Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Oi! How long are you gonna sit here and snivel, huh? Some of us have work to do!”

George looked up. 

A Nightwatch kid was standing over him - young, large ears, shaggy sandy blond hair, and great big liquid eyes. He could have been the poster boy for Nightwatch Kids everywhere if not for the hideous scowl splitting his face, liquid eyes pinched in a glare. That didn’t usually go over very well for attracting prospective employees George had found. The kid shook his stick impatiently at him.

“Are you deaf as well as stupid, huh? I said to scram!” 

George lumbered slowly to his feet. Normally he never would have stood for anyone talking to him this way. Let alone a snot-nosed Nightwatch kid who was barely one step above talentless. But he didn’t feel like himself. His face felt blotchy and swollen, hot from all the sobbing he’d done. It left him feeling strung out and worn. He was exhausted. Mentally, physically, emotionally. He didn’t have the energy to argue.

The kid tapped his foot impatiently.  

George went.

At some point, dusk had transitioned into night into dawn. The stars minuscule pinpricks against the blooming expanse of pink and orange and yellow heralding the sunrise. In the distance, fog blanketed the skyline, the vague silhouettes of buildings looming around him like shrouded sentinels. 

He trudged down the street, hands in his pockets, barely paying attention to where he was going. 

They hadn’t come. 

He’d thought-

He had even stopped and left them that message, letting them know where he would be and who he was seeing.

They would have seen it. They must have seen it.

And, what? 

Chosen to ignore it?

Brushed it off as George wasting his time when he could be doing something useful? Like researching the cases they had now or sorting the laundry.

He felt sick to his stomach. He isn’t sure which possibility he hates more. 

He hates that he feels like he has to hide his interests from his friends, that he constantly has to check and recheck his thoughts before he says them for fear of setting Lockwood off, that he doesn’t feel like he can discuss his ideas out loud. All this time at Lockwood and Co had left him almost aching with the desire to just talk to someone without fearing the backlash. How many times has he been forced to hold off on explaining theories and occult experiments until he had all the information? Only been appreciated for the end result? It was hypocritical of Lockwood and Lucy to want answers to their questions yet shot him down whenever he tried to talk about it. After a while it became easier to just wait and deliver all the information at once - it hurt less that way. When they would inevitably interrupt him and demand he ‘get to the point’. 

Joplin had soothed that ache for a while but, George sighed, it hadn’t been true companionship. Joplin had just been using him for his own gain. And that made George hurt in ways he didn’t know were possible before tonight. 

He walked in the direction of Portland Row, lost among his meandering thoughts and the twisting streets. Walking like it was possible to outpace the despondency and the malaise creeping over him. He was simultaneously filled with both too much and not enough emotions. Like a deflating balloon. 

He struggled to keep his head above the depression threatening to drag him in but it was exhausting work. He clung to that. Focusing on the monotony of the dull, repetitive movements of walking - step, step, step, one foot in front of the other - instead of his racing thoughts.    

He had walked halfway back by the time the first night cab passed him.

He hailed it absentmindedly.  

The night cabbie drives off as soon as he’s paid and George stands motionless, staring at the house. Despite the early morning hour, a dull golden glow shone through the windows of the kitchen. Barely enough to illuminate the path, the misaligned iron strip awkwardly raised in the center of the footpath, the crunchy brown grass that lined its edges. It reflected awkwardly off the sign, a shining spotlight on ‘Lockwood’, the ‘and Co.’ is cast in darkness. George snorted derisively. How fitting. 

The steps creak under his weight, bemoaning their fate. He pushes open the front door bracing himself for the long-awaited exclamations of worry.

Nothing happens. 

The foyer is empty. 

His shoulders slump as he stands in the darkened doorway.  

He can see Lockwood’s coat and Lucy’s jacket hanging on the coat stand. The bags they had stored in the train station lockers lined up against the wall. They made it home fine then. A tendril of unease loosens in his chest. He hadn’t realized how worried he had been that maybe something had happened on their mission until the worry was gone. But in its place, his hurt grew. If nothing had happened then why hadn’t they…? 

Dreading every step, he dragged his feet toward the kitchen. Shadows danced on the hallways carpet, mocking him in their irritatingly joyous dance. As carefree as shadow and light cavorting on a wall can be as they engage in an endless game of tag, hide-and-seek; ebbing and flowing like the tide as they chase each other across the wallpaper. 

He pauses just before the entryway. He had never entertained the thought that he would need this much, or any, courage to see his friends.

Taking a calming breath, he plasters his usual undecipherable expression on his face.     

Stepping into the light he stares at Lockwood and Lucy eating a very early breakfast. The tableau creates a wave of resentment to wash through him. An unintelligible sound pushes up his throat.

Lockwood and Lucy both looked up and sent him blinding smiles.  

“Hey George,” Lockwood twisted in his chair, throwing an arm casually over the back of the chair. “Where’ve you been? You’ve missed out on some of Lucy’s homemade waffles. They were delicious, too.”

He sends his infamous wolfish grin at Lucy. 

“I made eggs and we even managed to find some orange juice tucked away in the fridge. Can you believe it? Isn’t orange juice just the best? The pulp is the best part I’d say. Though Lucy doesn’t like orange juice, do you, Luce? I’m sure we have some other drink stored away somewhere if you want something else,” Lockwood yabbered on.   

“Sit down with us. I’m sure we can find you some toast or something. Maybe I can make some dippy eggs and soldiers real quick.” Lucy invited. She looked tired. Her hair more out of control than usual. It looked like it did in the mornings after she had taken a shower.

George sat down stiffly.  

“What happened with your mission?” He gritted out. 

They really hadn’t noticed? They’d been here eating breakfast while he’d been tied to a chair and antagonized by a madman. Maybe it was for the best. If they didn’t know then he didn’t have to tell them. He’d just use Lockwood’s Patented Plan J and sweep everything under the rug and pretend that none of it had ever happened. Everything would be fine so long as they didn’t ask what happened. Yeah. That was a good plan. 

Neither Lockwood nor Lucy seemed to notice his tone. 

“We met one of Winkman’s buyers, it was that man who was talking with Penelope Fittes at the party just before we broke into the library. A real toad. Tried to kill us, along with Winkman and his gang. We couldn’t find the office that we had climbed in through so we ended up trapped on the roof. Can you believe that Lockwood made me jump off a building? Absolutely ridiculous. You know I hate heights.” 

Lockwood jumped in “But that’s beside the point right now,” he brushed it aside. “Anyway, what happened on your end? Did you catch the mirror? I didn’t stay to see. Where did you go after getting your stuff from the locker? I would have thought you’d have made it home before us. What took you so long?” 

Aaaannnndd there went Plan J.

Well, George thought, I guess this is how I’m gonna die. Might as well bite the bullet. 

“I was with Joplin,” he mumbled. 

A light was flicked off in Lockwood’s eyes. The previous good humor evaporated. “What?” Lockwood asked flatly. He rose slowly, methodically, from his chair. It reminded Lucy of Bickerstaff, a giant rising from his grave to engulf those unfortunate enough to be near him. 

“I was with Joplin,” George repeated. “Did you not see my note?”

Lucy looked up from her place by the stove. The pot of eggs merrily bubbling beside her, she opened her mouth (no doubt to ask about the note he’d supposedly left) and then abruptly closed it again. Her eyes darted to the counter to look at the whispering skull, her lips twisted into a grimace, eyes widening with surprise at whatever it was saying.  

Lockwood didn’t seem to hear him.

“I can’t believe you! Did you not listen to a single thing Lucy said? Well in case you hadn’t realized Lucy and I were off risking our lives tonight for the stupid mirror and you were off playing happy researcher with that idiot Joplin? That was your first priority!? Really?!”

George stopped, he swallowed, his throat bobbing up and down. His heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest, it was beating so fast. “Well, I-”

Lockwood shook his head in disgust and anger; Lucy shifting uneasily from foot to foot behind him as she stood by the stove waiting for the eggs to finish boiling. It was almost funny and at any other time, George would have laughed. But his confession had yanked all the cheer from the room, leaving a cold, shuddery emptiness in its wake. Her eyes darted between the furious, frustrated look on Lockwood’s face and George’s crumbling expression. 

‘Lockwood,” she started uneasily. “Maybe you should let George explain before-”

“No!” 

He whirled to face Lucy, jabbing a pointy finger in her direction. She glared at him. Her grip tightened on the spoon she had used to lower the eggs into the pot like she was contemplating using it to catapult the half-cooked eggs at Lockwood’s face. 

Lockwood looked worried for a second, his anger giving way to trepidation, but the expression disappeared as quickly as it came. 

“No,” he repeated, softer. “I want to know how he could act so stupid!” 

He whirled back around to George. His voice deadly quiet, “What were you thinking? The mirror had already been stolen twice and the first thing you do is go to Joplin. What happened to following the plan? Where were you that was more important than being here for your friends, huh?” 

George started hesitantly as if he thought Lockwood would just plow through his words again. “I did get back before you. I got back here with the mirror and I- I just- I don’t know what came over me. But suddenly Joplin was here and he was spouting all sorts of theories and ideas about the other side and- well, he wanted to go to the cemetery. I didn’t really want to, I wanted to wait for you guys, but I did anyway. I took the mirror-” 

His voice broke. Dying away with an awful croak when Lockwood looked up sharply at the mention of the mirror. The expression on his face was terrifying. George had never seen him look so angry. His eyes were nearly black, the pupils dilated with rage, his jaw clenched in a hard line, his mop of dark curls looking more like an omen of death rather than the boyish tousled style it usually was.  

For the first time, he seemed to notice George’s bedraggled state. His expression darkened further, “Where is the mirror? Where is the whole reason we went on this insane mission? Where is the reason that Lucy and I almost died? Do you have any idea what you put us through tonight?” 

Something seemed to snap inside George. His expression of guilt morphing into self-righteous anger. “What I put you through? What I put you through? Are you kidding me?” he exclaimed, standing so abruptly that his chair tipped over with a clatter on the linoleum floor.  “You wanna know where I’ve been? I’ve been tied to a chair in a catacomb by someone I thought I could trust. Someone who I thought was my friend. But instead, he turned out to be a maniac who was manipulating me. Almost like you. Only there when you need me. I was expecting you and you didn’t come. Kipps was the one who came and tried to help. He was there with me. I told him you’d come but you didn’t,” his voice broke. “You didn’t come. DEPRAC was the one who came to save the day! If they hadn’t Kipps and I would be stone dead and you have the- the nerve to accuse me of...” George’s eyes were glassy, he furiously swiped his eyes. 

“ Kipps was there. So where were you?”

Lockwood looked like he’d been slapped. The anger drained from his face as he gaped slack-jawed at George. He opened his mouth, then immediately closed it again. He swallowed convulsively. He tried again to speak but all that left him was an indiscernible strangled noise.

The eggs were forgotten, Lucy stood wide-eyed at the counter. Her knuckles white with the force she gripped the counter. As if that support was the only thing keeping her from collapsing onto the floor. “Wha-” she breathed.  

George looked at them for a moment, his eyes hard, before turning away and running from the room and thundering up the stairs.

Lockwood and Lucy stood stricken, staring at the place George had stood.

The smell of burnt eggs triggered Lucy to move. She turned off the stove and stared down at the eggs before slowly turning back to Lockwood. “We’ve messed up.”

“We’ve all messed up.” Lockwood countered.

“Maybe so, but us… you more than anyone.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what I mean,” Lucy replied. “Who’s the one who spent weeks bringing George down? You.” She looked down. “I’ve messed up too. I know that and I’m gonna make it right. But, Lockwood,” she finally looked at him, eyes shiny with unshed tears. “What kind of friends are we? How could we have...I don’t really know what he was talking about just now...but it, it sounded terrible. Was he talking about Joplin?”

The counter let out a squeak as she forced her hands to let go of its edge. 

“And that stuff about the mirror. Do you think that Joplin really tried to make George look into it?” she continued frantically.

Lockwood exhaled shakily. “I don’t know...when we first met him the answer would have been no but now...Lucy, I’m not so sure.”

He forced himself to make eye contact with him, grimacing when he saw the stunned grief and horror reflected back at him. 

He’d done that. 

“I never told you about my theory about Joplin. Everyone noticed how he always had that gray stuff in his hair. I didn’t think it was dandruff. George just confirmed that. I think it’s grave dust. Ol’ Joply has been spending an awful lot of time down below in the catacombs digging around for any valuable looking artifact he can get his hands on. And we led him straight to his biggest find yet. And yet...”

Lockwood trailed off, his eyes were distant, his mouth tugged down in an unhappy frown. Lucy looked at him impatiently before urging him to go on. 

“We’ve seen what the mirror can do. It killed both Jack Carver and Duane Neddles; it killed Wilberforce all those years ago and it would have killed George if he’d looked into it. But I have to wonder...for all that Bickerstaff was obsessed with the mirror and its construction he never looked into it. He always had others do it for him. Sounds like Joplin is the same way. So a part of me wonders if it’s not Joplin in control but instead-”

“It’s Bickerstaff,” Lucy finished for him, quickly catching on to what Lockwood was getting at. She sat down heavily at the table. “You think Joplin’s been possessed this entire time?”

“I don’t know about the entire time. But, yeah, it does explain a few things anyway. Bickerstaff’s MO at any rate.”

Lucy’s eyes widened. 

“Do you think the same thing happened to George? We knew that he was affected by the ghost, by the mirror. He’d never normally do something like this, would he - go off, and leave us alone. Poor George...Lockwood, we’ve been so blind!” Lucy said hoarsely. “We noticed, but we didn’t pay attention. He’s desperate to investigate it. He’s been obsessed with it all this time. And you just kept criticizing him, slapping him down.”

“Yes, of course, I did!” If  Lucy’s voice had risen, now Lockwood’s did too. “Because George is always like that! He’s always obsessed with relics and old stuff! It’s just how he is! We couldn’t possibly have known.” Lockwood’s face was ashen, his dark eyes hollow. His shoulders slumped.

“But the whole reason he was with Joplin in the first place is because you never have listened to what he has to say. I haven’t known him as long as you have, and I can be the first to admit that I didn’t like him, but even I can tell that he looks up to you, Lockwood. He’d follow you anywhere. And he tries his best to help and he does so much good work but then he makes a single mistake and suddenly that’s all you can see. The bad things about him.”

“Yeah, well,” Lockwood folded his arms defensively. “His mistake could have gotten us all killed! I’m only trying-”

“And that’s not all,” Lucy interjected hotly. “I’ve noticed that even when he’s not messing up and is just fiddling with his new Rottwell device or the skull or his research into the problem you have no patience for him. He can’t even have a hobby without you criticizing it.”

She abruptly stood, her chair grating against the floor, as she angrily began to clear the table. She paused briefly when she plucked up her plate and uncovered George’s note. Gone to see a friend about the mirror. Back soon. G.  

She stared at it for a long moment. 

The innocuous note filled her with anger. It had failed its one purpose, stupid, useless, little-. They needed a new thinking cloth or she would go insane looking at it and imagining all the what if’s .   

She stalked across the room and dumped all the dirty dishes in the sink before stalking to the door. 

She paused on the threshold. 

Looking over her shoulder she directed a stern look at Lockwood who was standing frozen in the middle of the room. His arms still wrapped defensively around himself. She sighed wearily, her hand coming up to rest on the doorframe. She returned her gaze to the inky blackness in front of her and sighed again. She suddenly felt so much older than her fourteen years. “So….We’ve messed up. Now, what are we gonna do to fix it?”

Chapter Text

George slept long and deep, rousing only long enough to change position or flip his pillow to the cool side before falling back under. 

Nightmares dogged his heels. 

The nightmares themselves were blurry, the contents as indistinct as smoke. 

Sometimes through the fog, he’d catch snatches of laughter, a loud cruel voice mocking him, feelings of shame, frustration, despair, anger pressed down on him with all the ferocity of an undertow. 

Drowning him in their tide. 

When George blinked awake sometime later he found that he couldn’t remember what had happened in his dreams at all. The emotions clung to him like cobwebs, but he couldn't connect the feelings to what his imagination had conjured.

Blinking the sleep from his eyes, George stretched, a jaw-breaking yawn escaping him. 

Picking up his glasses from his nightstand, he fumbled them onto his nose and peered around the room.

Long streams of sunlight spilled across the floor of his bedroom. 

Judging by the strength of the light, it had to be past noon. 

He stretched again, groaning when the motion pulled at his sore muscles. His shoulders ached from being wrenched backward for so long, his sternum felt bruised and tender from the altercation he’d had with Joplin.

With a grunt, George heaved himself to sitting before he wearily climbed out of bed. 

Once he was dressed, he made his way to the kitchen.

George yawned widely, and clumsily, he rubbed at his eyes, half-asleep. 

He stopped dead in the doorway to the kitchen.

Blinking hard, mouth agape, his sleep-addled brain tried to understand what he was seeing.

It was clean.

Sparkling clean. 

The countertops had been cleared, their wooden surfaces, scrubbed within an inch of their life, shone. A microwave sat on it. 

He blinked. 

Since when had they owned a microwave? 

Shaking his head in disbelief, he mentally slapped himself. 

Focus, focus. Worry about the microwave later. For now, let’s figure out what’s going.

There were no dirty dishes in the sink, the garbage can, which had been full to bursting the last time he'd seen it, had been emptied and a new bag put inside it. 

And that wasn't the only thing that had been changed. 

Trailing his fingers across the table he examined the new thinking cloth. Its stark white canvas a jarring change from the doodle covered mess the previous one had become. Moving to grasp the back of one of the kitchen chairs he took in the rest of the room.

The cabinets gleamed with polish, as did the floor. A vase of lavender had been placed underneath the window, which was cracked open slightly. The freshly laundered curtains fluttered gently in the breeze that came through it, bringing the smell of Arif’s - doughnuts, hot cross buns, and his signature Chelsea rolls - the flowers from the garden and the briny scent of the Thames into the small room.

It was...nice. 

Pleasant even.

Yet, despite that, dread clamped its chilly fingers around the base of his spine.

A clean kitchen shouldn’t have filled him with so much horror.

But he had a sinking feeling that…

Desperate to prove his feelings wrong, he bolted out of the room. 

Hurrying through the entryway, quickly glancing into the rooms as he went. 

Everywhere he looked he saw the same result.

Clean.

Clean.

Clean. 

Magazines had been straightened, equipment organized, mail and bills put in the proper spot for once, the piles of laundry on the floor that he had sorted out to wash and then never gotten around to had mysteriously vanished. The many artifacts and spirit wards had even been dusted, the old Persian rug vacuumed.

Huffing, he pushed open the library door.

Lucy and Lockwood were sprawled out asleep. Lucy appeared to have drifted off mid-cleaning. Half-sorted piles of books and other paraphernalia surrounded her, a feather duster clutched loosely in her lax hand. Lockwood was dozing in his armchair, dust smudging his face, head bent at an awkward angle against the back of his chair. 

The sight of them, and the absolute proof, that they...that these two morons had been cleaning raised a wave of irrational anger in him. It wasn’t the fact that they’d been cleaning that bothered him though. It was just that...he was angry with them and he hated that he felt like they’d tidied up as some kind of- of penance for upsetting him. For letting him down. 

But, he glared, this was not how you apologized. 

Slamming the door behind him, Goerge watched (with no small amount of satisfaction) as Lockwood’s head jerked up and Lucy startled.  

She jumped up, brandishing the feather duster at him before her brain caught up.

“George,” she said excitedly, waving the duster. Then she yawned, grinned happily before yawning again. Sleepily, she said, “You’re up. Have you seen-” She broke off as she saw the steadily darkening look on George's face.

“Yeah, I’ve seen it. What’s all this then?” George asked slowly with thinly veiled anger.

Lockwood and Lucy exchanged glances, bafflement tightening their faces, Lucy shrugged her shoulders, holding up her hands helplessly. That ridiculous duster still held in her hand. 

George cleared his throat meaningfully, barely resisting the urge to tap his foot or ball his hands into fists, annoyance and something suspiciously like disbelief starting to make itself known in his expression.

“We wanted to make it up to you,” Lockwood stammered, confusion decorating his tone. His usual confidence deserting him. “Apologize for last night, I mean. And we thought that the best way would be to uh, clean up a little. Let you relax a bit while we did all the work.”

George stared at them, face slack, mouth open in disbelief. 

How could his friends be so smart yet so stupid? 

Pressing a hand to his temple, he squeezed his eyes shut, as he thought about how to reply. A hundred possible phrases and responses ran through his head, mixing together until they all tangled into one big giant mess.

He didn’t know what to say.

How could he explain this to them? Make them understand how feelings and family and apologies are supposed to work when he knows they’ve never understood any of these things. Both of them coming from disjointed or broken households. They wouldn’t understand and he didn’t know how to begin to explain it to them.

After a few false starts, he slowly began to speak, placing each word with careful precision; every sentence measured.  

“You think that if you just clean the house, something that needs to be done anyway , that everything will go away.” Anger and hurt were a writhing storm inside him. “I know you don’t have much experience with this, Lockwood. But this, this is not how you say you’re sorry.”

Taken aback, Lockwood jerked upright in his chair, looking as though he’d been slapped. No doubt he’d expected George to throw himself at his feet in gratitude and forgiveness, he thought bitterly.

“I had no idea you were such an expert on apologies.” 

“It doesn’t take an expert to deliver an actual apology! You’re 15 years old; how do you not know this!” 

“Now, hold on a minute,” Lucy interjected, hotly, confusion in her eyes. “We’ve been cleaning for hours and it was all for you and now you’re saying that you don’t even like it.”

George rounded on her, “I never asked you to! I didn’t expect or want this from you! I just want-”

“What,” Lockwood sprung to his feet, pacing around the room as if putting space between him and George would distance himself from his discomfort. “What did you want?”

“I just wanted you to say that you were sorry!”

“What do you think we’re trying to do?! Lucy and I did all this-”

“But it’s not an apology! You can’t just, just buy someone’s forgiveness. You have to earn it.”

“We’re not trying to buy anything. We just wanted to do this for you; thought it would be a lovely gesture,” he shouted. 

“What more do you want from us?” Lucy asked. “Tell us what we should do.”

“I’ve already told you! I just want an apology!”

“And we’ve done that! 

“No! You haven’t!” George shouted back. “You’ve just shown me all the reasons why I shouldn’t accept your- your fake apology!”

“Fake! I think the cleaning we did was very real,” Lucy said dryly.

“Maybe I would have accepted if you had stolen my chocolate,” here he shot a significant look at Lockwood, “or my books or something. But it wasn’t! This was my life! I could have died and you were too self-absorbed to realize that I needed you!”

He took a deep breath and continued in a calmer voice.  

“It’s my decision whether or not I want to accept an apology. I don’t owe you anything. I am not required to forgive you.”

“Not required,” Lockwood parroted back disbelievingly, “What is this a business contract now? We write up some drafts and you refuse them all. Do we need a lawyer now? Should I call Barnes? I’m sure he could write up something you’d accept.”

Storm clouds swirled in George’s eyes. “Now you're just being childish.”

“Me? Childish? I am the epitome of a responsible adult. You’re the one acting childish. Lucy and I have tried our best and you have the gall to say that we’re idiots.”

“That’s because you are idiots and until you can figure that out I’m not going to accept your apologies.”

With that, he threw the door back open. “I’m going out.”

The one time he wished his suspicions were wrong.  

How dare they.

Back in the library, Lockwood deflated. 

His anger leaving him like air out of a balloon, a sick expression appearing on his face as he realized what he had done. He looked at Lucy, in despair. Lucy looked away. Turning her back on him.

Neither made a move to stop George from leaving. Instead, they reflected, going over the last few minutes, again and again, feeling quite like they’d missed something important. 

The bang of the front door echoed throughout the house; Lucy watched through the window as George stalked down the street.

Lucy’s thoughts churned. 

What had they done wrong? Wasn’t this what you were supposed to do when you apologized?

Besides her Lockwood was thinking much the same thing.

“Oh dear, that didn’t go well at all.” Lockwood sighed. “I really thought it would work.”

“Me too. But,” Lucy thought out loud. “...I don’t know- I’ve never really had to apologize for something bigger than stealing my sibling's stuff. They’d usually forget about it in a day or so and we would just...ignore it, I guess? Forget it ever happened and move on.”

Lockwood nodded sagely. “Yeah. Usually, when I have to, they die or leave before I can apologize so it’s not like I have a ton of experience either. 

“Well, what are we going to do now?” Lucy asked, “We have some time to come up with something before George gets back. And hopefully, it'll be better than our first attempt,” she laughed awkwardly. 

They sat in silence for a moment, lost in thought. 

Ideas were slow to come for Lucy, the same thoughts were running circles in her head, preventing any productive thought from being produced. Hopefully, Lockwood was faring better, she thought in frustration.

No sooner had she thought this when Lockwood jumped up and snapped his fingers, “I’ve got just the thing.”

* * * *

Reading had always had a calming effect on George. Leaving behind all your troubles and going off into another world where you didn’t have to worry about anything. The library and the archives were his refuges, a place he could think and unwind. 

After spending hours between the stacks, George felt calm enough to face his idiotic friends again.

The house was quiet, abnormally still, the only things stirring were the dust motes floating through the air, before a loud clang resounded from the basement breaking the spell. 

He puttered about the house for a while, not really doing anything but putting on a show, giving himself time before he had to talk to them.

After he had picked up and stared at the same book for the fifth time he sighed.

Better to get this over with, he scarcely allowed himself to hope they had wised up in the hours he had been gone.

With the expression of a man about to be executed he shuffled his way to the basement.

Lockwood and Lucy were sparring in the training room but sprung apart when they caught sight of him in the hallway.

Beaming, they all but manhandled him into the office, none of the anger from earlier present in their expressions. 

Pulling him across the room, they led him to Lockwood’s desk, on which a large box sits.

They pushed it at him, nodding encouragingly.

The feeling of dread from this morning was back tenfold.

They wouldn’t… right?    

Hesitantly, he slid it open.

They would.

He felt sick.

They seemed to have already forgotten his words to them this afternoon or they were particularly dense and had never heard them.

The box was filled to the brim with sweets, choco Leibniz, doughnuts from Arif’s, a semi-rare book on the history of the problem, and a few things he’d been meaning to get.

Slowly, he closed the lid, fingers trembling, his vision clouded.

He pushed the box back towards them.

The smiles dropped off their faces.

“Now, you think you can just bribe me into forgiving you! Even after I’ve already told you you can’t buy my forgiveness,” he spat, tremulously. Masking his words with vitriol so they can’t see how close he is to tears. “Didn’t you listen to anything I said earlier? This isn't how it works!”

He storms out of the room before they can reply or notice the tears making their way down his face.

Lockwood and Lucy stand crestfallen behind Lockwood's desk.

"We're not very good at this, are we?"

Lockwood just shakes his head.

* * * *

Lockwood and Lucy sat morosely at the table, dinner spread out before them. 

George had barricaded himself in his room hours ago and with every passing second their hope that he was going to join them dwindled. 

“You should eat something,” Lockwood said gently, looking like he was about to fill Lucy’s plate himself if that was what it would take to get her to eat. 

“I’m not hungry.” She pushed her plate further away from her. Her stomach churned with anxiety and guilt. She didn’t think she’d be able to eat, even if she’d wanted to, she felt so bad.

 Lockwood’s head slumped then he clasped his hands behind his head, staring listlessly at the tabletop as he gave in. 

Silence descended once again. 

Lucy stared sadly at the third plate; touching it gently with the tips of her fingers she readjusted it before looking over her shoulder. As though George would magically appear in the doorway now that his plate was moved slightly to the left. 

He didn’t. 

She slumped backward into her chair, frowning. 

“I’ve been thinking…” Lockwood said suddenly only to immediately trail off.   

“Mmmm,” Lucy prodded.

He started again, “I’ve been thinking about what George said. You know about the buying his forgiveness and that he just wanted an apology.”

“Yeah, but we were apologizing so I don’t know what to do.”

“But did we ever tell him ‘we’re sorry’? I mean, sure we meant it in the gestures but we never actually said the words.”

Lucy looked startled. “Did we not?”

“I don’t think so. He told us he just wanted us to say ‘sorry’ but I was too caught up in making some, some grand gesture to realize that never actually did.”

She laughed disbelievingly, “Have we just over thought this whole thing?”

Lockwood nodded self deprecatingly, “We seem to be making a habit of it.”

“God, we’re idiots.” 

“Yep. George had us pegged all along. That first time in the library he called us idiots and we got upset but he was right. He’s been right this entire time and we were just too stubborn to listen.”

Lucy snorted, “That seems to be a recurring issue with us. You’d think we’d learn eventually.” She burst into helpless giggles, Lockwood laughing right along with her. 

They laugh until their stomachs hurt and tears are rolling down their faces. 

“So stupid,” Lockwood says in between laughter, “it takes a special kind of idiot to mess up what we just did.”

Wheezing, Lucy reached out and clasped Lockwood’s shoulder for support as she burst into another round of hysterics. Lockwood holding her in return, and then they were clutching each other like a lifeline. 

Slowly, they get themselves under control, wipe their eyes, and look at each other, still grinning like loons. “That’s better…. Now, how about we go fix this mess we’ve made?”

“Absolutely,” Lucy chuckled again. “You know, it’s almost funny. That we’re in this situation again.” When Lockwood looked at her funny she rushed to clarify herself. “I mean...it’s kind of like the events that started all this, right? You and me sitting around Portland Row while we wait for George to come to us when he’s hurting all alone and needs us.” 

“We didn’t go to him before. But we can do things differently this time. He’s waiting for us again and this time...let’s go to him.” 

* * * *

So they gather up plates of spaghetti and trudge up the stairs to George’s door.

Lucy knocks. “George, we brought you dinner… and we’d like to talk… please.”

They decided on the walk up that any overtures would be better coming from Lucy.

The door creaked open, George stuck his head out hesitantly. “What is it?”

“Uh… spaghetti. Your favorite,” Lucy dithered in the doorway, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. The plate of food held before her like she was warding off an evil spirit. “We also brought you a nice slab of garlic bread and a glass of apple juice.”

Gingerly, he took the plate. 

“Should we sit,” Lockwood ventured cautiously. He gestured at the floor; Lucy and George nodded then they all sank to sit against the hallway wall. George leaned heavily against the doorframe to his bedroom while Lockwood and Lucy moved to sit against the opposite wall. They all stared at each other, uncertainly.

Nobody spoke as George ate his dinner. When he was finished, Lucy cleared her throat. 

“Will you tell us what happened, now? With the mirror and Joplin. Where did you two go?”

“We went to the Kensal Green Cemetery,” George began, setting his empty plate to the side. He twirled the fork for a second and then put it down. Clasping his hands deliberately in his lap. 

Lockwood cocked his head and crossed his legs as he reclined. “Why? You could have talked about the mirror anywhere? So why did you have to go back to the cemetery?”
“Was it something to do with Bickerstaff?” Lucy interjected before George could answer. “We left his coffin there, didn’t we? Did you need it for something George?”

“Not with the coffin, no. I think...no, I know, that Joplin was being possessed by Bickerstaff and Bickerstaff wanted him- us to go down into the catacombs.”

Lockwood mused, “That would be the place where idiots like Joplin would hang out; nowhere more private than a crypt. Plus, there’d be plenty of sources down there. Enough to create a supposed window to the Other Side like in Bickerstaff’s notes. Still...it seems strange to me. Joplin already had the mirror with the sources sewn onto it. So why did he need more? Do you think that makes the gate stronger?”

“Beats me. He was just a crazy crank.” 

“You were right, Lockwood,” Lucy lightly smacked his arm. “This entire time it was Bickerstaff pulling the strings. He was just as obsessive in the afterlife about his experiment as when he was alive. Too bad it’s useless to him now that he’s...you know..actually on the Other Side.” 

George laughed. 

Grinning, Lucy continued, “What I don’t understand though is why did it affect you so much? Was Bickerstaff possessing you too? Or was it the mirror?”

George sighed, leaning against the wall. “It just seemed...I can’t explain it, Luce. When I left Flo, when I got the mirror in my hands, I just felt this desire...I had to look at it again. Part of me knew it was wrong, I knew I had to wait for you – but somehow all that seemed unimportant. I might even have taken the thing out of the bag right away, only I wanted to show Joplin. And when he came, he said we should do it properly...” He shook his head. “I went along with it, but when we got to the chapel, and I saw the empty coffin...all at once, it was like my eyes had cleared. I realized I was doing something mad. Then I tried to get away, but Joplin wouldn’t let me.”

“Kipps showed up then. He might have been there earlier but...” George coughed uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t have seen him. Joplin had knocked my glasses off and I was crawling around trying to find them. Anyway, he showed up and Joplin put a knife to my throat and forced him to throw down his rapier. When we got down to the catacombs, I tried to escape but Joplin knocked me out before I made it very far. When I woke up we were both tied to chairs and Joplin had everything set up. Kipps was trying to talk sense into Joplin but by this point, he was too far gone.” 

“Because Bickerstaff was possessing him, “ Lockwood stated, matter-of-factly. 

“Exactly. I wonder how long he had been possessed?”

Lockwood hummed. He nudged his foot against George’s leg, “I don’t think we ever really knew the real Joplin. Besides the first time we met him; the moment we unearthed Bickerstaff’s coffin I think he was gone.” Lucy moved to sit next to George. Holding his hand, as he nodded sadly. “...And,” Lockwood slowly said, “I think it was Joplin who was robbing these gravesites all along. He was the one who stole the mirror’s stand.”

Wiping his nose, George said miserably, “I suspected...when I saw the stand in the catacombs I’d wondered how he’d gotten it...but I didn’t want to believe, even then, that Joplin was a bad person.” George looked up.

“He was the one who killed Jack Carver, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, we think so.”

George shook his head sadly.

“Anyway, Joplin had copied Bickerstaff’s notes - I was so stupid to show them to him!- and used them to reconstruct the layout he used when making other people look into the mirror. He almost made me look into it,” Lucy gasped, eyes widening with fear. Lockwood’s jaw tightened. George paused, concerned, but they signaled for him to continue. “But when he moved to flip the sheet, DEPRAC agents suddenly flooded into the room. Joplin got angry and flailed a knife at them. For a minute I thought he might fight them but then he put the knife down and they led him away. Then a pair of agents came over and cut our ropes. After that, everyone left – DEPRAC, Kipps, me - the night watch kids went back to work and,” he lifted his hands. “That was that.”

Lucy exhaled in relief, “Lucky break! George if you had looked into the mirror-”

“I would’ve most definitely died.” They looked stricken. “But I didn’t. So let’s not dwell on the what-ifs. I don’t know about you but I’m sick of thinking about the past, right now.”

“Yeah,” they all nodded decisively.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that. It sounds...well, it sounds terrifying, to be honest. And I’m so, so sorry we weren’t there to help you. And I’m sorry for siding with this prat,” she nodded across the hall at Lockwood who mock glared at her. Lucy stuck her tongue out at him; Lockwood huffed and rolled his eyes but he was smiling so Lucy wasn’t too worried that she’d actually upset him. “...and for not seeing sense. I was a lousy friend and I pushed you away….and I’m sorry about Joplin. I know you really looked up to him.”

“Thanks, Luce.” George squeezed their joined hands. He turned to Lockwood expectantly.  

“I’m sorry, too...for being an idiot and a prat. I should have listened to you. Starting with listening to your theories and everything. And for today, when you told us what you wanted and we didn’t listen. I’ve been arrogant and I promise I’m going to try to...be better. I know I have some...problems talking about things...and I don’t like talking about the problem...but it’s something you like so I can try.”

“That’s all I expect from you,” George’s lips quirked up, “Never thought I’d see the day when the great Anthony Lockwood admitted to being wrong. I should have broken out my tape recorder and documented this historic event!”

“Oi!”

They all laughed good-naturedly. Lockwood scooched across the hall so he could punch George in playful retaliation, making them all laugh harder. 

They ended up in a heap at the top of the stairs. George nestled in between Lucy and Lockwood.

“You both are ridiculously stupid. I don’t know why I put up with you,” George joked. “But really, I hope you learned something from this so we don’t have to go through this again.”

Lockwood and Lucy shrugged sheepishly, “We’ll try to remember this for next time because we’re idiots so there’s going to be plenty of apologies happening.”

“We may be morons but we’re your morons.”

“Unfortunately.” George sighed.

Lucy kicked him, mouth twisted in a pout. Rolling her eyes, she tucked her hands beneath her head, eyes fixed on the ceiling, “Back to earlier. When you were explaining what happened. It didn’t sound like the events in the catacombs lasted very long. So why did it take you so long to get home?” 

“I, umm, sat in the church for a while, and then I walked home.”

Lucy cocked her eyebrow. “Why’d you walk? That’s super far away.”

“There weren't any night cabs,” George said evasively. 

Lockwood and Lucy exchanged disbelieving glances before shrugging. If George wanted to tell them, he would. If not...well, they had their own ideas about why George had decided to stay at the church.

They sat in companionable silence for a time. 

“You know, I think I saw some choco Leibniz in that box you gave me. We could go downstairs and crack it open. It could... maybe... replace the ones I ate.

Lockwood shot up, “It was you!”

George only laughed.