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charmquarkstrangequark · 2 years ago

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George: The Best of Us

Can’t start this one off without acknowledging that George Cubbins and George Karim do have some differences, so I’ll be looking a bit at both of them. But I agree with Lucy’s characterization of George: he’s the best of them. Warning: mild book spoilers follow.

We don’t have a lot of background from George’s early life. We know he comes from a loving family and still visits them. George Karim mentions having a granny in Sidcup and three older brothers who are all engineers. (This is a bit funny, because he talks about his family as “engineer, engineer, engineer, weirdo”, and if you’ve ever met an engineer, you realize that there really isn’t a difference among the 4 of them.) Anyway, we know from the books that George Cubbins has a mum who has given Lockwood at least one tea cozy (it’s used to cover Skull at one point) and by extension, likely other gifts as well. So, they’re obviously loving and supportive.

We know that George once worked for Fittes. Little is made of George’s Talent, other than Lockwood mentioning that George has the Touch, but obviously he had enough of it to get a job at the premier psychical investigation agency in the country. In fact, he only left Fittes after being fired for being too curious; Ms. Fittes must have realized that if anyone were going to uncover the truth about the Problem, it would be George. The oversight of George’s Talent is likely because it is overshadowed by his intelligence and research skills, which are formidable.

George has the ability to do a deep dive into the history of nearly any topic or place. He has an indefatigable willingness to visit churches, libraries, and any place necessary to uncover the details of a location’s history, thus cluing his teammates into possible sources. They'd really be blundering around in the dark without his guidance. Doing research itself is a skill; knowing how to cross reference topics, knowing all the different words and phrases possible for the same topic throughout the ages, catching the minute details that link people, places, and objects together. And it’s a skill George does better than any other character that either readers or viewers meet in the Lockwood & Co universe. George can make the inferential leaps that others are blind to, and he does it intuitively and quickly, leaving others behind in the dust. Take the theft of the bone glass at Kensal Green. Lockwood and Lucy have a little role play, talking through how the thief may have made their way into the chapel - then- crime scene. They are able to build off each other’s ideas to come up with a hypothesis, and go off to check it…only to find George already there, having already come to this conclusion on his own. In fact, George is used to working on his own, something that will set him up to be hurt later.

George and Lockwood obviously have an incredibly deep friendship, one based on mutual respect and understanding. Lockwood appreciates George. He understands that George doesn’t think about things and people the way others do, and has no desire to change George. He values George’s differences. George respects Lockwood, too. He recognizes Lockwood’s reckless nature, the darkness within him, but he doesn’t challenge Lockwood on it. At one point he criticizes Lucy for not stopping Lockwood from going to the Hope house without the research having been completed (“You’re meant to stop him, Lucy”), but he’s guilty of the same thing the night they go wraith hunting while Lucy is recovering from her initial interaction with Skull. He accuses Lockwood of not giving him time to properly do the research, but obviously, he went along with Lockwood anyway. Also, his trust in Lockwood is absolute. When bad press starts coming after the Hope house fire, Lockwood says, "I'll handle it" and George just says, "Ok". He doesn't ask how; he accepts at face value that if Lockwood says he'll handle it, he will.

Over time, George and Lucy grow close, as well. He truly appreciates their blossoming friendship ("She's really starting to get me"). His concern for her behavior in the bath is genuine. (side note: I have a hc that George's parents found him in the bath as a young child with his clothes on and told him, gently, that this was Not Normal, and that's why he says the same to Lucy, later.) Anyway, he sees the ache in her, the need for belonging that he also sees in his best friend. He recognizes that the two will complement each other, and becomes her unfailing advocate from that point forward.

George may not be touchy-feely, but he definitely believes in acts of service. He cooks, and maintains 35 Portland Row, he keeps the books and files because Lockwood doesn't have the patience to do so, and he manages much of the logistics of the Agency. Lockwood and Lucy rely on him to the point of advantage; they don't even comment on how much he does until they suddenly realize they haven't packed the chains, or re-ordered flares. He balances their impulsivity. He considers risk and consequences, protecting them from themselves.

A lot is made of what appears to be some neurodivergence in George, wonderfully acted by Ali Hadji-Heshmati. He’s awkward with eye contact, and speaks his mind a little too freely. He has little affect; Lucy can tell more about his mood by how he cleans his spectacles than by tone of voice or facial expression. He obviously is touch-sensitive: he prefers not wearing trousers, and when he does, they’re loose and baggy. Even his kit belt is different to the others; Lockwood and Lucy wear stiff leather kit belts, but George’s is a kind of mesh. (Combine that with psychic ability linked to Touch, and realize what a tough go of it George must have had growing up.) I really like that all of these aspects of George’s character are just that; they’re not highlighted, he’s not made into some kind of token neurodivergent character. He’s just…George. His strengths and differences are appreciated as much as any other character’s.

The combination of George's research skill and different manner of thinking combine to make him susceptible to obsessive behaviors. He is, of every other character in the series, the only one who is actively trying to SOLVE the Problem. Everyone else is caught up in reacting to it. George sees the big picture, that the agencies are losing, giving ground to the seemingly unstoppable onslaught of Visitors. He realizes that the only way to stop the Problem is to find its source, to prevent more Visitors from coming, rather than to just keep trying to eliminate the ones they find, one at a time. The obsession is a point of weakness capitalized upon by Joplin & the bone glass. George's tendency to do the work alone isolates him from his team and leaves him vulnerable. An important part of his character arc is to recognize how his skills dovetail with those of his teammates to create a unified front of strength and efficacy. Once he does so, he also uncovers the cause of the Problem, and thus, a way to potentially control it.

What I find most admirable about George is his bravery. In the books, George Cubbins is described quite unfavorably by Lucy as having a face that begged to be slapped and a backside in need of a well placed kick. George Cubbins is described as slovenly, appearing not to own a comb, with a completely disorderly room. George Karim, on the other hand, stress cleans. He may not be one to dress up, but he seems not to suffer from the hygiene issues of his literary counterpart.

However, none of this bothers George, because he doesn’t care much about how others look on the surface. He doesn’t worry about his own outward appearance because he hopes others will judge him in the way he judges them: by their actions, by who they are inside. In fact, Skull (who mostly sees only a person’s inner self, what will eventually become their plasm if they become Visitors after death, and which I interpret to be a soul) notes that only himself and George are able to see past surface distractions to the truth of a person. It's part of why he's able to see past Flo's ghost trauma and recognize her intelligence, bravery, skill, and freedom.

George is unapologetically himself. In the final book, when Sir Rupert and his goons are targeting the smaller agencies and assaulting agents on the streets, George is the only one of Lockwood & Co to stand up to Sir Rupert’s bullying. He is unafraid to be out at any time of day or night, and has complete faith in his own ability to defend himself. He speaks his mind because he knows he has the ability to back it up, if necessary. He is criminally overlooked by most people who meet him, but George is intelligent, brave, loyal, skilled, possesses a sharp and witty sense of humor, and is the glue that holds his agency together. He really is, as Lucy says, the best of them.

#george karim #george cubbins #lockwood & co #lockwood and co #renew lockwood and co #l&co character analysis #ali hadji heshmati #George appreciation post #anthony lockwood #lucy carlyle #Lockwood & Co book spoilers

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yveni · 2 years ago

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Fluff

No, seriously, this fic will literally make the teeth fall right out of your gums, completely rotted. So much fluff.

3.4k words

First of all, thank you so, so much to @books-and-pumpkins for double-checking and correcting my French. I’m super duper grateful for your contribution to this.

Basically I seen a hc where Lockwood is fluent in French and spiraled from there. So here is an aged-up, married Locklyle.

Very long post ahead.

!BOOK SPOILERS!

french translation at the bottom if you’re curious

“Anthony, dear, could you bring me my sketch pad before you come down?” I shout absentmindedly to my husband. I hear his footsteps halt on the stairs before turning back.

I seldom use “Anthony” so casually, or even “dear”, but events that occurred while getting dressed made me want to milk my condition. The condition (which at the moment is relentlessly tapping on my inner rib) that in no way makes me incapable of going upstairs to grab my sketch pad for myself.

I position my chair in a convenient ray of light streaming in through our window, sitting with my body turned sideways to illuminate the swell of my sundress. I had discovered this morning - quite irritatingly, at first - that my usual skirts no longer sat comfortably at my waistline. Dresses and leggings were going to have to be my wardrobe for the next five months. Upon putting on one of the only two dresses I own, a plain blue one that cinched just above my rib cage, I was taken aback by how obvious my stomach had become. I no longer looked as though I had eaten twice the amount of biscuits I should’ve (although the cravings did often cause that), I look as though I am carrying a baby. Cause I am.

The kitchen door opens, and I look up to greet my husband, but instead I see George.

“You don’t have to look so disappointed, Luce.” He says.

George had moved out almost a year ago to live with Flo, but he still has a key. Honestly, I see him just as often as when he did live at Portland Row, since he comes around whenever he feels like.

“Good morning, George!” I smile warmly, because although I was a bit disappointed he wasn’t Lockwood, the hormones caused me to be quite overly fond of him. He looks at me oddly.

“Morning, Lucy. You look very pregnant today. Where’s my mug?” He begins opening cupboards and pulling out tea supplies.

I smile again, glad to know that the strategic arrangement of myself, my dress, and the utilization of the early afternoon light was working. “Should be in the same place it always is, Georgie. While you’re at it, could you make me a tea as well?”

I hadn’t made my own yet, I was planning on having Lockwood do it. George will do just fine, although his cup of tea wouldn’t come with the forehead kiss that always accompanies Lockwood’s cups of tea.

George stops and turns in his tracks, his gaze moves from the window, to me, and then to my belly. He scoffs.

“What?”

“Nothing.” He reaches for another cup.

“Then why did you pull that face just now?”

“I’m always pulling a face.”

“Yeah, but not usually at me.” I grumble.

He drops the tea bags in the steaming cups as he shrugs, “I see exactly what you’re doing, Luce. You could probably get away with it on Lockwood, but you forget that I have brothers, who all have wives, who have all been pregnant. You are perfectly capable of making your own cup of tea.”

“Seems to have worked a little bit.” I grin as he places my mug before me.

“Yeah, yeah.”

He sits down in his usual spot at the table, then pulls some papers out of his bag and begins rifling through them.

“Another gate found?” I ask.

The past few years, the Problem had significantly reduced, although the occasional gate would surface and stir up trouble; some were remainders of the Orpheus Society’s work, but usually they were attempts at recreating what the Society had done. DEPRAC was hard at work trying to figure out who was leaking the information about source gates; Lockwood and Co. provided whatever help we could.

We hadn’t taken an actual psychic case in over a year. Holly’s talents had faded a few months after the destruction of Fittes house - Kipps had offered to share the goggles, but she refused for fashion’s sake, and stuck to secretary work for the company. It wasn’t for another three years that Lockwood’s talents followed, and then George. At that point, we hadn’t really had use of our talent anyway, as opportunities for cases were not as frequent as they used to be. I wasn’t sure when my own talents faded, but I assumed they did by now; I hadn’t been in a situation where I had to use them. We work alongside DEPRAC now, giving them whatever insight we could about what Marissa Fittes had said of her involvement in the Problem. Lockwood was very influential in the cleaning up of the gates, and the removal of the nets blocking the spirits from moving on.

George proved himself in the research field, as we all expected, and was often giving lectures about the Problem, properties of sources, and how to prevent outbreaks from spreading. Lockwood and I found ourselves traveling outside of London, going to small villages, helping smaller agencies not only train their agents, but also provide insight into their most prominent hauntings. A few times, our guidance helped them find source clusters that were almost as powerful as a gate.

Much to everyone’s relief, the terrible headlines of ghost-touch and hauntings were becoming fewer and fewer. The Problem was on its way out, and whatever attempts to bring it back in were becoming easier for DEPRAC to squash. Agencies still trained, iron wards still hung, and lavender gardens still flourished, but the world was beginning to feel safe.

Safe enough to stop living everyday like it could be our last, safe enough for George to move out, safe enough to get married… safe enough to have a child. I smile and instinctively place my hand on top of my belly.

“Yeah, some nitwits in the country. It was caught after a week, but it was enough to stir up a poltergeist and a few changers it sounds like.” George says, looking at files over the top of his glasses, “They might benefit from you and Lockwood paying them a visit. They’ve only got six agents.” He flits his gaze back to me, and smirks, “Although, Kipps can go instead, since you’re not even feeling up to making your tea.”

I sit up defensively, “I can work and make a baby at the same time!”

“I thought you already went through the trouble of making a baby, surely you’re more professional than to do that while you’re working.”

“George, you must know, the professionalism part is ensuring you don’t get caught making a baby while you’re working.” Lockwood says from the doorway. “I see you’re helping yourself to my tea.”

He leans against the doorframe, my sketch pad in hand, regarding George and I. As always, he looks immaculate; a crisp, white shirt tucked into a dark pair of slacks, showing off his slender frame. Regretfully, my careful stance against the sunlight had been ruined during my conversation with George. Lockwood’s view of me does not include my sundress or my stomach, which was now hidden by the Thinking Cloth. Instead, I am hunching over my tea, glaring at George, cheeks slightly flushed at the implications of making a baby at work. I impulsively grab a biscuit and throw it in George’s direction, almost making it into his tea cup.

George picks it up and takes a bite, speaking as he chews, “Helping myself to your biscuits as well, courtesy of your wife.”

Lockwood grins at that. We’ve been married seven months, and we both still thrill at hearing others refer to us accordingly. Granted, George had been doing it since the first time he caught us snogging in the library, but it still sends a shock through my body when I hear it.

“You’re not feeling well, Luce?” My husband deposits the sketch pad in front of me and studies my face.

My eyebrows furrow, “I feel fine.”

“I overheard George say you’re not up to making tea.” Lockwood strides across the kitchen, heading straight to the kettle and tea supplies George had left out. I immediately take the opportunity of his back being turned to reposition myself, sunbeam, dress, stomach, and all.

I ignore George’s snort into his mug. “George doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

“I’m right here.”

Lockwood looks in our direction, probably with some clever comment to reply with, but catches sight of exactly what I’ve been wanting him to catch sight of. His eyes begin to glow as they fall on my figure, a smile lighting up the room more than my sunbeam. “More tea, Lucy?”

I quickly down what’s left of my cup, “If you insist.”

He walks over, but instead of making for my mug, he grabs my hand and pulls me out of my chair, stooping a little to place both his hands over my stomach. His grin gets even wider, “When did this happen?”

“Overnight, I think.” We both beam down at the bump. He lifts his gaze to mine, our faces level, and goodness, those brown eyes in the sunlight could make me melt.

He places a finger under my chin, guiding me into a kiss.

“I’m taking my research to my desk.” George states loudly, I’m only slightly aware of the sound of him grabbing his papers and disappearing into the basement.

I wrap my arms around Lockwood’s neck, going on tiptoe so he can stand up straight. He drags his hands down my back in return, letting them settle at my hips. Probably disturbed by my quickening heartbeat, the tapping on my ribs starts up again.

I slightly pull away from Lockwood, he gives a little whine of complaint, trying to close the gap between us again.

“No, feel.” I grab one of his hands and place it back on my stomach, approximately where I feel the tapping.

“Lucy, every time we try, I can’t feel it.” Lockwood dismays. “It just makes me think it doesn’t like me.”

I shake my head, “Of course the baby likes you. Just try again, the taps feel a lot stronger today.”

I grab his other hand and place it on top of my belly, trying to position his fingers in the main spot of the movement. He allows it, but his face says that he still doesn’t feel anything.

He presses his lips together, waiting. After a moment, he sighs, almost moving his hands away.

“No,” I force them back in place, “They’re moving. Just talk to it.”

He obliges, “I want to feel the baby, mon amour, but -” he stops. I gasp at the same time, a kick right underneath my ribs had caused us both to hold our breath.

“Do it again.” Lockwood utters.

The baby does nothing, leaving us both standing still in anticipation. Abruptly, Lockwood’s stance changes, his expression one I recognize from so many years of casework and ghost hunting. He has an idea.

“…bébé?” He whispers cautiously. A kick, not a tap, responds. I gasp again, Lockwood lets out a breathy laugh, “Oh, tu aimes le français?”

The baby continues to move, causing Lockwood to stoop down again, practically on his knees to be level with my stomach. “Vraiment!”

“Keep talking!” I sniff, surprised by the heaviness in my voice. His eyes are glistening as he pulls a chair away from the table, sitting down to comfortably return his hands to the spot of the kicking.

“Je pourrais parler français, quand tu veux.” He continues, “Je pense que ta mère est très belle, j’espère tu lui ressembleras.” He looks up at me, still beaming, then back towards the baby. “Ceci dit… mon sourire t’ouvrirait beaucoup de portes.”

That part he whispers, as though he doesn’t really want me to hear. He’s begun talking too fast for me to keep up; to be honest, I lost him after “Do you like French?”, but his tone sounds suspicious. It doesn’t help that the baby is now going crazy, I not only feel it kicking, but it’s practically doing somersaults.

“What are you saying?”

He doesn’t acknowledge me, “On va causer des ennuis partout, même si maman nous crie dessus, si tu hérites de mon sourire. Et sinon, je t’apprendrais d’autres combines…”

“Anthony, what are you saying?” I nudge his shoulder.

“I forgot my tea!” I hear George announce loudly before he enters the room again.

I look up as he enters, not turning my whole body so Lockwood could still face my stomach. George halts at the top of the basement entrance, taking in the situation.

“Can you feel it?” He asks, more directed at Lockwood than me.

Lockwood nods enthusiastically, “Oui! Et il aime le français!”

“George, tell me what he’s saying.”

George moves closer, “Il?“

Lockwood shrugs, “Just a guess.” then leans down again to speak directly to the bump, “Peu importe.”

“Can I try, Luce?” George asks, now next to Lockwood and I.

I grab his hand and place it next to Lockwood’s, who adjusts accordingly so George can feel. “Just tell me what he’s saying.”

Immediately, George’s eyes widen. “T’aimes le français.“

“Lui, c’est ton oncle, il est un peu étrange.“

“Mais tu m’aimeras d’toute façon.” George says. He doesn’t sound as elegant as Lockwood, but it still annoys me that I’m the only one not understanding what’s being said. “Je t’apprendrai tous les gros mots, dans tout plein de langues.”

“Lockwood, I want to know what you’re saying.” I complain.

Finally, he looks up at me, “Oh, we’re back to Lockwood now? What happened to ‘Anthony, dear?’ from earlier?”

“Anthony wasn’t excluding me from a conversation with our child, Lockwood is.” I attempt to give him my best pout, but he frowns down at my belly, where the movement has stopped.

“Il aime pas quand ses parents se disputent.” George says, making the kicking start up again. “Besides, Luce, you had years where you were the only one that understood the skull, let us have this for a bit.”

Lockwood grins at that. Frustrated, I step back, causing both their hands to fall, and multiple groans of complaint. It even feels like the baby twists in disappointment. “This is nothing like the skull.” I say, “Besides, I filled you both in on what it was saying if you asked.”

“Not all of it,” George says, “It was pretty obvious you’d leave bits out.”

“The only bits I’d leave out were either hurtful to you guys, or unnecessary.”

“On the contrary, if you’d mentioned all the times the skull would tease you about me, we might have gotten together sooner.” Lockwood states.

George pulls an annoying face to show his agreement. “It would’ve saved me a lot of frustration.”

“So this is payback?” I splutter.

“Ooh, this is the first time a so obviously pregnant women has been angry with me.” George says, “Odd, considering you’ve been so nice to me lately.”

I glare at both boys in front of me, mouth open ready to scold them, but suddenly all the baby’s movement hits me, “You two are lucky I have to pee.”

“Always the lady.” I hear George say as I walk out.

George and Lockwood left Portland Row not too long after that, off to investigate the matter of the gate they had found in the country. When he returned, Lockwood informed me of what Barnes told him on the matter, and that we were welcome to visit the six agents and their supervisor, but Kipps had already made plans to do so. Beyond that, I didn’t speak to him.

I knew I was being a little unreasonable, and I wasn’t super angry anymore, I just wanted to avoid him getting on my nerves again so I wouldn’t shout.

I’m lying in the library, having just returned from a trip to the shops to buy a few more dresses, when Lockwood finds me.

He kneels beside the couch I’m at, brushing a piece of hair out of my eyes. “Je suis désolé.” He says, with a pleading smile, “It means I’m sorry.”

I sit up, allowing him to take the spot my head had just been, “I know what that means.”

He puts his arm around me and presses a kiss to my temple, “I wasn’t sure.” He murmurs into my hair.

I turn to look at him directly, “I’m sorry, too. I shouldn’t have gotten angry, I ruined a really good moment.”

“I should have told you what I was saying.” His forehead leans against mine, instinctively I close my eyes and gently press my lips against his.

He sits back against the arm of the sofa, pulling me so I’m laying against his chest. It honestly isn’t very comfortable with my stomach, but I don’t move yet. “What did you say?”

I hear the lazy smile in his voice, “Just talking about how I hope the baby looks like you, and then when George showed up, I told him how weird he is.”

“Him?” I ask. We haven’t found out if the baby is a boy or a girl.

“Just a guess.” He says. “Quite worryingly, George promised to teach him all the bad words in every language.”

“Hmmm, that’s a problem we’ll have to deal with when it comes around.” I mutter.

We’re quiet for a while, only moving when I shift myself so I could be a little more comfortable. I almost fall asleep to the sounds of our breathing, but the baby starts its tapping again.

“Lockwood.” I move my hand, which is already interlaced with his, onto my belly.

“Is it moving?” He asks.

“Yeah.” I say, a little disappointed that he couldn’t feel the tapping anymore.

“Lucy?”

“Hm?”

“Je t’aime.”

Kick.

Bonus:

I’m sitting at my desk in the basement, staring at the bulge underneath my t-shirt. Technically, Lockwood’s t-shirt, but I’d been stealing it for years, it’s perfect for the days I don’t have to be anywhere.

I hadn’t felt the baby move all day and I was bored of my paperwork. I wanted some company.

The past week and a half, Lockwood was having fun with the baby’s fondness of French. Every night, I fell asleep to him muttering to my stomach. He was speaking to it so much, I was beginning to catch him slipping into his second language absentmindedly, mumbling as he went about his day, or referring to objects in French by accident. It was pretty cute, to be honest.

Still, French was the only thing that caused the baby to riot. It would gently tap and move around casually, just for me, but only get excited enough for others to feel the movement when that language was spoken.

“Hi, baby,” I whisper towards it. “How’s your day been?”

Nothing moves. I sigh, rubbing the spot that I feel the most pressure at, trying to disrupt the baby’s sleeping. “It’s just me right now, no need to stay quiet. I’d prefer you do that when I’m actually trying to sleep. Although your father hasn’t really been letting me fall asleep without feeling you move.”

A flutter starts at the mention of Lockwood, causing me to smile, unsure how he ever thought the baby didn’t like him. “Yeah, yeah, Lockwood’s great. Him and his français.”

I say the word mockingly, but it still is met with a series of kicks. I sigh, “I’m afraid I don’t know too much French, baby.”

The baby gives a little turn, as if it is readjusting itself to hear better. A motherly bolt of sympathy goes through me, and I give in. “Erm… bonjour.”

A delighted flurry of tumbles starts up, making me giggle a little bit. “Comment allez-vous?”

I search my brain for all the French I had picked up from Lockwood, trying to form a sentence out of the random words and phrases I could remember. Nothing makes sense. After a moment, I lean back and sigh. “Sorry, baby, I think that’s all I got.”

The movement in my stomach lessens, like it’s calming down after being riled up. Which is kind of what happened.

Breathing in a smile, I say, “There is one thing I will always tell you, in whatever language I can say it.” The baby stills, anticipating, “Je t’aime.”

An excited lurch causes me to sit up, almost laughing, “Yes, I love you so very much. More than I understand yet.”

The kicks and tumbles continue, and I don’t get any more paperwork done that day.

Bonus Bonus:

“Lockwood…” I stare at the polish in my hand, breathing in the lemony fumes. “I think I want to drink the shelf cleaner.”

I don’t hear him get up, but I feel him behind me. Gingerly, he takes the bottle from my grasp. “Please don’t drink the shelf cleaner.”

Again, thank you so much to @books-and-pumpkins

As promised, here are the French bits translated:

Lockwood: ...my love...

Lockwood: ...baby?

Lockwood: Oh, you like French? You do!

Lockwood: I could speak French, whenever you want. I think your mother is very beautiful, I hope you look like her. Although... you could do a lot with my smile.

Lockwood: We’ll cause lots of trouble, even if mom yells, if you get my smile. If you don’t, I could teach you other tricks.

(after George reappears)

Lockwood: Yes! And he likes French!

George: He?

Lockwood: (Just a guess) It doesn’t matter.

George: You do like French.

Lockwood: This is your uncle, he’s a little weird.

George: But you’ll love me anyway.

George: I’m going to teach you so many bad words, in so many languages.

George: He doesn’t like it when his parents fight.

(in the library)

Lockwood: I’m sorry.