'til our fingers decompose

three

CAMERON & SCARLETT

"And it's a suspected Type Two?"

Cameron fiddles with his rapier, leaning in the arched stone doorway of the chapel. The graveyard stretches out behind him: lines of graves and stone coffins, the kind words etched into the stone beginning to fade with age. Nobody bothers to keep them clean anymore, let alone even visit for fear of the ghosts. Only agents, and the unlucky night-watch.

The boy glances behind him at a gaggle of kids, the eldest no more than eight. His eyebrows furrow.

"—and my sensitives just complain and complain, Mr. Gilmore. Like, non-stop." The man is rambling. He slicks back his thinning, gray hair with one wrinkled hand— the copious grease aids in keeping it down. Cameron tries not to physically react.

He's about to correct the graveyard caretaker on his name, then decides against it. Mabel always calls him her brother anyway.

"I'll get it sorted. Quick and practically free of charge. Compared to Fittes', at least..." The last part is mumbled under his breath. Sort of. Luckily, the old man is too— well, old— to even hear.

Cam continues, glancing down at the untied laces of his boots before shrugging, "Sensitives are just mindless pricks. I'm sure it's nothing."

—

Oh, it's something, that's for sure. A Type Three. And, Cameron being on his own and all— Mabel's out of commission (on his orders), and Delphi's technically illegally working for them anyway— he's not equipped to do a single thing about it. Other than roll about in the mud trying to avoid the damn thing.

So the Fittes' team are called in.

"Come on, I got it! You don't need to call them!" Cam complains, the aglets of his laces clicking against the stone as he trails around after the greasy caretaker. God, he could fry an egg with all that grease. A frustrated breath exhales through his nose, "Please."

"You're begging? How little jobs do you get, nowadays?"

He'd know that voice anywhere, and more than anything, it makes him want to pick up one of the loose slabs of stone and slam it over his head so hard his skull cracks.

"Hi, Scarlett." Monotone as ever. Cameron turns to face her, suddenly becoming increasingly aware of the mud smeared over his face from the previous encounter.

But of course she looks perfect. She always does— her dark, shiny hair is pulled into the tightest ponytail known to man, kicking out in curls just slightly at the ends. Her lips are stained with her usual favourite shade of red (to match her name, which Cameron always thought was just stupid and on-the-nose), her arms are crossed over her chest, and the heeled boots that he has no idea how she walks in click against the stone.

Scarlett grins at him, and it's all he can do not to wrap his hands around her throat. "Hi, Cam! Long time, no see. Funny that I meet you here again, hey?"

"Yeah, you're fuckin' hilarious." Cameron mutters. He can't even entertain the back-and-forth— which Scarlett probably delights in, knowing her.

She likes riling him up. The way his eyes bare into hers, how he runs his hands through his dark curls and scrubs at his face in an attempt to match her.

It's all too reminiscent of the first time they met.

"I'm just commenting. You had the same amount of mud on your face. More blood, though— the broken nose was a look." The girl shrugs it off, "But, okay, fun's over. I know you can't tell, but this is a big deal. Try not to get in the way."

The glinting in her eyes doesn't dissipate in the slightest, regardless of whether the fun is 'over'. Cameron watches her pull out her rapier, and does the same. Only he's using his as a mirror.

"Take a shower." Is Scarlett's final comment, before she's disappeared down the stone steps of the chapel like a ghost of her own. The boy kicks at a loose slab on the floor out of frustration— then immediately regrets it when he practically doubles over in pain.

Delphi's gonna laugh at him. She'll never let him live this down. Why did he let her in again?