South London Forever // George Karim

-scrambled eggs and soft hands-

Freddie limped down the stairs with a yawn, feeling blood pulsing in the sole of her foot with each step. The pain was easier to ignore now, but it still hurt, and the bandage made it harder to put her socks on over the top.

Sleep was rubbed from her eyes, and she opened the back door to the small garden no one really used anymore. Chai bumped into her calf as he trotted past into the overgrown grass and dying shrubs. There was a tiny broken greenhouse in one corner that used to house sunflowers, and a pear tree near the rack of gumboots probably filled by spiders now. It no longer grew pears.

"Come on puppy," Freddie called hoarsely, patting her thigh and following the hyperactive puppy who would hopefully not pee on the carpet now. "Lockwood'll feed you when he gets up, don't worry."

"You know he doesn't speak English, right?"

Freddie glared in the general direction of Georges voice and spoke even louder, "don't worry Chai, he didn't mean it."

"He's... he's chewing on your-"

She pushed the dog away from her foot, which was being gnawed on quite violently, and stepped around the wriggling ball of fluff, moving to open the fridge that was somehow filled with food. She felt around for the strawberry jam, noticing more jars and containers then yesterday. "You've been busy."

"You don't have a lot of food in this house." George said simply, and Freddie heard the little sliding part of the toaster squeak. She sat on the bench, next to the new terracotta pot that smelt of basil.

Freddie listened to the sound of the spatula on the frypan, the birds outside and the taxi's already trundling up and down the cobblestone street. She listened to George's footsteps for a moment and felt a crease form between her eyebrows. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yeah, great, thanks." He replied, and there was a sort of awkward silence, one Freddie hadn't had with the boy.

She squinted at him when he moved past, waist brushing her knees. He was wearing fluffy pyjama pants. "You're not a very good liar, in case you were wondering."

"Just," he sighed. "A bad dream."

Freddie swung her legs a little. She knew he was still lying, it was obvious in his tone of voice, he was tired and there was a little lilt, like he was trying to sound casual about it. George didn't talk like that normally. She let it go. "...Okay."

"Do you like them scrambled?"

"Like, the boardgame?" It was an odd topic change, but she went along with it. Freddie shrugged, "I mean, it's very hard to play when Ant has to tell me what letters I have in the first place, but-"

"No, the eggs, scrambled eggs." George corrected her gently, and Freddie realised she could actually smell eggs. It made her mouth water and she couldn't even remember the last time she'd had a hot meal that wasn't take away pizza from the Italian place near the Archives [she and Lockwood always shared a Hawaiian pizza with olives], let alone for breakfast.

She took a deep breath of cooked eggs and the fresh bread she could hear George hacking at with one of the blunt knives she wasn't allowed to use anymore. "What are those?"

George was silent for a moment. "You don't know what scrambled eggs are?"

"We don't usually make eggs, toast is easier," Freddie explained. Everything they did was ease over quality. It took too much willpower and energy; besides, it was just food. What was the point in being extravagant about it? "I'd try them though."