PRETTY BOY, george karim x reader

| 003 | settle in¹

Lucy grimaced, looking around. Other than the two bedrooms, there was a desk littered with papers, and a stool thats surface was barely visible. You followed her eyes from each crevice and crack in the wall until they made their way to another closed door -- one up another set of stairs. "Huh?" she whispered, her voice early audible. "What about that room?"

"That's private." The sentence sounded like it had been rehearsed a million times, and even so, it wasn't that convincing. "Nothing very interesting. Follow me, lots more to see."

He jogged down the stairs, and you raced after him -- like George, he was agile. You looked over your shoulder, watching Lucy. Her gaze lingered on the shut door, wondering, just like you, what was inside. She followed quickly after, trading a sheepish smile. 

Lockwood ceased his walk once you had made it down to the ground floor, waiting for the two of you. "The library is through there," he said, and pointed behind him, "but this is the most important room."

Once again, you began your descent. You had been there once before (when George had led you down into the kitchen), so it wasn't at all groundbreaking. You knew what was behind the wall, and where everything was. 

Lockwood wavered in front of the door, knocking on the wood to let George know he'd be coming in. 

"We call this the thinking cloth." He tapped on the messy table, moving around to the side. "We jot down memos, theories, trains of thought. It's a very useful tool."

You tuned him out, looking around the dimly lit room, only now noticing the scribbles of nonsense and insults written in ink on the tables surface. There were a few... adult images sketched onto the table, following with a mocking word or two. 

You took a deep breath, and your eyes widened at the smell of tomato. Specifically, tomato sauce. You never had a problem with it -- only that it was a delicacy, which meant you couldn't have it very often, and it was a pain to make. Too much onion, too much tomato, no matter the amount of ingredients used, it was never the one made by your mother. Arguably, hers were the best.

Following the smell that wafted in the air, you turned, seeing George in a patterned apron. He held a ladle, stirring the tomato sauce in a pot. "When a case goes badly and we're not talking to each other, it's good for exchanging insults too."

"Ah," Lucy said. She looked away and traced one of the many drawings on the table. "How often does that happen?"

Lockwood shrugged, holding the handle to a door you hadn't observed was there. "Almost never. Now," he tugged on the handle, opening the door to reveal a bland wall, that maintained hooks and brown bags. "The basement. Follow me."

Lucy locked eyes with you, and you merely shrugged, motioning her towards the door. She went first, and you went after, giving George a last look before shutting the door behind you. House-wife. 

You squinted your eyes, adjusting to the dark. The stairs down were black and spiral, and you held onto the railing, making sure not to fall. It would certainly hurt a lot, seeing as the floor was cement. 

"Offices," Lockwood said, pointing vaguely, too fast to make out where. He was practically running. 

He tapped boxes at the end of hall. The light was on but barely emitted any light at all, and it flickered ever so often. "Case files. George is obsessed with the history of the Problem. He's a fastidious record keeper. It's a good thing, too. I get brain-ache writing a shopping list." He walked away, hand trailing on the concrete beams.

"Training room." He pointed up, waving his hand around at the ceiling. "Randomized smoke jets simulating a variety of attack and defence patterns."

He walked away, leaving you confused and trying to comprehend what he had said. Shaking your head, you watched as he leaned forward and clicked a button.