A/N: The hot water problem at Portland Row is definitely mentioned a few times in book-verse, and so angry Lucy demanded to speak her mind. LOL
This is the first Lockwood and Co fic I've written that isn't from Lucy's POV - getting inside George's head was fun. I had show-verse in mind while writing this, but it could definitely fit into book-verse as well. Lastly, this fic does contain major spoilers for the "mysterious" locked door on the landing, so if you haven't read the books yet, please keep that in mind. Hope you enjoy!
Midmorning on a Tuesday finds George Karim lounging in his room with a cup of tea and a plate of toast, the latest issue of True Hauntings open on his lap. It's a particularly lovely Tuesday – spring has finally come to London, and he has his bedroom window open to allow soft breeze and twittering birdsong to permeate the space. He's not actually paying attention to the magazine, not really – he'd grabbed it along with his breakfast just for something to do, but now he finds he's rather enjoying the peace and quiet. Lockwood and Lucy are both awake – he can hear rummaging sounds from Lockwood's room, and running water from upstairs tells him Lucy's in the shower – but for now, he has the place to himself.
Since this is Portland Row, the quiet doesn't last. On this particular Tuesday, it's abruptly shattered by an angry-sounding scream, the water sounds in the attic ending just as quickly. George cocks his head towards the attic door, curious, that curiosity morphing into a shit-eating grin as he hears Lucy's anger-filled shout:
"ANTHONY LOCKWOOD, I'M GOING TO MURDER YOU!"
Oh, this is going to be good. George props his feet up on his desk and takes another bite of toast, ready for the show.
Lucy's barely finished yelling when several things happen at once: Lockwood pokes his head out of his room (bloody stupid move, George thinks, given the pure rage in Lucy's shout), and they both hear the wet thumping of bare feet as the third of their trio comes storming down the stairs. Seconds later, the attic door is wrenched open, the feet come around the corner, and Lucy Carlyle appears before them, soaking wet and hastily wrapped in a towel, her shower-tousled hair dripping all over both said towel and the hall rug.
"Everything alright, Luce?" Lockwood asks lightly.
"No, everything is not alright!" Lucy shrieks. "My shower's gone cold for the third bloody time this week!" With one hand, she clutches the towel to her chest; the other she sticks out in front of her. Even from his distance and with his bad vision, George can see the goosebumps erupting all up and down her arm.
"And don't even try to tell me it's a plumbing issue or some other shite," Lucy continues as she steps closer, "when we all know bloody well it's because you spent nearly an hour in the shower again hogging all the hot water!"
"Lu-uce," Lockwood whines, drawing her name out in multiple syllables. "I got shot. The hot water feels good on my shoulder."
It might've been a good excuse the first time he'd used it, George muses – Lockwood had been shot, after all, and those first few days especially had been really rough. By some miracle, the bullet hadn't done any major damage, but Lockwood had still required some surgery, and even a "straightforward" shot to the shoulder can easily take months to heal. As soon as Lockwood was out of the hospital and back home at Portland Row, George and Lucy had traded off taking care of their injured friend, making sure he took his pain meds, helping him with dressing and other simple tasks so he wouldn't pull his stitches, and, after said stitches had come out, fastidiously taking notes on the doctor's prescribed physical therapy so they could help him do the exercises correctly. Lockwood had nearly had a conniption when the doctors told him in no uncertain terms was he to even think of touching his rapier for a solid month, but he shut up pretty quickly when they made it quite clear that he'd be lucky if that arm ever fully healed, even if he did exactly what he was supposed to. He's been behaving pretty well ever since, all things considered – George knows the lack of action makes his friend antsy as hell, but he also knows this agency means everything to Lockwood; after how close they came to folding during the Sheen Road fiasco, he's not going to risk fucking that all up again anytime soon. (Fucking things up is a bit of a specialty of Lockwood's, but even he's not that stupid.)
It's been a rollercoaster of a month emotionally, too. None of them slept that first night after Lockwood came home from the hospital, too busy blubbering heartfelt, tearful confessions and trying their best to one-up each other as to exactly whose fault it all was.
"Will you both just shut up!" Lucy had finally screamed. It was nearing four in the morning, they were all exhausted in more ways than one, and she'd finally had enough. "We're all at fault in different ways, but Joplin worst of all, and my God I almost lost both of you so would you please just SHUT UP!" Her tirade over, she'd burst into furious tears, ugly crying into Lockwood's good shoulder as she'd held both his and George's hands in a death grip. They'd spent the remaining few hours until dawn all puddled together on the couch, too tired to even think of moving anywhere else.
Along with that rollercoaster came healing. In addition to the boatload of apologies exchanged, the three of them have been much more open with one another, much more honest. Lucy's words about them being a family have really affected George – he was always the oddball at home, and until Kensal Green, he'd felt like the oddball at Portland Row as well. Lucy's speech in the catacombs turned that all on its head – because each in their own way, they're all oddballs, rejected by the mainstream yet doing their damnedest to make their way in the world in spite of it. Lucy's heartbroken "You're the best of us, Georgie"; Lockwood's angry "Get away from them, they're my friends!"…George used to feel like the odd one out; now, he's never felt more at home.
And Lockwood…God, Lockwood. Even if they are all being more open with each other, George can't fathom the courage and strength it took for their leader to share his biggest secret with them. George never formally asked, but it'd been obvious from the start that his friend's family were all dead (how could it not be, when the words are practically stamped across the other boy's every move?), but the door on the landing takes his story to a whole different level of horror. It's been roughly a week since Lockwood insisted on taking them up there, and George still can't get the image of his sister's death glow out of his head. He's not scared of it, no – far from it, actually; there's something comforting about the fact that Jessica cared so much about her little brother that she watches over him even now – but the fact that it's there at all, the hell that Lockwood must've gone through as a child, is immensely sad. Morbid the thought might be, George is honestly surprised that his friend is still alive, given everything.
But no more morbid thoughts now – Lockwood and Lucy are still going at it, Lockwood's excuses about the hot water have long since run out, and George isn't about to miss a second of the entertainment.
"Don't you want me to feel better, Luce?" Lockwood asks, giving Lucy his best puppy-dog eyes.
"An hour?" Lucy shouts, clearly not in the mood for the sympathy ploy. "Shot or not, an hour? What the bloody hell are you doing in there?" Her tirade ends abruptly and she nearly chokes as the implications of what she's just said catch up to her.
"Oh, for fuck's sake," she mutters, loud enough that George hears her and has to stop himself from laughing aloud; her face is bright red. "Don't answer that. Just…buy yourself a heating pad or something!" Obviously still embarrassed – and perhaps only now realizing she's still wearing nothing but a towel – Lucy turns and flees, her still-wet feet slapping on the hardwood as she disappears around the corner. The boys hear her stop far too soon to have made it all the way back to the attic; the reason why – and her probable stopping point – becomes clear when she yells, "Jess, your brother is ANNOYING!" before continuing her flight.
Now that Lucy is gone, George, still snickering, turns his attention fully to Lockwood. Clad in sweats, a t-shirt, and those ridiculously bright pink socks he loves, he's leaning against his doorjamb and staring in shock up the flight of steps to Jessica's room. (Although the socks, George reflects, aren't nearly quite so ridiculous now that he knows that was Jess's favorite color.) For a long moment, Lockwood looks like he isn't quite sure what to do…and then he snorts out what is unmistakably a laugh, chuckling to himself and ruefully shaking his head.
"Jess one hundred percent would've agreed with her," he says, laughing lightly once more. He then calls over, "George, be a dear and help me out, would you? I've got a very angry Lucy to placate, and nowhere near enough time in which to do it." It's George's turn to snort.
"I'm not the one who got on her bad side," he says, but he agrees to help anyway – the quickest way to Lucy's heart is a decent breakfast and the perfect cuppa, and George can't even trust Lockwood to get something out of the fridge without somehow burning the place down.
Of course, he could make some joke about kissing it better or something like that – watching Lockwood get all flustered is hilarious – but not now, he decides. He'll save that for when they're all together and he can get both of them in one go – more fun that way.
(For the record, George A. of course knows that his two best friends fancy each other; the only two blind idiots who don't are said best friends themselves, and B. actually wouldn't mind at all if they got together. In fact, he thinks he might actually be less of a third wheel that way. For one thing, neither of them is particularly openly affectionate to begin with – sure, he's seen plenty of stolen glances and little touches when they think he isn't looking, but he highly doubts they'd suddenly become the type of people who are all over each other out in the open. More importantly, though, if they finally got their shit together, they'd stop pining. All the pining is pathetic and embarrassing and leads to far too many of the aforementioned fuck-ups – see Sheen Road, Combe Carey, the Winkmans' auction, Kensal Green, etc. etc. etc. Lockwood's all for things that are better for business, right? Anyway.)
Lucy joins them in the kitchen just as George is putting the last few breakfast things on the table. She offers George a warm smile and ruffles Lockwood's hair – the latter perhaps a bit harder than she normally would, but she seems to be in a much better mood now that breakfast is in the cards.
Perhaps, George muses as he watches Lockwood slide a plate of already-buttered toast Lucy's way, he doesn't need to say anything at all. They don't have any cases for a while yet, so maybe he'll just go for a stroll tonight after dinner and leave these two to their own awkward devices. They're so ridiculous, it might actually work.
…and if his stroll happens to take him to a certain riverbank where a certain relic-woman with a boat might know a thing or two about seeing some nesting herons…yes, a walk sounds like a very nice idea.