wouldn't be able to help it!" Lockwood groaned, voice scratchy. "I hurt. I'm sitting down!" He limply tugged his arm free.
"No, you're not," George growled, "because you need a doctor and probably an ice pack." George grabbed him again.
"And to wash my hair," Lockwood added breathily. "It's sticky." He swayed on his feet again. His knees were weak. He'd just sit for a moment, it'd be fine.
"Or they might shave it on you," George went on distractedly. He let go of Lockwood's hand to make shaving gestures in the air, accompanied by a buzzing sound. "Who knows."
"What?!" Lockwood cried. "No! They wouldn't!"
George smirked. "Ma--"
And Lockwood keeled over and puked.
~
"Well," Lockwood began cheerfully. "Today was eventful!"
George grunted in reply.
"It was, wasn't it?" Lockwood continued, evidently seeking a response. "Hm, I think it was."
"If you think losing half your blood via nose is fun," George answered slowly, finally, "Then yeah. Real fun."
"I didn't say fun." Lockwood nestled further under his blankets. "I said eventful. And I'm right."
"Average Tuesday with you," replied George.

Chapter Text

I was staring straight ahead. There wasn't much interesting, but I was making a point to Lockwood-- point being I was angry and wished to beat him over the head with our case book, but alas: seeing as I could not for a number of reasons, I was sat in the driver's seat. Staring out the front windshield. In, of course, an annoyed way.

"Luce, you look like you're still mad at me." That was Lockwood. He's quite slow sometimes, usually when I'm mad at him and decide to call him that to make myself feel better.

"Yes. That would be because I am still mad at you." 

He made a humming sound at me. "Still?"

I didn't answer.

Whatever. He should let me be mad. He was mad before too, which he did not hesitate to display to everyone in the car, loud enough wake the dead. And in about ten minutes he would be quiet enough to lull them back to sleep. (Something I predicted then and was right about.)

See, Lockwood does not like to drive. He won't say why, but quite frankly I don't care why and just want his feet on the pedals. He takes care to make his hatred clear every ride, though, and there is no stopping this at all.

"To hell with the coin flip," he had growled. "To hell with the redemption round of rock paper scissors, too, and extra far to hell with the fact that I'm always going on about how I'm the leader so the leader drives the car!" He kicked the driver's door.

"Your words, not mine," I grumbled back. "And don't kick that."

"Holly's, actually. That's what she said to me when I called a taxi--" he paused to yank open the door-- "instead of borrowing her car while she finished her shift at work." He frowned. "Wait, why am I explaining to you?"

"Good question. Buckle up, we're going to be late."

"I wish George didn't sprain his foot," Lockwood mumbled, but he reluctantly put his seatbelt in, feet tapping nervously.

"Yeah, me too," piped up George from the back seat. 

"Both of you cry over it and move!"

Driving often went like this.

Chapter Text

I raised a fist to the door, then hesitated, turning to George. "You do have the flashlights, right?" I asked. "Because I forgot mine."

George heaved a sigh. "Of course you did. What else did you forget, your trousers?"

I managed a smile, rocking from my heels to the balls of my feet. "No, George, my trousers are on. And I was changing the batteries of my flashlight this morning, which is why I--"

"Lies," George scoffed. "You left your flashlight on my couch last night while we were watching Bridgerton."

"I assure you I--"

"Oh, forget it." And with that, he pulled said flashlight out of one of his many pockets, shoving it at my chest. I grabbed it before it hit the pavement. "Here you go. Jeez, take meds." 

And if that wasn't enough, he knocked on the door for me too.

"I wanted to do that!" I complained.

"Stuff it."

We regained composure and waited.  

It didn't take long, not a moment later a middle aged woman arrived. Her hair was frazzled as if she was getting ready in a rush, and she just barely had finished putting on her coat as she swung open the door. For the record, the coat was red. Very bright red. I wasn't a fan.

"Hello, Miss," I began anyway, radiant smile on my face. "We heard your call about--" I checked the writing on the back of my hand-- "'mysterious sounds in the night.'" I upped my grin. "We understand this sound has been keeping you awake, and naturally, you're worried about a break in as well, is that correct?"

The woman nodded.

"Well, first off, we'd like to thank you for choosing Lockwood and Co. for this case; we realize you took account for our incredibly thorough detective sk--"

"Oh, no," the woman interrupted. "It was just the cheapest."

I took a second to recover and cleared my throat. "Oh, I see. However, we do--"

"And the closest."

Chapter Text

Lockwood and George stared at each other.

"She just got sucked into the Underworld," Lockwood breathed.

"No, she didn't. She was abducted or something."

Lockwood widened his eyes. "As if that's any better! If it were the Underworld at least we'd know where to look! And Hades wouldn't kill her, Hades just wanted to say hi, maybe… but abducted! That's even worse!"

George stood up and swung open the door.

"Where are you going?" Lockwood demanded.

"To talk to Chiron! Look for her! I don't know!"

Lockwood followed suit, reaching into his pocket as he did so.

"She better not be gone," he mumbled. "I have something to tell her."

"What?" George asked, walking at the same pace as Lockwood.

"Nosy much?" Lockwood responded. He paused. "Oh, fine," he mumbled. He pulled something gingerly out of his pocket: a necklace, but no ordinary necklace: it was embedded in strange looking jewels and was made of an even stranger looking metal, all things probably from the Underworld itself. A gift from Hades. It wasn't comfortable to wear, Lucy had shared, but it was from him and although he wasn't her favorite person in the world, she'd keep it.

And now Lockwood had it.

George stared. "You…?"

"Stole it," Lockwood finished bitterly. "I know. I couldn't help it, I'm sorry–"

"She was looking for it for two hours yesterday! How could you do that?"

Lockwood squeezed his eyes closed. He panted softly, quiet for a moment. "I don't know!" he spat finally.

George rolled his eyes. "You don't know?"

"It was shiny, and I wanted it for some reason, and ack! I don't even know why I took it, George! I said that!"

George frowned. "Well, if you don't even know why you took it, why keep it? Why didn't you give it back yesterday?"

Lockwood mumbled something that sounded a bit like "I was scared."

"Huh?" George questioned. "Repeat that?"

Silence.

"Whatever," George grumbled, grabbing Lockwood by the arm. He tried to shake himself free but George didn't let him for a minute. "Let's go."

And they sped out of the Hades cabin together, Lockwood still shamefully silent.

Eventually, they found their way to the Big House, storming through other busy campers with the occasional "watch it!" and "move!"

There it was, the big blue building. If they weren't so caught up in themselves, they may have noticed the chaos going on in the mess hall.

"Chiron!" George panted, his feet slapping loudly against the deck. "We have something important to discuss."

Chiron, a centaur with the lower half of a white stallion and upper half of an old bloke tasked with handling dozens of neurodivergent teens with godly abilities, was seated at a table, playing Pinochle with Dionysus. Nothing new there.

He looked up with a smile, but was cut off by an angry god about to win a card game.

"Jorge Carey and Antonio Locktable," Mr. D grumbled. "Perfect timing to interrupt our game."

"Perfect timing indeed," George snapped. "Lucy's missing."

"Hello, sir," Lockwood spoke up, having finally recovered his voice. He wore a charming grin. "Yes, Lucy has vanished into thin air and–"

"Oh, stop with the smile," Dionysus drawled. "It's making me sick. You demigods and your masking; I've seen it all. Just spit it out."

"I believe I did," Lockwood grumbled.

"Now, Dionysus," Chiron began, "let them speak. Lucy… vanished, you say? Interesting."

Lockwood nodded.

Chiron smiled. "And Lucy is…"

"A Hades kid," George finished.

Dionysus blew out a puff of air, messing with his chips. "You're kidding me. She could have landed herself in the dead center of the Pacific, for all we know."

Lockwood gave a sound that sounded a little like a noise being run over by a tricycle. “What? What does that mean?”

“What, she didn't tell you?” Mr. D asked casually. “She could be at Comic Con right now. Lucky her.”

“Why?” Lockwood repeated, tugging his necklace worriedly. “Why are you saying this? What do these words mean?”

“She could be sliding down the Pyramids, Aunt Weed.”

“Oh, Dionysus,” Chiron scolded, “stop teasing them.” The centaur looked up at George and Lockwood apologetically. “What Mr. D is getting at is shadow travel,” he explained.

“Oh,” Lockwood and George said. 

George cleared his throat. “Yeah, we, uh, still have no idea what you're talking about.”

Chapter Text

"Shit," he whispered under his breath. He patted his pockets frantically, tucking his head down low. It felt like it was squeezing. He was stuck inside himself. Couldn't the light just go away? He wanted to go limp; he wanted to run wild at the same time.

With a sinking heart he realized what must have happened: he had knocked them out of his pocket while trying to get his rapier earlier, and worse yet, he stepped on them as well. They were gone, so gone. Lockwood squeezed his eyes shut and gave a frustrated cry. 

He had to open them again when he felt the chill of the ghost again. It flashed. It vanished. Another one appeared behind him; it was probably only a few, but hell, it felt like it was blinking forever. The outside world muffled in his head and his eyes blurred. He went stiff inside, his body made of lead.

He folded his arms over his head, fingers touching his neck in that spot that always caused him to flinch. Side to side, rocking, rocking. Pressure built in his skull and chest for no particular reason, squeezing, tighter, tighter still. The world whistled in his ears. Something grabbed his shoulder and shouted, "Lockwood, what are you doing?!" He heard the words. He did not comprehend. He shoved angrily backwards into something soft; it gave a gasp. 

His eyes were far away, he could feel it; he squeezed his arms tigher round his head again and shrank into himself. He felt limp. He felt stiff. He gave a small whine. He felt like he was bracing himself for something but couldn't put a finger on what; his breathing grew fast and sharp and his eyes squeezed tighter and damnit, he just wanted to curl up in a ball on his chair at home, alone!

Muffled screaming filled his ears, the whistle of the outside world and his own thoughts.

He held up his rapier in the air but didn't move it. Someone tugged him to the side by the hand and he stumbled, looking down. He hunched his head closer to his coat, trying half heartedly to tug his hand free. He was let go in about another second– he'd been led to the chains. He dropped his rapier, lowered himself to his knees, and shoved himself into his coat, arms wrapped around his head. He focused on his breathing. He whimpered.

What a baby he was.