pockets full of stones
Rating: PG-13
Words: 447
Summary: Arthur sees what's becoming of Eames.
Warning: Implied eating disorder.
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Originally posted here.
Eames fluctuates body mass frequently. At least, frequently enough that nobody notices at first. Arthur gets hit over the head by it when he walks into the men's restroom one day, and Eames is standing in front of the sinks, torso bare, shirt between his hands as he runs it under the faucet and scrubs at the giant coffee stain on it in vain. His eyes flicker to Arthur's widened ones in the mirror and his mouth twitches to a hollow smile. Arthur takes a cautious step forward, unable to tear his gaze away. His hands spasm with the effort of restraining himself.
"Eames," he says, choking in shock. "Is this for a job?"
Eames turns the tap off and wrings his shirt out, shoulder blades shoving up against skin thin as insect wings or a single onion layer, the cleft of bone seeming to directly collide with the protruding knobs of Eames' spine. "Whatever can he mean?" Eames' voice is frayed spidersilk, passive yet unhinged.
Arthur swallows. "You know." Eames just raises a mocking eyebrow; Arthur catches it in his reflection. Eames continues twisting the life out of his poor shirt and Arthur's hands coil into fists at his sides. "You're practically emaciated," he states, brusque, resolving himself. Eames shrugs, expression unchanging. "Is it for a job?" Arthur repeats, inching a step closer.
Eames turns to face him. Arthur glances at the way his hipbones jut, angry and ominous, against the waistband of his slacks. "Does it make it okay if I say yes?" Eames asks, quiet, predator words stalking their prey. "Get out," he snarls when Arthur doesn't immediately answer.
Arthur leaves.
He watches, though, after that, the way Eames artfully pushes food around his plate but never takes more than a bite or two. He notices the shadows digging deeper and deeper under Eames' eyes. He sees the way Eames bruises easier than ever when they spar.
Arthur doesn't even understand how Eames is still able to spar, and win, in such condition until, one day, he doesn't. Arthur knocks Eames down with a hit that would normally only cause him to stagger, bounce, and rebound. Eames doesn't get up. After a pause, Arthur drops his stance and goes to kneel at Eames' side. Eames' eyes are closed, but even so, under the weight of Arthur's intensified attention, he brings his hands up to cover his face. He breathes heavily, Arthur watching the sharp rise and fall of his ribs under his sweatshirt.
"You need to come with me," Arthur decides, assertion hushed yet firm, and he helps Eames to stand.
Arthur drives them a couple miles down the freeway without speaking; Eames leans his forehead against the passenger seat window and watches the painted lines blur beneath the car's easy churn. Arthur waits for Eames to come to him.
"I know I'm sick," Eames says eventually. "I do recognize that I have a problem." He sounds so defeated yet still defensive that Arthur worries his lower lip between his teeth a good minute before responding.
"That's the first step," he recalls ingrained memory, sounding unsure even to his own ears. Eames snorts derisively. "I think the second step is getting help." Eames barks a sharp, unfriendly chord of laughter and tilts his head back. Arthur doesn't see what's funny and Eames doesn't explain. "You have an eating disorder," Arthur ventures slowly. Eames commits to a half-nod, half-shrug hybrid. Arthur takes what he can get. "Is it, ah, a dietary thing or," he fumbles along, thankful for having to watch the road, "a weight issue or, you know. What's...what's going on? If I can ask."
Eames shakes his head. "I really can't explain it," he says, fingering the edge of his seat. "I do know what the textbooks might say. That because there are a few aspects of life that I don't like which I can't change, I'm frustrated with my lack of control and am therefore turning to something I can control, yes," he nods along with what he's saying. "All very logical, typical even. And that may be part of it."
Arthur tries to keep his tone level. "But you're not typical?" Why isn't he surprised?
"Not in this way, I don't think." He sits up a fraction. "It's a little bit of a few different things. Certainly, sometimes I don't like this body. Other times, I despise the actual act of eating--I absolutely hate the sensation of the whole process. Now and again, I'm just testing the limitations of forging outside of a dream." It's the most Arthur's heard Eames say in days and he's loathe even to breathe for fear of disturbing the mood. Eames scrubs his face wearily. "Sometimes I forget to eat, sometimes I'm too tired, sometimes I'm too depressed," he confesses on the blunt edge of a rushed exhale.
Arthur isn't entirely sure what to say, and Eames mistakes his silence for something else. "You don't have to worry your pretty little head about it, Arthur," he nearly leers.
Arthur stiffens, glancing over sharply. "Of course I'm worried about it, I just don't know what to say." He makes a swift lane change and then settles further back against leather interior. "I could force you in front of a mirror and show you all the beautiful things about yourself, but that wouldn't really help, would it?" He shrugs, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel lightly, trying to ignore the palpable shock coming from the passenger side of the car. "At the risk of sounding like a high school counselor, you have to be happy with yourself first, isn't that it?"
Words: 447
Summary: Arthur sees what's becoming of Eames.
Warning: Implied eating disorder.
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Originally posted here.
Eames fluctuates body mass frequently. At least, frequently enough that nobody notices at first. Arthur gets hit over the head by it when he walks into the men's restroom one day, and Eames is standing in front of the sinks, torso bare, shirt between his hands as he runs it under the faucet and scrubs at the giant coffee stain on it in vain. His eyes flicker to Arthur's widened ones in the mirror and his mouth twitches to a hollow smile. Arthur takes a cautious step forward, unable to tear his gaze away. His hands spasm with the effort of restraining himself.
"Eames," he says, choking in shock. "Is this for a job?"
Eames turns the tap off and wrings his shirt out, shoulder blades shoving up against skin thin as insect wings or a single onion layer, the cleft of bone seeming to directly collide with the protruding knobs of Eames' spine. "Whatever can he mean?" Eames' voice is frayed spidersilk, passive yet unhinged.
Arthur swallows. "You know." Eames just raises a mocking eyebrow; Arthur catches it in his reflection. Eames continues twisting the life out of his poor shirt and Arthur's hands coil into fists at his sides. "You're practically emaciated," he states, brusque, resolving himself. Eames shrugs, expression unchanging. "Is it for a job?" Arthur repeats, inching a step closer.
Eames turns to face him. Arthur glances at the way his hipbones jut, angry and ominous, against the waistband of his slacks. "Does it make it okay if I say yes?" Eames asks, quiet, predator words stalking their prey. "Get out," he snarls when Arthur doesn't immediately answer.
Arthur leaves.
He watches, though, after that, the way Eames artfully pushes food around his plate but never takes more than a bite or two. He notices the shadows digging deeper and deeper under Eames' eyes. He sees the way Eames bruises easier than ever when they spar.
Arthur doesn't even understand how Eames is still able to spar, and win, in such condition until, one day, he doesn't. Arthur knocks Eames down with a hit that would normally only cause him to stagger, bounce, and rebound. Eames doesn't get up. After a pause, Arthur drops his stance and goes to kneel at Eames' side. Eames' eyes are closed, but even so, under the weight of Arthur's intensified attention, he brings his hands up to cover his face. He breathes heavily, Arthur watching the sharp rise and fall of his ribs under his sweatshirt.
"You need to come with me," Arthur decides, assertion hushed yet firm, and he helps Eames to stand.
Arthur drives them a couple miles down the freeway without speaking; Eames leans his forehead against the passenger seat window and watches the painted lines blur beneath the car's easy churn. Arthur waits for Eames to come to him.
"I know I'm sick," Eames says eventually. "I do recognize that I have a problem." He sounds so defeated yet still defensive that Arthur worries his lower lip between his teeth a good minute before responding.
"That's the first step," he recalls ingrained memory, sounding unsure even to his own ears. Eames snorts derisively. "I think the second step is getting help." Eames barks a sharp, unfriendly chord of laughter and tilts his head back. Arthur doesn't see what's funny and Eames doesn't explain. "You have an eating disorder," Arthur ventures slowly. Eames commits to a half-nod, half-shrug hybrid. Arthur takes what he can get. "Is it, ah, a dietary thing or," he fumbles along, thankful for having to watch the road, "a weight issue or, you know. What's...what's going on? If I can ask."
Eames shakes his head. "I really can't explain it," he says, fingering the edge of his seat. "I do know what the textbooks might say. That because there are a few aspects of life that I don't like which I can't change, I'm frustrated with my lack of control and am therefore turning to something I can control, yes," he nods along with what he's saying. "All very logical, typical even. And that may be part of it."
Arthur tries to keep his tone level. "But you're not typical?" Why isn't he surprised?
"Not in this way, I don't think." He sits up a fraction. "It's a little bit of a few different things. Certainly, sometimes I don't like this body. Other times, I despise the actual act of eating--I absolutely hate the sensation of the whole process. Now and again, I'm just testing the limitations of forging outside of a dream." It's the most Arthur's heard Eames say in days and he's loathe even to breathe for fear of disturbing the mood. Eames scrubs his face wearily. "Sometimes I forget to eat, sometimes I'm too tired, sometimes I'm too depressed," he confesses on the blunt edge of a rushed exhale.
Arthur isn't entirely sure what to say, and Eames mistakes his silence for something else. "You don't have to worry your pretty little head about it, Arthur," he nearly leers.
Arthur stiffens, glancing over sharply. "Of course I'm worried about it, I just don't know what to say." He makes a swift lane change and then settles further back against leather interior. "I could force you in front of a mirror and show you all the beautiful things about yourself, but that wouldn't really help, would it?" He shrugs, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel lightly, trying to ignore the palpable shock coming from the passenger side of the car. "At the risk of sounding like a high school counselor, you have to be happy with yourself first, isn't that it?"