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Jan. 24th, 2013 11:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mezzanotteThere's the sharp swill of an oaky whiskey that runs down his throat, and Eames realises he's a touch less than sober. He's watered down the scotch stored in their liquor cabinet so he thought of that as an excuse to open a proper bottle. Arthur's not here anyway, might as well get away with what he can.
He's playing with his poker chip on the marble of their post coffee table. Flick and twirl, until his hands fall into a rhythmic pattern. Sticky fingers that need something to do.
There's a blurring to his consciousness. A waving of his world and the feel and sounds of everything are so hazy that the light that seeps in from the suddenly open door is blinding. It spills itself into the room, and makes such an impression that Eames has to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment to adjust.
"You could have a smite of decency with the lights, love," he says without the barest hint of charisma. He smells like the sullen scent of sweat, liquor and cheap perfume and he has to wonder if she can smell the desperation from there.
Her voice is a song, syrupy and much too wrapped in genuine concern. "Eames?" she inquires. "Is everything okay? Why are you in the dark?"
There's a choked laugh that escapes from the back of his throat, it threatens to spill out and transform into uncontrolled inebriated laughter. He holds it back and swallows it down with another swig of whiskey.
"Peachy," he answers unmoving from his stance. "Bit of a drink, is all."
It comes out more slurred than it intends. He taps the table with his forefingers a few times, pretends it's the long missed felt of a poker table.
"Got myself thinking of things that don't matter," it's a lie but that's alright because he's a liar and he's just doing what he does best.
She removes the coat with a practiced elegance and then makes her way to the walk in. Eames can't help but wonder if she'll remove more than that and some shallow portion of his brain wants her to. He's unsure if he should pour her a cup, can't remember for the life of him if she's a drinker or smoker. Arthur would know, he thinks - because Arthur would know everything about her marked 'credential'. Keep an organised file that would make wikipedia weep.
She saunters back into her living room, creates space for herself in the closest thing he'll ever get to a home in a long time.
"From each crime are born bullets that will one day seek out in you where the heart lies," he supplies before she can inquire. Neruda's a fucking ponce, but it's the closest thing he'll get to apt solution to a question he doesn't feel like answering.
"What are you talking about?" she repeats.
"There it is, tone of the champions." He raises his glass. "A number of things, I'd imagine. You could do well on yourself by sparing the worry. I've fought a bloody war, mind - I think I can manage. You've never wanted a younger bloke? Someone who still regards everything with a bright eye. Who's keener on you then I am,"
He wonders if she will try to kiss him and he will wonder if he is deserving. He doesn't deserve any of this. His mouth is an overflowing gutter, prone to bursting with the filthy things he forgets to hide.
"Not that I'm not keen, but keener. Comparative Adverb."
He has feet that are meant to run and these are the starting signs. The red flags that he's been stuck in one place to long and he can't cope with the idea of being weighted down and anchored.
"Mombasa's lovely this time of year."
He's playing with his poker chip on the marble of their post coffee table. Flick and twirl, until his hands fall into a rhythmic pattern. Sticky fingers that need something to do.
There's a blurring to his consciousness. A waving of his world and the feel and sounds of everything are so hazy that the light that seeps in from the suddenly open door is blinding. It spills itself into the room, and makes such an impression that Eames has to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment to adjust.
"You could have a smite of decency with the lights, love," he says without the barest hint of charisma. He smells like the sullen scent of sweat, liquor and cheap perfume and he has to wonder if she can smell the desperation from there.
Her voice is a song, syrupy and much too wrapped in genuine concern. "Eames?" she inquires. "Is everything okay? Why are you in the dark?"
There's a choked laugh that escapes from the back of his throat, it threatens to spill out and transform into uncontrolled inebriated laughter. He holds it back and swallows it down with another swig of whiskey.
"Peachy," he answers unmoving from his stance. "Bit of a drink, is all."
It comes out more slurred than it intends. He taps the table with his forefingers a few times, pretends it's the long missed felt of a poker table.
"Got myself thinking of things that don't matter," it's a lie but that's alright because he's a liar and he's just doing what he does best.
She removes the coat with a practiced elegance and then makes her way to the walk in. Eames can't help but wonder if she'll remove more than that and some shallow portion of his brain wants her to. He's unsure if he should pour her a cup, can't remember for the life of him if she's a drinker or smoker. Arthur would know, he thinks - because Arthur would know everything about her marked 'credential'. Keep an organised file that would make wikipedia weep.
She saunters back into her living room, creates space for herself in the closest thing he'll ever get to a home in a long time.
"From each crime are born bullets that will one day seek out in you where the heart lies," he supplies before she can inquire. Neruda's a fucking ponce, but it's the closest thing he'll get to apt solution to a question he doesn't feel like answering.
"What are you talking about?" she repeats.
"There it is, tone of the champions." He raises his glass. "A number of things, I'd imagine. You could do well on yourself by sparing the worry. I've fought a bloody war, mind - I think I can manage. You've never wanted a younger bloke? Someone who still regards everything with a bright eye. Who's keener on you then I am,"
He wonders if she will try to kiss him and he will wonder if he is deserving. He doesn't deserve any of this. His mouth is an overflowing gutter, prone to bursting with the filthy things he forgets to hide.
"Not that I'm not keen, but keener. Comparative Adverb."
He has feet that are meant to run and these are the starting signs. The red flags that he's been stuck in one place to long and he can't cope with the idea of being weighted down and anchored.
"Mombasa's lovely this time of year."
