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He holds his match up to hers and smirks.
"'Til death do us part, huh?"
She rolls her eyes and heads for the cellar, knowing he won't be far behind.
She catches a look of pity from White and distain from Peacock as they pass, which she steadily ignores. She's seen worse. He's a lech, sure, but in her book that doesn't make him anything special, it just makes him a man. The amount of holier-than-thou types she's seen on photo negative in various interesting compromising positions, she's as likely to believe a man's chaste disinterest as she is White's husbands dying of natural causes. At least he makes it clear from the get-go what he's about, he backs off when sufficiently scolded, and he's otherwise pretty levelheaded. She can appreciate a man who admits what he is. Much better than Mustard, who pretends he's above it, or Wadsworth, who probably IS, or Green, who's a lost cause. It could be a lot worse. And anyway, he makes her laugh.
----
He lingers at the top of the stairs, beady eyes shifting uneasily from her to the dark pit of the cellar below them, down and back, down and back. She folds her arms and leans against the doorframe, trying to look more glamourously unbothered than she feels.
"If you think I'm going down there first, you're crazy."
His eyes settle on hers and he leans against the doorframe opposite and folds his arms, a haughty mirror.
"And that's your professional opinion, is it?"
She smirks.
"Better than yours. I thought you head-shrinkers had enough training to pick a dead Boddy from a live one."
She expects a retort. Instead, he deflates, sagging against the aging wood.
"I made a mistake, alright?" He runs a hand through his hair, voice dropping to a mutter. "This whole thing was a mistake."
His nerves are fraying. She can't blame him - it's not like she's holding up much better herself. It's been a hell of a night, and they're still on the clock. She shrugs, fixes her hair. When she speaks again her voice is a little softer, a little gentler.
"Hey, I'm not judging. Man was a rat. I just don't wanna be next."
"You won't be." He looks up, voice suddenly steady and serious. "It wasn't me."
The sincerity knocks her image of him off-kilter, and she finds herself smiling.
"W-Well, good."
He smiles back, then glances down the stairs again. The smile slips off his face and he glances furtively back at her again. She can almost see the conflicting emotions warring in his head - lust (duh) and fondness vs suspicion and self-preservation. His adam's apple bobs up and down.
Oh, hell, he's almost cute.
She takes pity and grabs his hand.
"It wasn't me either. C'mon, we'll go together."
----
They hear the scream above them and look up. He elbows her lightly.
"Told you it wasn't me."
----
There's no time to talk out the finer points of the plan, so she drags him to the couch and hopes for the best. His hands wander every which way, but he follows her lead, his breath doesn't stink, and he has at least some idea what he's doing. She's had worse.
----
"So," she whispers perhaps a little too flippantly as they wait for Wadsworth to resume his summation, "You like 'em young, huh?"
His face goes surprisingly hard.
"Don't."
She studies his scowl, his sudden rigid posture.
"You really liked her." She says eventually. Not that it makes it any less unethical, but at least she knows it was an affair, not an offense. It's like a weight lifts off her shoulders. Not that she's admitting that in front of him.
"She was a sweet girl," he says with less-than-convincing nonchalance. "Smart. Pretty, too. There was a lot to like."
He grimaces.
"Well, apart from all the arson."
---
She slumps against the wall for a moment, resting her feet and taking shallow breaths. The invitation never mentioned a marathon. She still looks fantastic, of course, but it's a near thing.
He's just to her left with his hands on his knees, bent near double. He looks up at her through fogged-up lenses and smirks.
"Regretting those heels, yet?"
She swats him, but she smiles as she does it.
"I'm game to swap if you are."
He opens his mouth to answer, but his retort is lost in a babbling streak of black and clattering herd of impractical footwear thudding past them. He wipes a streak of sweat from his brow.
"Think they'd miss us?" Despite his exhaustion, he still manages to look hopeful.
She rolls her eyes and grabs his hand.
"Come on, I wanna hear how it ends."
With a tug, they're off again.
----
She watches the last police car peel away in silence. They all do. There doesn't seem to be a lot to say.
A voice breathes in her ear.
"Need a lift?"
She turns to find him looming behind her. He's surprisingly awkward, gaze fixed steadily over her shoulder, fingers twitching at his sides. His eyes flick towards her, then skid back away when their eyes briefly meet.
Oh.
Well, alright then.
She can feel stares boring into her back. She ignores them, threads her arm through his.
"Sure do."
He opens the car door for her, hovering in the open doorway as she slides in. His eyes are narrowed, thinking. She raises an eyebrow.
"What's wrong? Forgotten how the next part goes?"
"Peter," he says suddenly, then vanishes from the doorway. The driver's side opens and he plops himself in. His fingers drum on the steering wheel, then he reaches over to smooth her dress down over her legs. She lets him. "My name's Peter."
His hand lingers a little too long. She gives him a pointed look. He shrugs but straightens in his seat, turning the key.
"Hello, Peter." She gives a little wave. "Wanna know something funny?"
"Hm?" He's distracted, fiddling with the radio.
She flashes him a pearly-white grin.
"My name really is Scarlet."
He pauses for a moment, staring out into space. Then he laughs. She laughs along with him.
And they drive away, and when they reach her still-broken down car they keep driving, until it vanishes out of sight.