#me when im george and im oblivious “lockwood left us alone bc he thinks she'll annoy me lol jokes on him bc i like her” idiot

[atlabeth]

here with me - george karim

request from @iloveyousomuchhhhhh

summary: ghost-hunting isn't the easiest occupation in the world. it helps when you've got someone like george in your corner.

a/n: thank you for this request, it was very cute and i loved my first delve into george, especially writing completely in his pov!

im not an expert on anxiety but i based the reader's anxiety and panic attack on my experience with them; not everyone experiences them the same way so keep that in mind. thank you again for the request and i hope you enjoy<3 shoutout to my restless reader characters you guys are struggling

wc: 3k

warning(s): reader has anxiety, reader has a small panic attack, emotional hurt/comfort, fluffy ending

You were a restless person. 

It was the first thing George noticed when he guided you into the living room and watched you settle into the cushions. Your leg almost instantly started bobbing up and down, and he could feel the vibrations through the wooden floor. He gave a small nod to Lockwood before he walked off. 

Restless wasn’t necessarily bad, he thought as he stood in the kitchen, watching the kettle and waiting for it to boil. Restless meant more time to be productive, more time to go over plans, more time to spend in the archives. There was always more time to be spent in the archives. 

Restless also wasn’t necessarily good, he thought with another glance at Lockwood. He was already plying you with easy smiles and kind words, and George wondered how long it would be until you ran off screaming like the last few girls. Restless meant absolutely zero patience, a blatant disregard for his pleas of a little more time, a penchant for getting into trouble. 

Well. It wasn’t exactly like he was a stranger to those things, working with Lockwood. George just didn’t know if he would be able to handle another one. 

George walked back into the room with a tray of tea, about to announce himself, when Lockwood shot him a warning look. You were sitting there with your eyes closed, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, as you held Lockwood’s watch in your hands. George stood there, watching you in all your focus, when suddenly your eyes flew open and you practically threw the watch back to the table. 

“I’m sorry for that,” you breathed, “but absolutely nobody should have that thing near them. It almost hurts to go further with it.” 

Lockwood’s lips twitched. George chuckled. 

“Tea?” George asked, and your whole body flinched as your head whipped around to him. 

“Yes, please.” The words rushed out of your mouth, as if you were afraid to use up more time than needed. He handed you a cup that you accepted gratefully. 

“Pitkin’s best,” he said. 

Your leg had stopped bouncing up and down with such ferocity, George noticed. 

He smiled. 

“Well, that’s a good sign,” Lockwood continued, picking up the watch with a slight glance and an even slighter smile at George. “You see, that was my watch…” 

Lockwood’s words trailed off in his ears as George continued to watch you. How you shifted every few seconds, trying to get comfortable like it was a fruitless task. How you latched onto every word Lockwood said with ferocious attentiveness, as if you were scared of what would happen if you missed a single syllable. Your eyes flicked over to George for the shortest moment, but it was enough for him to realize he’d been staring. 

He cleared his throat and set the tray down on the table, settling down in his seat. He’d meant to take his armchair as usual, be judgmental as usual, say something clever to Lockwood when you turned out to not be the right fit as usual. 

But instead, George stayed silent. 

And he watched. 

-

George ran into you the next morning—a slight exaggeration, calling it morning, seeing as it was four in the morning—and it was hardly planned. He’d woken up with cotton in his mouth, and on his noble voyage for a glass of water, that was when he nearly ran into you. 

“Oh, god—” the words rushed out of your mouth, an already placating hand flying up as you put distance in between the two of you— “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even notice you.” 

George squinted, nudging his glasses back up with the tip of his finger. “What are you doing up?” 

“Couldn’t sleep,” you explained with a gesture back at the table. George noticed the binder, the folder, the scattered papers. “I thought I would make sure I was ready.” 

“...You’re reading through our notes,” he said slowly, “again.” 

“It never hurts to be prepared,” you said. 

George huffed. “I’d say we’re quite prepared. This is one of the rare times I’ve been able to get Lockwood to slow down.” He shrugged. “I suppose I have you to thank for that, since you’re quite new. He doesn’t want to lose an agent he just got.” 

Your eyes widened slightly. “I don’t plan on being lost.” 

He made an off-handed gesture. “Don’t take anything I say too seriously. I’m still waking up.” 

“Ah.” You stared at him for a moment before you seemed to snap out of it, and you cleared your throat. “I was just going up to get my coat. It’s a bit drafty in here.” 

“I’d recommend you go to sleep instead,” George said. “You’re bright, and I’d like you to stay that way for the job tomorrow.” He frowned. “Today, rather.” 

“I just like going over everything until I know I can’t forget it,” you said. “It eases my mind.” 

“I’m pretty sure you know it by now.” 

“I am as well,” you agreed, “but you never really know what you know until you’re staring a ghost down point blank, do you?” 

The smallest of smiles formed against his will. “You aren’t helping your case.” 

You tilted your head to the side. “Really?” 

“Really,” he agreed. “We don’t need the entire agency sleep-deprived tomorrow.” 

“The entire agency?” 

“Lockwood does not sleep,” George said. “I think he came out of the womb with dark circles.” 

You chuckled, and you nodded after a moment. “Alright. I’ll turn in just for you.” 

“It’s an honor,” he said. 

He meant to be facetious, but he found he meant it more than he realized. George watched you go, up the stairs and into the attic, and it took the sound of the door closing for him to snap out of it. 

He blinked, shaking his head as he went back to his own room. It wasn’t until he cleared his throat to an audience of no one but himself that he realized he never even got that glass of water. 

-

“Does Lockwood spend much time in the archives?” you asked. 

You were trying to make pleasant enough small talk to fill in the silence on your walk over—George appreciated the concept, but not so much the reality. 

“He’s not one for details,” George said. “He can’t charm his way through articles.” 

You chuckled, and George smiled. He felt a strange swell of pride every time he managed to make you laugh, or really just happy in any kind of way. 

“It’s the reason he got me from Fittes,” he continued. “Lockwood can fence his way out of a box, but sometimes it’s like he’d rather die than wait a few more days so I can make sure we’ve got enough information.” 

“Well, you’ve got another member on your team,” you said with a slight smile of your own. “I’m not very good with talking to people. He can stick to that—I’d much rather be in the archives with you.” 

George felt his cheeks heat the slightest bit. He looked over at you, once again finding himself studying your features, and his eyes darted away the second you looked back at him. 

“Welcome to the team,” he finally settled on. George found he meant it wholly. 

-

George Karim prides himself on noticing things. 

He is, after all, a researcher above all else. He’s able to find breaks in cases Lockwood could never dream of. He was able to get one up on Fittes kids all the time without even trying. He was, henceforth, very easily able to notice when his higher-ups were getting annoyed with his questions and poking around, and happily allowed himself to be ‘stolen’ from the company by Anthony Lockwood. 

And George Karim, as someone who prided himself on noticing things, noticed you an awful lot. 

He noticed that, whenever they got Arif’s, you waited until he and Lockwood had gotten their first pick before you took your own. 

He noticed that your favorite kind of gum to chew on jobs was the strongest spearmint available, and though you hated cinnamon mints, you pretended to love them just to put Lockwood up in arms. 

He noticed that you preferred to lace up your left boot before your right, no matter what. George was sure you all could have been on the run from a dozen Type Twos and you would still take the time for the specifics. 

He noticed that you doubted every single thing you did, questioned yourself whenever possible, and always let George take the lead whenever the two of you ended up researching together. 

There was one time in the archives, on the most frustrating case he’d had in a while when George felt like he could have pulled all his hair out in pure annoyance. You then offered up what turned out to be a crucial bit of information, something that led them down the path to solving it—you’d found it an hour earlier, but you were so unsure about actually being right that you held it back until you had triple checked it. 

George made sure that from then on, whenever you two were researching together, you would share whatever you found immediately. 

(“You’re valuable,” he’d scoffed, “almost as much a genius in here as I am. So don’t hold anything back.

He wouldn’t forget the smile you graced him with for a long time.)

George noticed more and more about you the more the three of you worked together, even more so when you went to the archives together while Lockwood worked the field, or went off with each other to pick up groceries while Lockwood met with clients, or any time when it was just the two of you. 

Lockwood enjoyed leaving George with you, for some strange reason. Maybe he thought you would drive him crazy, with your almost neurotic double and triple-checking of everything and excessive need for cleanliness. The joke was on Lockwood, though—George rather enjoyed your company. 

You were pleasant, quiet, intelligent, and you were willing to work with him. George actually quite liked you. What more could he need in a colleague? 

So when George heard quite a large crash coming from the attic, he took it upon himself to investigate. He figured he at least owed it to you, what with how much you’d been helping him lately in the archives. Your small marks on the Thinking Cloth in defense of him in the midst of his and Lockwood’s scribbled squabble were another point in your favor, as well as the fact that whenever things went wrong in your vicinity, you were prone to stubborn insistence that you figure it out on your own without any help. 

He thought it was ridiculous—even more so that both you and Lockwood shared that trait. What was the damn point of working in an agency if you weren’t going to accept help from your colleagues? 

So when he got to the top of the stairs, he knocked on the door to the attic and called out your name. “Is everything alright?” 

There was no response. George pressed his ear against the door, and he could hear heavy breathing. He didn’t consider himself much of an expert on breathing, but it was obviously yours—you sounded as if you’d just run a marathon. 

He frowned as he knocked again and said your name again. When there was yet again no response, he sighed. 

“I hope you’re decent,” he said, “because I’m coming in.” 

There was no immediate protest, so George cracked open the door and peered in. You were in fact decent, much to his relief, but that was about the only good thing. 

You were sitting against your dresser, back pressed flat against the wood. It wasn’t exactly what he’d expected to find—you, hyperventilating, eyes rimmed red with visible tear tracks down your cheeks, and a few fallen books on the floor across from you. 

But George didn’t panic, only stared at you for a moment before he moved into action. He was no stranger to all of this. 

He knelt down across from you and looked you right in the eye, saying your name. “Do you want me to stay?” 

You nodded shakily, and he mirrored the action. “Can you speak?” 

“A— a bit,” you managed through heaved breaths. 

He nodded again. “Breathe with me. Can you do that?” 

You nodded again. You seemed to be calming down just the slightest amount, if only because someone else was with you. He would take whatever he could get. 

George slowly let out all the air in his lungs, keeping eye contact with you the entire time as you followed along with him. Then he breathed in, counting the four seconds on his fingers for you, and held it for eight and let it out for seven doing the same.

“That’s it,” he said. “You’re doing great.” 

You screwed your eyes shut, a hand reaching out blindly, and without fully thinking, George took it. His breath caught for a split second as your fingers tightened around his, then he just swallowed as he squeezed back. 

“It’s alright,” George murmured. “I’m here with you. I’ve got you.” 

You continued to breathe the way he showed you, holding onto George’s hand while he murmured reassurances to get you through it. Eventually, the haggard breathing ceased, your vice-like grip on his hand loosened, and the storm had been weathered. 

“Are you alright?” George asked quietly. “Well— better than before?” 

You nodded yet again, and you used your free hand to wipe away drying tear tracks on your cheeks. “Yeah. I— I’m better.” 

“Good.” 

“I’m sorry,” you rasped. 

He frowned. “For what?” 

“For this,” you mumbled, and you pulled your hand away. “I know you didn’t sign up to deal with this—” 

George reached for your hand again, lacing his fingers with yours, and you stopped as your gaze met his. 

“No need to apologize,” he said. “You’re part of the team, remember? I’ve got your back.” 

You nodded a few times, that smile he’d come to appreciate slowly coming back. “Right. Thank you, George.” 

“Of course,” he said. “We deal with ghosts every day. I’m… no stranger to panic attacks.” 

Something in your eyes changed, and your throat bobbed. “It… it was because of the ghost. From today.” 

“I figured,” he murmured. 

“It hit a bit too close to home,” you said wryly, “the way they died and all. And it didn’t help that you nearly got ghost-touched.” 

That gave him pause. “It was because of me?” 

You shrugged, glancing away again. “It would honestly be better if I hated you all. I wouldn’t get so scared every time something went wrong. Which—” you huffed a laugh— “with us, is practically every case.” 

George still couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it. Apparently, his silence was a sign, because you sighed. 

“I keep seeing it, George,” you said, voice slightly strained. “I keep seeing you and that damned ghost, except when I try to sleep, Lockwood isn’t there with his rapier to save you.” 

He couldn’t help but look into your eyes then, really see you. How could he not, when you said things like that? 

“I’m here,” he said softly, holding up your intertwined hands. “Flesh and bone.” He moved your hands to his heart. “Still beating.” 

“Still beating,” you repeated in a whisper. 

And the two of you remained like that for a touch longer than would be considered normal, but George didn’t want to let go. There was something about you, there had always been something about you, that made him not want to let go. 

“Do you want to come to my room?” he asked, and it took a beat for him to realize how sudden it was. “Not— not like that, I swear. I just—” George laughed nervously as he let your hands fall back down— “I figure you don’t really want to be alone right now.” 

“You figured right.” You glanced around your room and shivered. “The buzz of the ghost lamps really starts to get to you after a while.” 

George chuckled, and he helped you up. Your hands remained intertwined as you went out the room, down the stairs, and into his own. He felt a bit ashamed at the clutter, but you didn’t seem bothered. 

“My bed’s quite comfy,” he said, shifting a bit as he stared at it. “It should be good for the both of us.” The burst of confidence that guided him from your room to his seemed to have faded, leaving him holding hands with a girl and not much idea of where to go from there. 

And again, you didn’t seem to care. “Thank you for doing this,” you said. “I— I appreciate it more than you know. I don’t think I could have gotten through the night alone.” You paused. “I don’t think I could have gotten through that alone.” 

“I told you,” George said, “you’re part of the team. We’ll always be here for you.” 

You smiled, and George understood why poetry was written. 

“I’ll always be here for you,” he added. 

“And I’ll always be here for you,” you said. “As long as you’ll have me.” 

“Barring our deaths, I think we’ll have you around for a while,” George said. He cleared his throat. “Apologies. That’s not very funny after this afternoon.” 

You laughed, and you tugged George towards the bed. You pulled your knee up to your chest when you sat down. “You can joke about it all you want as long as it stays a joke.” 

George smiled. “Got it.” 

The two of you settled into his bed, backs facing each other and him staring at the wall. George had never paid so much attention to his breathing, but he found that when he was around you lately, he’d been paying attention to everything.

(George should have known the moment he considered asking Lockwood for advice that he was too far gone.) 

“George,” you said, breaking the silence. He’d never thought his name could sound so pleasant. “Thank you again. For all of this.” 

“Any time,” he said. He meant it with all his heart. 

And with your body warmth so close to him, the extra weight on the mattress, your soft breathing in even intervals, George fell asleep faster than ever.