Chapter Text
It was almost midnight.
That isn’t to say it was late for George to be up. He was used to it, after all. Typically, at this time of night, he’d be chasing after a Visitor—his rapier out in front of him as though it could protect him from all the world, a silver net in his belt, a salt bomb in his hand. He’d snatch the Source up in the nick of time, because he knew what he was doing because he’d done his research well. Holly would thank him, Lockwood would pat him on the back, and Lucy would slightly scald the milk while trying to make cocoa before heading to bed in the latest hours of the night and the darkest moments of the morning.
But that was before.
Now, it was almost midnight, and George was alone.
He was getting accustomed to it. It didn’t feel normal, by any stretch of the imagination, but it felt usual in the same way that the shoes that pinch your toes at least pinch in a familiar way. There was a sting underlying every move he made.
It had been five days since their last case all together. Lockwood was scheduling them all almost entirely separately. It meant a hell of a lot more research for George, but since when had Lockwood ever cared about the well-being of his researcher. George wanted to scream at him, beg him to stop taking so many cases, trap him in the basement until he’d get himself under control and remember that this company was supposed to be a team.
It had felt like a team before, his traitorous mind supplied.
George wanted to slap himself sane. He and Lockwood had been a team long before Lucy—oh be honest, Karim, what kind of a team—and they were just fine without her too.
It had been almost three days since he’d seen Lockwood, beyond the occasional, random sign of life. The files of research he’d leave on the table would get picked up by some mysterious force and the dishes were washed by the time he got up in the morning, so he was obviously around.
He just didn’t want to see George. George, himself, wasn’t enough to even attempt to stay sane for.
George shook his head, desperate to get rid of the thoughts all clamoring for his attention.
He was fine. Sure, he missed cases and cocoa. That was fine, he reasoned, it was certainly something worth missing. But George could handle that. He worked a case last night, after all. And he knew where everything was in the kitchen, he ould make his own cocoa.
They didn’t need him, and he didn’t need anybody else either.
First things first, he’d get his mug down. George wandered into the kitchen, and looked up at the cabinets. Shit, he thought, as he opened the cabinet door to start rooting around for a decent cup at such an indecent hour. Damn Lockwood, putting all the mugs up at a good height for him. Didn’t he know that not everybody was a giraffe?
George reached up, blindly fumbling around for his mug when something whizzed by, just barely missing his glasses. He jumped back in shock, a high pitched shattering echoing through the room.
Damnit.
George sighed, taking a deep breath to settle his racing heart. He turned and walked over and picked up the broom—typically there for when Lockwood would drop dishes while watching them—to sweep aside the pieces.
God, he was so sick of sweeping aside the pieces.
George turned back to the mess of ceramic, ready to push everything aside and away once more. And then he froze.
Because there, in a ceramic constellation of white and navy, was Lucy’s cup.
He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He wanted to shout that he didn’t care, he wanted someone to recognize that things were different and to stop running away from reality for one second. He just wanted everything to go back to how it used to be.
He wanted Lucy back home, scalding the milk like always, and he never wanted to see her face again all at the same time.
It was almost one in the morning, he had no idea where Lockwood was, he’d destroyed one of the few things they had left of Lucy, and George was certainly on the verge of losing his goddamn mind.
And then the phone rang.
——
George didn’t sleep all night.
How the hell was he supposed to sleep? How the hell was he supposed to sleep after what that phone call?
He didn’t regret what he said.
He didn’t.
Why would he?
George didn’t like Kipps already. But, god, he’d never hated him quite so much. He’d never thought that a twenty-something adult who was already losing his Sight would have the audacity, the cruelty, to call and gloat about everyone leaving. To act like it was somehow George’s fault that Lockwood was off god-knows-where, to remind him that Lucy had chosen someone else to be with her.
What had he and Lockwood done so wrong that Lucy would choose Kipps over them?
And to think that Lucy wouldn’t even call herself! No, she had Quill Kipps call and lord it over his head that she thought she was better than them.
Maybe she’d even gone and joined Fittes. George couldn’t imagine Lucy in a uniform, but he’d also never imagined that she’d vanish in the middle of the night. So, obviously, he could be surprised.
George just laid in his bed, watching the shadows from the moon slowly shift on his wall. Most mornings when he couldn’t sleep, he’d hope that the sun would be out—orange shades painting his wall, slow and steady. But he couldn’t even bring himself to care. his mind was a thousand places, almost as shattered as when he’d bee caught in the whirlpool of the bone glass. He’d been unable to think about anything but getting it back, unable to imagine his life if he couldn’t solve the problem.
He hated being trapped in his mind like that.
Should he have said something else?
He should’ve hung up the moment he realized it was Kipps. He should’ve asked Kipps how the hell he’d let Lucy end up in the hospital—didn’t he know that she’d follow a ghost off a cliff gone unchecked? He should’ve called a cab and gone over straightaway. He should’ve told Kipps that Lucy had absconded in the middle of the night and would’t want him to know anything in the first place.
Lucy wouldn’t want them to know. And that’s why none of it mattered. Lucy chose to leave them. She chose to walk away without even saying goodbye, she chose to have Kipps by her side, she chose to leave him forever.
Lucy didn’t want them.
And, no matter how sick it made him, how painful it was to pull the needle through his callouses and stitch them back up, George was determined to not want her too.