Chapter Text
It was supposed to be a normal job.
A big house in Richmond, two Spectres and a Shade. They would be out in a few hours, and the dawn would welcome them home. It was nothing they hadn’t seen before; the case was far from the worst they’d ever taken.
Worse seemed like a joke as George held the adrenaline in his shaking hands, incapable of deciding who needed it more.
Because how could he possibly choose between the two people he cared about most?
Lucy was struggling to breathe by that point, grasping desperately at George’s thigh as he knelt next to her. “Georgie, it’s okay. Give it to Lockwood. I’ll hang— I can hang on,” she rasped, face contorting in pain.
On George’s other side, Lockwood was clutching his own arm in agony even as he tried to urge him in the opposite direction. “Please, George, I’m begging you. Save her. She needs it more than I do.”
Save Lockwood.
Save Lucy.
One shot of adrenaline.
No one nearby to call for help.
One of them would have to die for the other to live.
You can’t save both of them, George.
He hesitated for just a second too long, just long enough for the house to fall quiet. The earliest shafts of sunlight danced through the front window as the adrenaline rolled out of his grip and onto the wooden floor.
Someone was crying, but it felt too detached to be him. But who else would it be? No Visitor could linger this close to dawn, and there was no one else left but George.
He was alone.
🕰
George sits upright so fast it nearly makes him dizzy. He can’t remember coming home. He can’t remember getting into bed. How could he? How could he ever have been able to face coming home without them?
The knock at his bedroom door makes him jump, and George’s hands tighten in the bedsheets enough for the colour to drain from his knuckles.
“George? I’ve made toast if you want some,” Lockwood calls from the landing.
Lockwood. Alive.
How—
Unless…
Unless he dreamt it?
No, that can’t have been it. It felt so real.
George is out of bed before Lockwood can repeat himself, flinging his bedroom door open with enough force that it nearly bangs against the wall. He stands there for a second, staring at him as he checks for damage.
It was a dream. It had to be. An incredibly vivid and haunting dream, but a dream nonetheless.
“Everything alright?” Lockwood asks softly. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Normally, George would retort with something like ‘Christ, you’re not that pale’, but all he can do in this moment is throw his arms around Lockwood and try not to let the tears escape as he buries his face in his shirt. It’s enough to catch him off guard, but after a half-second delay Lockwood’s arms come up to reciprocate the gesture and hold George just as tightly — if not more so — in return. He doesn’t say anything straight away, just lets George’s grip pull his shirt tight across his back as he clings onto him.
Somehow, he just knows.
“Bad night, Georgie?” he murmurs.
George nods against him, not ready to pull away just yet. “Something like that, yeah.”
“Feeling any better now?”
“A bit,” he replies softly. “Sorry that was a bit sudden.”
“Unexpected, yes,” Lockwood admits slowly, “but not unwelcome. Never unwelcome, George. I’m glad I could help.”
He doesn’t know the half of it.
Downstairs, Lucy’s clearly just put the toaster on again by the time they reach the kitchen. The kettle starts to whistle the moment they walk in and Lucy takes it off the counter to fill the three waiting mugs with the boiling water. She catches sight of them hovering in the doorway and a smile works its way onto her face. “Morning.”
“Morning, Luce,” Lockwood replies with a grin. He squeezes her shoulder gently as he passes her to retrieve the toast.
George watches them side by side, softened by the way Lockwood bumps Lucy’s shoulder with his own playfully, and how she hip-checks him lightly in response with a laugh. He revels in the domesticity of it all, and the simple reminder that they’re there in front of him. Real. Alive.
Last night might have been vivid, but it was a nightmare, nothing more. No matter how real it felt, they were right here in front of him.
“George?” Lockwood cocks his head to one side slightly, using the motion to seek out eye contact between them.
“Sorry, still half asleep,” George lies, wondering how long Lockwood had been trying to catch his attention.
“It’s fine, we can pick your brain properly about the case after breakfast,” he reassures him gently. “Should be fairly easy, right? You’ve done all the research already?”
George nods even as a lump forms in his throat. He can barely force the words out. “The Richmond one?”
“Should be, unless there's another case you’ve taken on without us?” Lockwood jokes. He catches George’s eye and his smile slips just a little, forcing George to question what’s written on his own face that he isn’t aware of. “Why? Is everything alright?”
“Everything’s fine,” he answers quickly. “I’ll go over everything with you once we’ve eaten.”
Lockwood’s smile returns full force at that, and for a moment George can almost believe his own words.
When the time comes to pack for the case, it’s impossible for George to hide the anxiety that practically has him in a chokehold. Call it superstition, but he packs a second adrenaline shot just to be on the safe side. Better to be safe than sorry, right?
He should’ve seen it coming.
He should’ve seen it coming.
People always say that life imitates art; George can’t consider his nightmare as such even when he finds it playing out again in front of his eyes. He’s scrambling for the kit bag before his brain even registers what’s fully happening, running completely on autopilot as his shaking hands administer the first shot to Lucy.
“That’ll hold until we can get you to a hospital,” he promises, before turning to Lockwood with the second pen.
George repeats the process with practised ease, but something isn’t right. Lucy’s relief a few moments ago had been almost immediate, but Lockwood’s face is still pinched with an agony that George can’t rationalise.
The second injector is broken.
“George? George, what’s wrong?” Lucy forces herself upright, and the sparse colour left in her face drains in an instant upon realising the gravity of the situation.
You can’t save both of them, George.
“S’okay,” Lockwood whispers, his voice hoarse. “You tried, mate. I’m glad… I’m glad you got to her first…”
A golden hue slips through the window, and the faintest hint of the impending sunrise casts a borderline angelic glow over Lockwood’s body as Lucy breaks down next to him.
The adrenaline slips from George’s hand, barely making any noise as it hits the wooden floor.
He’s failed.
Again.
🕰
“George? I’ve made toast if you want some.”
Not.
Possible.
Lockwood died.
It hadn’t been a dream the first time, and it wasn’t a dream last night either. Something is really, really wrong.
George can’t remember the scramble for his glasses on the bedside table, but he distantly recalls the fact that his glass of water might have been dislodged in the process. It doesn’t matter in the slightest; the only thing on his mind is making sure that Lockwood’s real.
“Everything alright? You look like you’ve—”
“Seen a ghost,” George finishes at the same time as him, almost as if he’s reading off a script.
Lockwood ducks his head, one hand flying to the back of his neck sheepishly. “Wow, am I really that predictable? Although we should probably retire that turn of phrase given our line of work,” he attempts to land a joke, but it falls flat as all George can do is stare at him.
It’s the third time he’s done this.
It’s the third time he’s lived this.
The worst day of his life, and he’s doomed to repeat it.
There has to be a reason. This can’t just be his own personal brand of torture for the rest of his life. There has to be a reason behind it.
Suddenly, the answer becomes glaringly obvious.
He has to save them.
It’s the only suitable explanation. To break the loop, he has to save them. Somehow, the universe is giving him the once in a lifetime opportunity to make this right. Possibly even infinite chances until he succeeds, and George refuses to waste any of them.
He can save them.
“Georgie?” Lockwood asks softly.
He comes back to himself with a start. “Sorry, just thinking about the case.”
A small smile works its way onto Lockwood’s face. “Yeah, I thought I lost you for a second there. Want to get breakfast before you give us the rundown?”
‘Yeah, breakfast sounds nice,” George admits quietly, following him down the stairs.
George knows what to expect this time. He knows which direction the first Spectre will be coming from. He knows which moment Lucy loses her footing on the uneven floorboard and drops her rapier as she tries to steady herself.
They’ve never made it far enough to seal the second Source — too injured and too close to dawn to find it — but George has a decent enough idea of where that is as well. If he plays his cards right, they’ll all be making it to tomorrow.
You can’t save both of them, George.
🕰
George wakes up and he knows. He knows he’s back where he started again. He knows he couldn’t do it, couldn’t save them.
Bring extra adrenaline? Defective.
Catch Lucy before she gets Ghost-Touched so they have enough to save Lockwood? His case is too severe, too close to his heart, too fatal.
The sun rises over his corpse again.
Each time, a piece of George dies with him.
George wakes up and he knows.
He’s going to have to find another way to save them.
He’s here for a reason, and it’s to save them. It has to be. And that’s exactly what he’s going to figure out how to do.
It’s with a blinding clarity that the answer hits him, because it’s the same instant that the Ghost-Touch does. Lucy’s unharmed this time, but it’s still George that fishes the functioning adrenaline pen out of the bag. He knows it’s the one that works. Lucy’s hands fumble with the other one as he primes his, and George feels it meet his skin, clocks the moment it doesn’t work.
“It’s not— It didn’t—” Lucy stammers, coming to the same realisation that he did in the previous loops; it doesn’t work. It will never work.
With this knowledge, George jams the working pen into where Lockwood’s lying next to him. He revels in the gasp that falls somewhere between horror and involuntary relief that escapes from Lockwood as the spread of the Ghost-Touch slows.
“You shouldn’t— George—” Lockwood wheezes. “Why?”
It’s okay, there’s nothing he can do about it now. George has made his choice. If it were any other case, he’d be prepared to do the same thing there, too.
Dying hurts, but losing Lucy and Lockwood that first night was a much worse pain to bear.
You can’t save both of them, George.
Maybe he can, just so long as he’s not there to see it.
🕰
George wakes up.
He should be dead, and yet…
He wakes up.
It wasn’t enough.
He fucking died and it still wasn’t enough.
George isn’t paying attention to how many times Lockwood has knocked before he lets himself in. He’s too busy pressing two fingers against the side of his neck, staring into space as he feels the familiar beat of his own heat.
He was dead.
He was dead.
“George?” Lockwood slowly lowers himself to perch on the edge of the bed, brow furrowing in concern. “George, are you okay?”
“I died,” George tells him softly, fingers still attached to his pulse point as if removing them might kill him a second time.
“In your dream?” Lockwood reaches up to ease George’s hand away from his neck gently. It’s shaking, even as Lockwood holds it. “Happens to me sometimes.”
“I died,” he finds himself repeating, as if it will change anything. (It doesn’t.)
It wasn’t a dream, he knows that. It was real, and he felt it, and it wasn’t even enough to save them.
“You’re right here, Georgie,” Lockwood murmurs, pulling him gently into his arms. “You’re still here, you’re okay.”
But he’s not okay.
And he won’t be until he fixes this.