Chapter Text
It had never been an active thing, for him. Even when he was younger, he'd always been careful and preferred not to run wantonly into danger the way Lockwood tends to, and he'd never actually thought the world would be better off without him in it, the way he knows Lucy does sometimes when she thinks about where she came from. (The universe had always seemed too ambivalent for his existence to have that much of an impact.) But sometimes, he'd be going about his day and just — mm. It's just so hard to be alive sometimes. He used to imagine an assassin climbing through his bedroom window and snk! separating his head from his body in one decisive slice. It would be painless and it would be a relief.
And okay, maybe that’s changed a bit, what with the being in mortal danger on a nightly basis or having discovered that yes! in fact, the world might have been better off without him! at least the people who ended up dead because of his utter stupidity would have been better off. (Danny's eyeless face floating in the river. blood and salt in the entryway. Joplin —)
He doesn't really want to die. Besides, none of the methods of dying he regularly encounters are particularly painless or graceful. There's no assassin waiting outside his window, and you probably can't even decapitate someone that cleanly without a full-on guillotine. So yeah. He doesn't want to die. But, sometimes ... sometimes it's dark and he left Lucy and Lockwood sitting a little too close to each other on the sofa and they didn't even notice him go, even though they said they would always notice, now, of course they don't, why would they? and he tries to think of his research and instead of giving him that bright burning feeling in his heart that it usually does it just feels exhausting and hopeless and full of dead ends and yeah. of course he doesn't want to die, but wouldn't it just be better to be dead?
There's a quiet knock at the door, and after a moment it opens a crack. Soft light filters in from somewhere further down the hallway.
"— Georgie?"
It's Lucy. He's in bed. He should be asleep; he could be asleep. He can't read any particular emotion in her voice. He rolls over, makes a noncommittal noise.
"Can I come in?"
George nods, realizes that Lucy can't see him in the darkness. "Yeah," he says.
She doesn't open the door any further than she needs to to slip inside then closes it most of the way, not quite latching it.
(She isn't here to stay.)
"George," Lucy says. Soft, but not whispering. "Just wanted to say goodnight."
She's standing by his bedside. He squints at her. She's just a blur without his glasses on (especially in the dark) and he can't decide whether or not he's glad to not be able to see her face.
When he doesn't say anything, the Lucy-blur shifts slightly. "Mmm. Yeah. Just —" (she's moving, more quickly) "— I love you lots, Georgie. Sleep well, okay?" and she kisses him softly on the forehead and slips out of the room, the latch on the door clicking back into place.
His room is dark.
The house is full of small noises. Old pipes, old brick, old wood. It creaks and squeaks and rattles even on the best days, and there's the occasional whoosh of agents going out or coming home in the night cab on the street outside. The buzz of the ghost lamps, the ubiquitous smell of lavender and the subtler tang of salt and iron. He can hear Lucy climbing the stairs to her attic, Lockwood running the tap in their shared bathroom. He always takes forever in there, doing some ridiculous skincare routine he prefers to pretend doesn't exist.
George turns over and dries his face on his pillowcase. Maybe he'll make sholezard tomorrow. Are they out of saffron? hm. He'll have to check.
— tomorrow. For now, he takes a deep breath. There's still a pit, a hole. A piece missing. He could be should have been would be better. But. But, for now ... he's home, and he's warm, and he's loved. It's enough.