Fic: The Bones of You
Title: The Bones of You
Author: abysmal_seraph
Team: Angst
Prompt: Devotion
Word count: 3501 minus the note at the end. I don't even know how this happened.
Rating: PG-13 at most
Chapter/Part Warnings: Eames being a bit of an emotional wreck. Arthur being reduced to a (very long) speaking role, as well as very mildly sociopathic and stalkery. Curse words and my bad attempt at British slang.
Series Warnings: Addictive personalities, graphic violence, unhealthy relationships, the darker end of morally gray, probably more that I can't think of right now. This does end happily...well, happy for two very messed up men, anyway.
Summary: College might just be the freest Eames hast ever felt, but he still finds himself chained to the past.
Sorry this took so long to post. Summer semester plus 5 classes, 3 of which require a final creative project instead of an exam, equals me getting my butt thoroughly kicked. This is, again, pretty much unbetaed. The title is from the song The Bones of You by Elbow.
1. Write My Name Somewhere Safe
The rest of Eames' childhood was much like before meeting Arthur: uneventful and boring enough to make a boy consider doing something drastic. He hadn't, of course, being well behaved to a fault, but that hadn't stopped his parents from treating him like some sort of wild thing in need of taming. It had taken them very little time to discover some of Arthur and Eames activities despite the boys doing their best to stay out of the public eyes. It had been Eames' first real lesson that despite appearances, one was not always as invisible as they thought or hoped.
His parents' idea of fixing the problem had involved a great deal of church along with keeping a closer eye on everything he did. They had had differing reasons for believing religion would change Eames for the better. His father had honestly believed in the healing power of prayer while his mother-less spiritual but far more in-tune to human nature-had placed her bets on the guilt getting to their son. The softly accusing eyes of their priest hadn't motivated Eames to do more than lie, but saying his Hail Mary's and Our Father's had proved meditative for him.
It had worked in the end, though; he'd give them that much credit. He had read enough books and watched enough people to know that it was impossible to play a role for an extended period of time without eventually faltering. The only way to ensure his parents would not take more drastic measures had been to make truth out of the lie, to be able to say that he had seen the error of his ways and had moved passed that potentially destructive friendship. He had done it as much for his own sanity as to please the adults in his life.
Compartmentalizing helped. Separating things into 'With Arthur' and 'After Arthur' lifted some of the weight off his chest, made it easier to remember that there were other things in the world aside from a boy he had known for a little over five months. He didn't even think about Arthur much anymore, even if he did occasionally run his thumb the smooth indentions of the numbers when stressed or absently drew pictures of what he thought his friend would look like at twenty-two.
These little 'missteps' were manageable though, even if the Psychology major in Eames sneered at treating Arthur like an addiction.
“Right, manageable,” he muttered as he stared down at his cell phone.
There was a message for a missed call displaying the same number that had been showing up several times for the last two days. No voice mail had been left, no indication of who it was because Eames sure as hell didn't recognize the digits. It could have been nothing, just some desperate sod that didn't realize they had misdialed, but something in him whispered 'Arthur' and that was enough to keep him glued to a phone he usually ignored.
A fine way to spend a birthday, holed up in his shared flat and staring at a tiny screen like it held the answers to the universe.
He wasn't sure how long he waited-his childhood had left him with a skewed, confused sense of time-but it was night by the time the call came. He shivered, hesitating for one long moment before answering on the third ring.
Part of him, most of him, had said that he was being silly, of course, but his instincts proved better than he had imagined. Even after years of no contact, Eames knew the voice on the other end. Arthur's voice-deeper and fuller-poured into his ear, and the rest of the world crumbled like a natural disaster.
“Happy Birthday, Eames.”
He tried to say something back but he was forced to clamp his teeth down against the low-key, animal whine that wanted to come out. There was a silence, long and awkward on Eames' end. When Arthur spoke again, voice confident despite being threaded with a soft sort of urgency, he continued on as if he believed Eames would want nothing more in the world than to speak to him. And if that wasn't the case, well, the conversation would happen nonetheless.
“I don't know what the law is in England, but back home, I'd be dragging you out for your first legal shit-facing,”
When Eames' brain finally decided to work again, he could only utter a numb sounding, “No one calls me that anymore.”
He heard Arthur laugh once, so quick and sharp it was more like a bite than a sound of amusement. “Eames, I really don't care. Are you enjoying your birthday?”
“No,” he answered honestly, trying to sound nonchalant while his stomach knotted. “Just another day. Is that all you called to ask?”
It came out harsher than he had intended. He winced but he did not offer an apology. Eames already knew this wouldn't end well for him, had known the moment he had seen the number and thought 'Arthur'. He hadn't been able to ignore it just as wouldn't be able to end this conversation before it ate him up inside, but that didn't mean he wouldn't go down without a fight.
“Not even close,” Arthur said with a quiet laugh that actually sounded genuine despite being just a little too high. “If you had answered any of my letters, we wouldn't have so much to catch up on.”
“I didn't get any letters.”
Arthur didn't make a sound, but Eames could feel the anger and frustration and that subtle thread of desperation radiating over the phone. He weighed that silence, examined the fact the other man had never tried to call him before but had been trying so hard to contact him now, and found the grim resolve of a man trying to settle affairs.
“What did you do, Arthur?”
“So how have you been? Seeing someone?” the other man asked as if he hadn't heard. The airy calm of his tone made Eames grind his teeth.
“Arth-”
“Do you miss me?” Arthur asked, and in Eames' mind, the words became something else entirely. Do you need me, do you love me, do you know how badly I've fucked up?
“I try not to,” he said, angry that Arthur would do this to him and so very frightened. “I fail miserably. This isn't helping in the least, but you don't care, do you?”
“No. I've pissed some people off, and I really wanted to hear your voice.”
“What did you do?” Eames repeated, voice dull with worry. This time, he received something resembling an answer.
“I'm an engineer, can you believe that?” Arthur laughed, sounding genuinely pleased with himself. “I was working on a project. We were just expanding on it, really. Ironing out the kinks. But...God, Eames, it's amazing. You can't even imagine. But I'll show you; when it's safe I'll show you and it'll change your world.”
“So you stole something,” Eames guessed then frowned. “Not to imply that you're not thorough but should we be having this conversation?"
Eames could almost see Arthur shaking his head. “It's fine; I have it covered. I wouldn't put you in danger.”
But putting himself in danger was clearly acceptable. Bloody Arthur and his crazed pursuit for adventure. Eames at least wallowed in his boredom instead of doing things that would anger the wrong people. At least he wasn't making the people that cared about him worry that he wouldn't be alive to pick up the phone next time.
“Why couldn't you just knock some poor girl up like a sane bastard instead of turning yourself into a sodding fugitive?”
“Did that already. She died before she even started showing,” Arthur shot back. There was an edge to it, something dark and hurt that was perfectly understandable for the situation. Then he sucked in a breath, and his tone made a quicksilver shift to soft and comforting. “Hey, shh, don't cry.”
“I'm not.” Eames realized that was a lie even as he said it. Angrily, he swiped at the wetness on his face with the heel of him palm. This was ridiculous. He was being ridiculous.
“Don't cry, Eames,” Arthur soothed like when they were children, and the younger boy had been upset by something. Always the caretaker when not acting the thief. “I'm fine. I'll stay fine; I promise.”
“You can't keep a promise like that, and I'm not some child to be gentled.” But Eames wanted to believe it. Wanted to believe Arthur-smart, resourceful Arthur-could slip passed danger without so much as a scratch. Eames, unfortunately, was pragmatic by nature.
“No, you're a man getting an upsetting call from your best friend.”
You're not! something in Eames, the rational part of himself, snarled even as the stupid part of him that wouldn't let go gibbered, Please no. Don't leave. Please don't leave again.
Clenching his teeth to keep from saying any of that, he sucked in a breath then let it out slowly. He wished he knew where he'd put his rosary. He desperately needed the soothing power of mindless repetition.
“Is it really that dangerous, darling?”
There was a short pause then a slow, filthy chuckle that made Eames roll his eyes despite everything. “Did you just call me 'darling'?”
“I'm stressed. Pet names will happen,” he snapped. His shoulders wearily sagged though there was a growing pulse building up inside of him, demanding he move, do something. Anything. “You enjoy this, don't you? Making me worry, knowing you can pop up years after the bloody fact and make me act like a weepy idiot.”
“There simply aren't words,” Arthur deadpanned. The dimples that went with that were clearly implied.
“God, we're such arses to each other,” Eames said with a tired laugh as he scrubbed his hand over his face. He was going to take Arthur's misdirection as a yes. It wasn't even surprising. The bastard simply couldn't do things by halves.
“Only because we care.”
Yes, that was true. Eames and the Arthur he had known as a boy would politely ignore anyone they couldn't be bothered with. He wasn't so sure if Arthur still bothered with manners but he seemed mostly the same.
What would happen, Eames wondered, if Arthur really did bite off more than he could chew this time? If one day he woke up to nothing but a corpse to bury and a handful of memories that he had spent years denying to the world. He felt a sudden, bone-deep shame for turning Arthur into a secret. He had never done wrong by Eames, never treated him like anything less than a dear friend. It wasn't his fault that Eames had latched onto that fondness like a lifeline.
Inspiration, when it hit him, tended to do so with a smack that left him reeling and scrambling to obey. This time was no different but he had the good sense to cover his arse. “Ever read Hamlet?”
Arthur snorted. “No. Never thought depression was worth being well rounded. Why?”
“We read it in class recently,” he lied, distracted by the sounds of the door opening and closing. Brian was back from wherever he had toddled off to. Leaving now was going to draw attention, but there was nothing for it.
“You're a Psychology major.”
Eames paused, caught between the sudden knowledge that Arthur had probably gotten his number through stalkerish means and the idea that the other man had been keeping tabs on him for awhile now. Well, he supposed it was only right that they both acted a little creepy.
He checked the battery on his phone. It was almost fully charged, more than enough to continue the conversation on the move.
“Eames?”
“Keep going. Just putting on my coat.” He shuffled passed Brian who directed a single raised eyebrow at him. Eames shrugged as though he wasn't doing something completely out of his usual pleasantly antisocial character and picked up his pace.
“Where are you going?” Arthur asked. His tone was suspicious but somehow vaguely amused. It made Eames smile despite himself.
“Nowhere near you, I suspect. Certainly not to the authorities.” he paused when he reached the door, head cocked as though considering something. After a few seconds, the eyes on him and the energy thrumming through him snapped him back into action. “Don't worry. I'm just off to do something drastic.”
***
His side ached. It was dull enough that Eames could focus on the lecture but remained a constant presence in the back of his mind. His usual fidgeting added pressure to the ache, scraped the fabric of his jeans over the soft throb until it burned like a raw nerve.
“Do you understand any of this?” was softly hissed into his ear. Eames turned his head just enough to see the mild confusion in his flat mate's deceptively innocent eyes. “Is this even English?”
“Of a fashion. Why are you here, Brian?”
Eyes rolling, Brian leaned in closer. “Oh, I don't know. Maybe because this is the only place you can't dance your way out of telling me what happened last week.”
Eames blinked slowly. The small, sharp line of his smile said that no explanation would be forthcoming. Brian squirmed for a moment under the lazy, feline quality of Eames' gaze but refused to be cowed.
“You've got to explain sometime,” Brian assured in a voice that said Eames would have a hell of a time proving otherwise. “You bolted in the middle of the night and stare at anything resembling a phone like a smoker needing a fag. Lauren's bloody well inter--”
“Why are you interrupting my class?” snapped a voice from the front of the classroom. A few nervous snickers followed as the pair coolly assessed the speaker.
Eames would have been contrite but the anger on the Professor Morrow's usually placid face appealed to the predatory side of the young man's people watching. There was just something so fascinating about bearing witness to someone unraveling, seeing all the little emotions that bled through whenever a person's armor wasn't at its best.
Brian didn't even have it in him to look guilty. He was too used to being on the receiving end of reprimands for the pranks he pulled. Eames could see him trying to decide whether or not to ignore Morrow and keep going after his flatmate.
That unrepentant indifference had made Brian few friends, but Eames was extremely laidback by nature and prone to being overly forgiving. It also meant he wasn't likely to get bored while the other man was around.
“I could ask security to escort you out, young man,” Morrow threatened. Eames had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
“Just leaving,” Brian said back, hands lifted in defeat. He was smart enough not to risk his academic career but Eames knew the matter wasn't over.
The rest of the class continued on as usual save for the occasional nasty look from the professor. Eames hunched over his notes and tried to think of what lie to tell Brian when the other man invariably came back for answers. If he acted hesitant enough, Brian would fall for it. Eames was a good actor; his parents had offered him plenty of practice.
Of course, he hadn't taken into account Murphy's Law and its occasional fondness for him. He had pieced together a tale of pill-popping for the academic cause and bad highs-not a hard sell with finals coming up-and had been eager to see how well it would fly. Once he had left the classroom, though, Eames let out a silent curse and reevaluated Brian's ability to manipulate a situation.
“Will,” Lauren greeted, smiling huge like she she hadn't seen him in weeks. Guilt flared in Eames and the skin at his hip burned in sympathy.
For a moment, he stood frozen, partially because he did not want to lie to her and was unwilling to tell the truth, partially because it still baffled him that they were dating. It wasn't a romantic sentiment of putting her on a pedestal, though he did love her. Eames was just honestly confused as to why anyone would want to date him. He had grown out of most of his awkwardness, yes, and he was handsome, but he was something of a shut in and had few relationships of any sort. It wasn't the grandest existence but it was less distressing than acting like a desperate, clingy twit. Or worse, finding himself unconsciously manipulating people to relieve an almost constant state of boredom.
Lauren dealt with it all in stride and treated him like a genius instead of a psychiatrist's wet dream.
“Hello, love. Was there a lunch date I forgot?” Eames asked, automatically falling back on charm to see him through this conversation.
Lauren's eyes narrowed and her mouth twitched into a slight smirk. It was her own form a manipulation, though she didn't understand that the reason that expression always left him gobsmacked was it reminded him of Arthur.
“Brian said you had something to discuss with me,” she said. Her gaze assured that she could wait all day for an answer but also promised not to judge. Eames decided that kissing her for that was perfectly acceptable and not a last second attempt at distracting her.
“Is Brian aware that I own several books on poison and know where he keeps his liquor stash?”
“Clever,” Lauren said back with a laugh. “But you can't count on apparent alcohol poisoning to keep you out of jail. So what does he think you should talk to me about?”
Eames hesitated for a moment then sighed. “You could say I went a little mad on my birthday. Got a tattoo.”
Lauren's eyebrows climbed towards her hair line and her mouth formed a small O of surprise. “You? You really don't strike me as the type to go under the needle, Will. What brought this on?”
“Generally no,” Eames said, answering the statement in hopes of sidestepping the question. “But it's a positively archaic thing to fit with my archaic tastes. Shakespeare. Four lines from Hamlet, to be precise.”
“Well, let me see,” she said, narrowed eyes running over his body as if trying to figure out where the ink was hidden. Eames knew he hadn't distracted her; she was simply letting him off the hook for now.
He chewed his bottom lip, smiling around the press of his teeth when he saw the way her eyes darkened as her gaze latched onto his mouth. He teased her a moment then lifted his shirt. Her eyes snapped to the gauze taped over a large patch of his right hip, brow wrinkling as she clearly found the placement odd. Eames didn't have an explanation for it, no significance that he could think of. He shrugged slightly at her look then peeled back the gauze.
Black letters curled across his skin, a swirling, looping hand perfect for calligraphy. The flesh around the letters had already moved passed the red and puffy stage and now stood out pale against the dark ink. The whole area was shiny from the lotion he had smeared on it.
Eames twitched as Lauren's hand moved near the tattooed flesh. As her fingers hovered over the letters, he remembered the tattoo artist's disinterested look, the first press of the needle into his skin, the sound of Arthur's soothing babble whenever a particularly nasty stab had made Eames hiss. Guilt flared in him again but he soothed it down, let it lie. He couldn't regret no matter how hard he told himself he should.
He watched her puzzle over the Old English spelling, more because of the oddness of it than not being able to decipher the meaning. Eames didn't need to look down to know what it said; he had memorized the words long before he had got them permanently decorating his skin. The tattoo was meant as an answer to Arthur's question: Do you miss me?
Of course Eames did but the only answers he could voice to that were lies or silence. His skin, at least, could say the truth.
Lauren traced a fingertip through the air just about the letters, softly reciting the modern form of the words aloud. “Doubt thou the stars are fire / Doubt that the sun doth move / Doubt truth to be a liar / But never doubt I love.”
Eames smiled sadly into her hair and let her make of that what she would.
End Note: Eames has the original Old English form of these lines from Hamlet as his tattoo.
Doubt thou, the Starres are fire,
Doubt, that the Sunne doth moue:
Doubt Truth to be a Lier,
But neuer Doubt, I loue.
Author: abysmal_seraph
Team: Angst
Prompt: Devotion
Word count: 3501 minus the note at the end. I don't even know how this happened.
Rating: PG-13 at most
Chapter/Part Warnings: Eames being a bit of an emotional wreck. Arthur being reduced to a (very long) speaking role, as well as very mildly sociopathic and stalkery. Curse words and my bad attempt at British slang.
Series Warnings: Addictive personalities, graphic violence, unhealthy relationships, the darker end of morally gray, probably more that I can't think of right now. This does end happily...well, happy for two very messed up men, anyway.
Summary: College might just be the freest Eames hast ever felt, but he still finds himself chained to the past.
Sorry this took so long to post. Summer semester plus 5 classes, 3 of which require a final creative project instead of an exam, equals me getting my butt thoroughly kicked. This is, again, pretty much unbetaed. The title is from the song The Bones of You by Elbow.
1. Write My Name Somewhere Safe
The rest of Eames' childhood was much like before meeting Arthur: uneventful and boring enough to make a boy consider doing something drastic. He hadn't, of course, being well behaved to a fault, but that hadn't stopped his parents from treating him like some sort of wild thing in need of taming. It had taken them very little time to discover some of Arthur and Eames activities despite the boys doing their best to stay out of the public eyes. It had been Eames' first real lesson that despite appearances, one was not always as invisible as they thought or hoped.
His parents' idea of fixing the problem had involved a great deal of church along with keeping a closer eye on everything he did. They had had differing reasons for believing religion would change Eames for the better. His father had honestly believed in the healing power of prayer while his mother-less spiritual but far more in-tune to human nature-had placed her bets on the guilt getting to their son. The softly accusing eyes of their priest hadn't motivated Eames to do more than lie, but saying his Hail Mary's and Our Father's had proved meditative for him.
It had worked in the end, though; he'd give them that much credit. He had read enough books and watched enough people to know that it was impossible to play a role for an extended period of time without eventually faltering. The only way to ensure his parents would not take more drastic measures had been to make truth out of the lie, to be able to say that he had seen the error of his ways and had moved passed that potentially destructive friendship. He had done it as much for his own sanity as to please the adults in his life.
Compartmentalizing helped. Separating things into 'With Arthur' and 'After Arthur' lifted some of the weight off his chest, made it easier to remember that there were other things in the world aside from a boy he had known for a little over five months. He didn't even think about Arthur much anymore, even if he did occasionally run his thumb the smooth indentions of the numbers when stressed or absently drew pictures of what he thought his friend would look like at twenty-two.
These little 'missteps' were manageable though, even if the Psychology major in Eames sneered at treating Arthur like an addiction.
“Right, manageable,” he muttered as he stared down at his cell phone.
There was a message for a missed call displaying the same number that had been showing up several times for the last two days. No voice mail had been left, no indication of who it was because Eames sure as hell didn't recognize the digits. It could have been nothing, just some desperate sod that didn't realize they had misdialed, but something in him whispered 'Arthur' and that was enough to keep him glued to a phone he usually ignored.
A fine way to spend a birthday, holed up in his shared flat and staring at a tiny screen like it held the answers to the universe.
He wasn't sure how long he waited-his childhood had left him with a skewed, confused sense of time-but it was night by the time the call came. He shivered, hesitating for one long moment before answering on the third ring.
Part of him, most of him, had said that he was being silly, of course, but his instincts proved better than he had imagined. Even after years of no contact, Eames knew the voice on the other end. Arthur's voice-deeper and fuller-poured into his ear, and the rest of the world crumbled like a natural disaster.
“Happy Birthday, Eames.”
He tried to say something back but he was forced to clamp his teeth down against the low-key, animal whine that wanted to come out. There was a silence, long and awkward on Eames' end. When Arthur spoke again, voice confident despite being threaded with a soft sort of urgency, he continued on as if he believed Eames would want nothing more in the world than to speak to him. And if that wasn't the case, well, the conversation would happen nonetheless.
“I don't know what the law is in England, but back home, I'd be dragging you out for your first legal shit-facing,”
When Eames' brain finally decided to work again, he could only utter a numb sounding, “No one calls me that anymore.”
He heard Arthur laugh once, so quick and sharp it was more like a bite than a sound of amusement. “Eames, I really don't care. Are you enjoying your birthday?”
“No,” he answered honestly, trying to sound nonchalant while his stomach knotted. “Just another day. Is that all you called to ask?”
It came out harsher than he had intended. He winced but he did not offer an apology. Eames already knew this wouldn't end well for him, had known the moment he had seen the number and thought 'Arthur'. He hadn't been able to ignore it just as wouldn't be able to end this conversation before it ate him up inside, but that didn't mean he wouldn't go down without a fight.
“Not even close,” Arthur said with a quiet laugh that actually sounded genuine despite being just a little too high. “If you had answered any of my letters, we wouldn't have so much to catch up on.”
“I didn't get any letters.”
Arthur didn't make a sound, but Eames could feel the anger and frustration and that subtle thread of desperation radiating over the phone. He weighed that silence, examined the fact the other man had never tried to call him before but had been trying so hard to contact him now, and found the grim resolve of a man trying to settle affairs.
“What did you do, Arthur?”
“So how have you been? Seeing someone?” the other man asked as if he hadn't heard. The airy calm of his tone made Eames grind his teeth.
“Arth-”
“Do you miss me?” Arthur asked, and in Eames' mind, the words became something else entirely. Do you need me, do you love me, do you know how badly I've fucked up?
“I try not to,” he said, angry that Arthur would do this to him and so very frightened. “I fail miserably. This isn't helping in the least, but you don't care, do you?”
“No. I've pissed some people off, and I really wanted to hear your voice.”
“What did you do?” Eames repeated, voice dull with worry. This time, he received something resembling an answer.
“I'm an engineer, can you believe that?” Arthur laughed, sounding genuinely pleased with himself. “I was working on a project. We were just expanding on it, really. Ironing out the kinks. But...God, Eames, it's amazing. You can't even imagine. But I'll show you; when it's safe I'll show you and it'll change your world.”
“So you stole something,” Eames guessed then frowned. “Not to imply that you're not thorough but should we be having this conversation?"
Eames could almost see Arthur shaking his head. “It's fine; I have it covered. I wouldn't put you in danger.”
But putting himself in danger was clearly acceptable. Bloody Arthur and his crazed pursuit for adventure. Eames at least wallowed in his boredom instead of doing things that would anger the wrong people. At least he wasn't making the people that cared about him worry that he wouldn't be alive to pick up the phone next time.
“Why couldn't you just knock some poor girl up like a sane bastard instead of turning yourself into a sodding fugitive?”
“Did that already. She died before she even started showing,” Arthur shot back. There was an edge to it, something dark and hurt that was perfectly understandable for the situation. Then he sucked in a breath, and his tone made a quicksilver shift to soft and comforting. “Hey, shh, don't cry.”
“I'm not.” Eames realized that was a lie even as he said it. Angrily, he swiped at the wetness on his face with the heel of him palm. This was ridiculous. He was being ridiculous.
“Don't cry, Eames,” Arthur soothed like when they were children, and the younger boy had been upset by something. Always the caretaker when not acting the thief. “I'm fine. I'll stay fine; I promise.”
“You can't keep a promise like that, and I'm not some child to be gentled.” But Eames wanted to believe it. Wanted to believe Arthur-smart, resourceful Arthur-could slip passed danger without so much as a scratch. Eames, unfortunately, was pragmatic by nature.
“No, you're a man getting an upsetting call from your best friend.”
You're not! something in Eames, the rational part of himself, snarled even as the stupid part of him that wouldn't let go gibbered, Please no. Don't leave. Please don't leave again.
Clenching his teeth to keep from saying any of that, he sucked in a breath then let it out slowly. He wished he knew where he'd put his rosary. He desperately needed the soothing power of mindless repetition.
“Is it really that dangerous, darling?”
There was a short pause then a slow, filthy chuckle that made Eames roll his eyes despite everything. “Did you just call me 'darling'?”
“I'm stressed. Pet names will happen,” he snapped. His shoulders wearily sagged though there was a growing pulse building up inside of him, demanding he move, do something. Anything. “You enjoy this, don't you? Making me worry, knowing you can pop up years after the bloody fact and make me act like a weepy idiot.”
“There simply aren't words,” Arthur deadpanned. The dimples that went with that were clearly implied.
“God, we're such arses to each other,” Eames said with a tired laugh as he scrubbed his hand over his face. He was going to take Arthur's misdirection as a yes. It wasn't even surprising. The bastard simply couldn't do things by halves.
“Only because we care.”
Yes, that was true. Eames and the Arthur he had known as a boy would politely ignore anyone they couldn't be bothered with. He wasn't so sure if Arthur still bothered with manners but he seemed mostly the same.
What would happen, Eames wondered, if Arthur really did bite off more than he could chew this time? If one day he woke up to nothing but a corpse to bury and a handful of memories that he had spent years denying to the world. He felt a sudden, bone-deep shame for turning Arthur into a secret. He had never done wrong by Eames, never treated him like anything less than a dear friend. It wasn't his fault that Eames had latched onto that fondness like a lifeline.
Inspiration, when it hit him, tended to do so with a smack that left him reeling and scrambling to obey. This time was no different but he had the good sense to cover his arse. “Ever read Hamlet?”
Arthur snorted. “No. Never thought depression was worth being well rounded. Why?”
“We read it in class recently,” he lied, distracted by the sounds of the door opening and closing. Brian was back from wherever he had toddled off to. Leaving now was going to draw attention, but there was nothing for it.
“You're a Psychology major.”
Eames paused, caught between the sudden knowledge that Arthur had probably gotten his number through stalkerish means and the idea that the other man had been keeping tabs on him for awhile now. Well, he supposed it was only right that they both acted a little creepy.
He checked the battery on his phone. It was almost fully charged, more than enough to continue the conversation on the move.
“Eames?”
“Keep going. Just putting on my coat.” He shuffled passed Brian who directed a single raised eyebrow at him. Eames shrugged as though he wasn't doing something completely out of his usual pleasantly antisocial character and picked up his pace.
“Where are you going?” Arthur asked. His tone was suspicious but somehow vaguely amused. It made Eames smile despite himself.
“Nowhere near you, I suspect. Certainly not to the authorities.” he paused when he reached the door, head cocked as though considering something. After a few seconds, the eyes on him and the energy thrumming through him snapped him back into action. “Don't worry. I'm just off to do something drastic.”
***
His side ached. It was dull enough that Eames could focus on the lecture but remained a constant presence in the back of his mind. His usual fidgeting added pressure to the ache, scraped the fabric of his jeans over the soft throb until it burned like a raw nerve.
“Do you understand any of this?” was softly hissed into his ear. Eames turned his head just enough to see the mild confusion in his flat mate's deceptively innocent eyes. “Is this even English?”
“Of a fashion. Why are you here, Brian?”
Eyes rolling, Brian leaned in closer. “Oh, I don't know. Maybe because this is the only place you can't dance your way out of telling me what happened last week.”
Eames blinked slowly. The small, sharp line of his smile said that no explanation would be forthcoming. Brian squirmed for a moment under the lazy, feline quality of Eames' gaze but refused to be cowed.
“You've got to explain sometime,” Brian assured in a voice that said Eames would have a hell of a time proving otherwise. “You bolted in the middle of the night and stare at anything resembling a phone like a smoker needing a fag. Lauren's bloody well inter--”
“Why are you interrupting my class?” snapped a voice from the front of the classroom. A few nervous snickers followed as the pair coolly assessed the speaker.
Eames would have been contrite but the anger on the Professor Morrow's usually placid face appealed to the predatory side of the young man's people watching. There was just something so fascinating about bearing witness to someone unraveling, seeing all the little emotions that bled through whenever a person's armor wasn't at its best.
Brian didn't even have it in him to look guilty. He was too used to being on the receiving end of reprimands for the pranks he pulled. Eames could see him trying to decide whether or not to ignore Morrow and keep going after his flatmate.
That unrepentant indifference had made Brian few friends, but Eames was extremely laidback by nature and prone to being overly forgiving. It also meant he wasn't likely to get bored while the other man was around.
“I could ask security to escort you out, young man,” Morrow threatened. Eames had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.
“Just leaving,” Brian said back, hands lifted in defeat. He was smart enough not to risk his academic career but Eames knew the matter wasn't over.
The rest of the class continued on as usual save for the occasional nasty look from the professor. Eames hunched over his notes and tried to think of what lie to tell Brian when the other man invariably came back for answers. If he acted hesitant enough, Brian would fall for it. Eames was a good actor; his parents had offered him plenty of practice.
Of course, he hadn't taken into account Murphy's Law and its occasional fondness for him. He had pieced together a tale of pill-popping for the academic cause and bad highs-not a hard sell with finals coming up-and had been eager to see how well it would fly. Once he had left the classroom, though, Eames let out a silent curse and reevaluated Brian's ability to manipulate a situation.
“Will,” Lauren greeted, smiling huge like she she hadn't seen him in weeks. Guilt flared in Eames and the skin at his hip burned in sympathy.
For a moment, he stood frozen, partially because he did not want to lie to her and was unwilling to tell the truth, partially because it still baffled him that they were dating. It wasn't a romantic sentiment of putting her on a pedestal, though he did love her. Eames was just honestly confused as to why anyone would want to date him. He had grown out of most of his awkwardness, yes, and he was handsome, but he was something of a shut in and had few relationships of any sort. It wasn't the grandest existence but it was less distressing than acting like a desperate, clingy twit. Or worse, finding himself unconsciously manipulating people to relieve an almost constant state of boredom.
Lauren dealt with it all in stride and treated him like a genius instead of a psychiatrist's wet dream.
“Hello, love. Was there a lunch date I forgot?” Eames asked, automatically falling back on charm to see him through this conversation.
Lauren's eyes narrowed and her mouth twitched into a slight smirk. It was her own form a manipulation, though she didn't understand that the reason that expression always left him gobsmacked was it reminded him of Arthur.
“Brian said you had something to discuss with me,” she said. Her gaze assured that she could wait all day for an answer but also promised not to judge. Eames decided that kissing her for that was perfectly acceptable and not a last second attempt at distracting her.
“Is Brian aware that I own several books on poison and know where he keeps his liquor stash?”
“Clever,” Lauren said back with a laugh. “But you can't count on apparent alcohol poisoning to keep you out of jail. So what does he think you should talk to me about?”
Eames hesitated for a moment then sighed. “You could say I went a little mad on my birthday. Got a tattoo.”
Lauren's eyebrows climbed towards her hair line and her mouth formed a small O of surprise. “You? You really don't strike me as the type to go under the needle, Will. What brought this on?”
“Generally no,” Eames said, answering the statement in hopes of sidestepping the question. “But it's a positively archaic thing to fit with my archaic tastes. Shakespeare. Four lines from Hamlet, to be precise.”
“Well, let me see,” she said, narrowed eyes running over his body as if trying to figure out where the ink was hidden. Eames knew he hadn't distracted her; she was simply letting him off the hook for now.
He chewed his bottom lip, smiling around the press of his teeth when he saw the way her eyes darkened as her gaze latched onto his mouth. He teased her a moment then lifted his shirt. Her eyes snapped to the gauze taped over a large patch of his right hip, brow wrinkling as she clearly found the placement odd. Eames didn't have an explanation for it, no significance that he could think of. He shrugged slightly at her look then peeled back the gauze.
Black letters curled across his skin, a swirling, looping hand perfect for calligraphy. The flesh around the letters had already moved passed the red and puffy stage and now stood out pale against the dark ink. The whole area was shiny from the lotion he had smeared on it.
Eames twitched as Lauren's hand moved near the tattooed flesh. As her fingers hovered over the letters, he remembered the tattoo artist's disinterested look, the first press of the needle into his skin, the sound of Arthur's soothing babble whenever a particularly nasty stab had made Eames hiss. Guilt flared in him again but he soothed it down, let it lie. He couldn't regret no matter how hard he told himself he should.
He watched her puzzle over the Old English spelling, more because of the oddness of it than not being able to decipher the meaning. Eames didn't need to look down to know what it said; he had memorized the words long before he had got them permanently decorating his skin. The tattoo was meant as an answer to Arthur's question: Do you miss me?
Of course Eames did but the only answers he could voice to that were lies or silence. His skin, at least, could say the truth.
Lauren traced a fingertip through the air just about the letters, softly reciting the modern form of the words aloud. “Doubt thou the stars are fire / Doubt that the sun doth move / Doubt truth to be a liar / But never doubt I love.”
Eames smiled sadly into her hair and let her make of that what she would.
End Note: Eames has the original Old English form of these lines from Hamlet as his tattoo.
Doubt thou, the Starres are fire,
Doubt, that the Sunne doth moue:
Doubt Truth to be a Lier,
But neuer Doubt, I loue.