'til our fingers decompose

five

SCARLETT & CAMERON
— circa. seven years ago

January is always, somehow, colder than December. Scarlett's breath makes clouds in the air in front of her, fur-lined boots crunching in the frost of the night. A lamp flickers to her right with a soft buzz of electricity.

Her hands are shaking— from the cold, or something else entirely, she's unsure. She crosses her arms and tucks them beneath her armpits in an attempt to conserve warmth. It's not the best position if a ghost comes at her.

Something snaps to her left.

No, nevermind— a squirrel. A scoff, though it's more like a breath of relief, escapes between the girl's lipbalm-slathered lips. She turns to glance at the creaking cemetery gates behind her.

Scarlett wants nothing more than to run home. But her father's heavy hands and mother's sharp words wait for her there, and if she returns to her team empty handed, she'll face their laughter and mocking words. So she pushes through the frost.

The Fittes' supervisors have been so harsh recently, she notes. Not that they were ever easy on her— but they used to be encouraging, kind, in their own way. Now it's all yelling. Making her go find the night-watch kids by herself is an "exercise of independence", or something. It just kind-of seems like a punishment. What for? She doesn't have a clue. Not a thing they say to her makes any sense.

A whisper in her ear; a deathly groan in the other. The usual ghostly noises she hears. She blocks it out, forcing her legs forward— she should've worn something warmer. The leggings and shorts aren't cutting it.

The next groan that comes feels less... dead. Further away. Her ears practically prick up, her eyes flickering around her immediate area, hands unfurling from beneath her armpits and reaching for the rapier strapped to her belt. She's not supposed to have one (nor be on the field, technically) but God, is she glad she does.

Actually, maybe it's not that big a deal. There's a shape on the ground down the path. It's just a boy.

Scarlett rushes over anyway. Her hair, still curled in ringlets from the night before, falls in front of her face as she hesitates a few steps away and stops. The boy pulls a shaking hand away from his face to look at her in fear, and it's then she can notice the blood staining his fingers and gushing from his nose. Goddamnit, night-watch kids have it hard.

"Shit." Scarlett curses. It's a word her team uses liberally, especially Flo, who's fifteen and gives her so many death stares Scarlett almost thinks she may have murdered her family somehow. She finds herself picking little stuff up from the people around her.

Like how she now picks at the skin around her fingertips. Her mom does that.

"Y'gonna just stare at me?" The boy demands thickly, and it takes her out of her thoughts. She's been taking him in— his dark curls, ones that match hers, except unkempt and caked in mud. His slightly cleaner hand reaches up to start picking it out self-consciously.

She goes to sit beside him, then notices her new fluffy boots are also caked in mud. She's standing in a ton of it. Instead, she crouches, digging in her pockets for a tissue. "I could. Don't be mean." Scarlett frowns. Her eyebrows furrow in an attempt to seem more professional.

All it does is make him laugh. "Scary." He says, unintelligible through the blood that's now dripping into his mouth. Scarlett dabs at it with the tissue— it doesn't really do a lot, so she instructs him to tip his head back the way her supervisor did when Diana fell on her face after a Cold Maiden encounter.

"Grave robbers?" Her legs ache, so she just decides to give up and sit down in the mud.

He watches her out of the corner of his eye. There's a small smile on his face. "Yeah. 'Fought 'em off, though." She lets him have the win, lie or not.

Eventually, the blood flow stops, and he's just left with the dried streaks of it beneath his nostrils and mud smeared— well, everywhere else. She laughs before she can stop herself.

"You should take a shower." She says, teasing.

"Water got cut off." He replies in a matter-of-fact way. His voice still sounds congested. "Maybe at my— sister's. You gotta have one too now." She doesn't know why he hesitates, but she shrugs it off.

There's quiet between them for a few moments, the usual ghostly noises returning to flood her ears. A glance at her now dirty watch reveals it's 2:48 AM, meaning she'll have to deal with the extra ghostly activity for the next few hours.

The boy watches her. "D'you need to go?" He says, shoving his hands into the mud to push himself up to stand. He helps her up, and side-by-side, Scarlett realises she's taller than him. She snickers.

She also notices the injury on his forehead, slightly faded. Not fresh. She stays quiet about it. Instead, "21, The Boltons. My address. Y'know, if you ever... want a shower. Only Thursdays, though, that's when my parents aren't home."

"Thanks." He says, wiping his nose with the back of his hand. "Thanks, um..."

"Scarlett."

"Cam— Cameron."

Scarlett grins. "Cam Cameron?"

"Shut up—" Cam's cut off by a yell, from the gate into the graveyard. "Holloway? Get your arse back here, now!"

"Bye." Scarlett says quickly, combing her hair through with her hands. She dusts off her coat, gives Cameron the quickest and yet somehow most genuine of smiles, and runs off while still picking mud from beneath her nails. With nothing to tell them about the case. Great.

Then he's alone. And his nose starts bleeding again, because he's been blowing it too much. Four hours left of his shift...