undergrounds | [open] winded through monotone

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[open] winded through monotone

1 // Late August // Ye Olde Sainsbury's (Canary Wharf/Tower Hamlets)

There's literally no other way to describe how Eames looks right now other than the words 'vacuum sealed skeleton'. It's just a Bad Look, and for a man with his degree of vanity it's pretty much the worst thing that could ever happen.

He does still need to eat though, and Eames refuses to hole himself up in his flat and have people deliver to him because pride is a frustratingly unhelpful vice.

Thankfully though, Eames looks sufficiently little like himself at this point that he's not worried about being recognised. He's kind of trying to own this 'walking corpse' look, even if none of his clothes fit and this cap feels dumb and people are giving him weird looks while he looks at the booze section. Like a man who has no business still being alive can't enjoy a drink. What a bunch of pricks.

2 // 5 September // Tate Britain (Southwark)

When you're used to a degree of fluidity with your presentation, being stuck looking one way with no control over what's happening to your body while it ages rapidly is suffocating. As much as he missed his face looking how it should, it's been something hellish not being able to change even the slightest of his features.

As much as he'd like to be doing something fun, however, business calls. Which makes it Alice's night.

There's a gallery showing in the Tate — a history of 19th century Communist art — and as a fence by any other name, Alice is responsible for securing a significant amount of the paintings on display. Aside from a tidy sum of money, she also has a VIP ticket for the opening night, so she turns up- suit on and magic suppressed.

Most often, she'll be found with the man in charge of this, being introduced to friends and anyone with enough money to be an 'associate' of his, but she spends a lot of time on her own looking at the displays too. Inspecting the paintings with an appreciating eye and a glass of wine that never seems to leave her hand.

3 // 1-7 September // The New House (Camden)

Thanks to an Asshole Who Will Go Unnamed, Eames has had to put some plans back significantly, and had to endure a lot of things he'd rather not do again ever in his lifetime.

He's back to himself and back on track now though, with a new house and everything. And a dog! A quiet and cautious rotteweiler he's put off on bringing home since he didn't exactly want to deal with what was happening to him and training a pet at the same time. Decorating and dealing with a pet, however, has been surprisingly easy. Especially now he's progressed to the upstairs. It does make everything take a little longer, but it's a worthy sacrifice.

Anyone with cause to visit his new place can be treated to this, and more! More being: Eames in a tanktop and tracksuit bottoms with paint splatters all over, beer, and being stared at by a dog trying to decide how to feel.

4 // Wildcard

PM, hit me up at FiremanSam, or just tag me. Let's party.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"Oh- Natasha. Of course not." If anything he sounds genuinely pleased to hear from her. He's a little busy, but it's nothing he can't put down and pick up later. "What is it?"

"Nothing, really." Her tone warms slightly, mirroring his. "Thought I'd see if you were free for some company."

She considers the subtext there very clear; she doubts he won't catch it, and at this point, she's confident he's interested. If she's wrong... well, then no harm done.

"I'm a little... Painted," he starts with a small laugh, "but if that's not a problem then I certainly wouldn't say no. I could even throw together some dinner if you'd like."

Carefully sidestepping asking if she's hungry; if she's still off blood then she almost certainly is, and he doesn't want that at the forefront of her mind if she's coming over.

"Painted, huh? I think I can handle painted." She's curious how that happened, though. It goes without saying she's hungry, but she'll try to minimize that by feeding before she comes by. At least it could take the edge off. "I wouldn't mind dinner. Sounds very civilized."

There's another, quieter laugh on Eames' end of the line, and his smile is probably audible over the phone. "That all depends on what I make," he says, teasing smirk implied, "I'll text you the address."

"Oh, now you're getting my hopes up." It was a joke, but not entirely untrue. Natasha would be lying if she didn't say their flirtations were setting her expectation high. Still, she thought they'd manage something. "Sounds good. I'll be by let's say nine or so?"

Comfortably after dark.

"I'll see you then."

He'll send over his address once they've hung up and absently think about putting something together once he's done with this bit of painting too. It's been pretty hot, so maybe a salad? Oh-- Oh he has pulled pork in the fridge. A pulled pork salad? Brilliant. And he has the perfect beer to go with it. Amazing. He could kiss himself.

Hopefully Natasha is as impressed with this food as he already is, because he's a genius.

It's a shame Natasha probably won't be able to truly appreciate his genius food choices. One of the biggest shames about being undead is that while Natasha can still eat and even enjoy food to some degree, she can't really appreciate it like she used to.

Right on time, she comes knocking on his door. Considering that he said he's painted, she figures there's not much reason to dress up. Natasha's a lot more dressed down than the last time they ran into each other—she shows up in shorts and a tee. Either way isn't a bad look, really.

She's still more dressed up than Eames, who answers the door in paint-splattered clothes and skin. Amazingly, random spots of paint doesn't compliment his tattoos that well. Who would've guessed. There's a dog padding up next to him, standing slightly behind him and staring up at Natasha curiously when he opens the door.

"Hey, come in." Eames' smile is broad and friendly as he steps aside to let her in, Boxer following suit and standing aside too.

"Thanks." Her lips twitch as she crosses the threshold, appreciating the invitation. Her attention quickly falls on the dog, though. It's a toss up how he'll react to her, but at least so far, no barking or lunging. "I didn't know you had a dog."

Not that she expected him to tell her. She says it more out of pleasure and surprise. He hadn't struck her as the type to have pets.

"Can I say hi?"

"Be my guest," Eames closes the door and leans against it, the dog looks up at him curiously and then at Natasha, tail wagging slowly as he approaches slowly. Is she a friend? She's in the house and Eames seems relaxed about it, so she's probably not a threat.

"He's quite shy," he says and crouches. Boxer immediately comes back to him and Eames pats the huge baby on the side. His tail's still wagging and he's still looking up at Natasha-- he just needs a little security with new people.

Somehow accessorizing by comforting a big, shy dog makes the paint splatters and track pants all work together a little better. Dogs are the best way to bring a look together, it's a fact.

Natasha smiles more gently and dips down herself, balancing on her toes as she holds out one hand for the big dog to sniff.

"I can't say I blame him. Never know what kind of weird people you might run into." Her voice is low and enticing, inviting the dog to come over and say hi while leaving him room to escape if he decides he doesn't like strangers. Or vampires. "Hey, big boy," she addresses the dog directly. "Want to come here?"

Cautiously, Boxer steps forward to sniff her hand. She smells... Different. There's something incredibly different to Eames about her and the others he's gotten to meet so far, but her voice is nice and she's being friendly.

He looks back at Eames and then resumes sniffing Natasha's hand like he needs to catalogue every individual scent, it takes a little longer than it usually does, but eventually he looks up at Natasha with his tail up and wagging a little quicker now. Evidently the friendship application has been accepted.

Meanwhile, Eames is watching with a warm expression, something a lot more fond than he's levied at another person in recent memory, and stands to walk through to the kitchen once it looks like the dog's comfortable. "He likes having his chin scratched," he says as he goes.

"Good to know."

True to her words, Natasha slips her hand under the dog's chin and scratches gamely, stroking the dog's cheek with the other. Just taking a moment here to appreciate this dog's big, dumb head. It's a good head.

"What's his name?

"Boxer," comes his voice from the living room, and hearing its name the dog immediately looks up and starts bounding towards his voice, circling back a little to see if his new friend is coming. There needs to be more chin scratches but also he's just remembered Eames is not in his sight and that is a concern.

Natasha straightens and follows at a more sedate, less bounding pace, a slight smile on her face. "He certainly knows it, too."

It's also clear that the dog is very attached.

When Natasha catches up with him, she rubs Boxer's jaw reassuringly. He won't have to try keeping an eye on people in two different rooms. No cause for concern.

He's just gone through to the kitchen, and comes back with two beers, making the bold assumption that Natasha would like one too. Eames sets the two bottles down on the coffee table, (with coasters, because he's not an animal,) watching Boxer soaking up all this affection with a small laugh.

"He's a clever dog," Eames says, taking a seat with his eyes still on the two of them, "a little skittish, but we're working on that."

"Have you had him long?" The way he says that, Natasha guesses not. There's a pang of sympathy for Boxer at the thought. She has a pretty good idea why a dog who looks like him ends up skittish.

She rubs behind one of his ears, encouraged by his well he responds to the attention before she picks up the beer and takes a drink, sitting herself.

"Not bad."

Boxer follows Natasha to the couch, but he's not allowed on the furniture, he knows that well even if he doesn't understand why. People are allowed on it but not dogs? Ridiculous. He looks up at the two of them in turn, deciding what he wants to do for a moment before coming and sitting at Eames' feet and resting his head down on a knee.

"I've had him about a week, but I've been visiting him at the shelter for around half a year now." Eames smiles down at the dog who's just come and plopped his face down on his lap, gently brushing a hand up and down his side.

It's a hard life for dogs. The sofa, on the other hand, will doubtless appreciate his decision. Natasha crosses her legs and leans back, watching the two of them a moment, then glancing around at the place—looking for signs of painting, probably. Or taking in the results.

"Don't let anyone say you're not a man who knows what he wants." There's a note of amusement in her voice, gentle but there's definitely a joke there. "He seems to be grateful for it, though."

The downstairs is done, but clearly recently so, and the decoration is all very understated in a way that might come as a surprise to anyone who's seen more than two of Eames' shirts. Warm colours and maximised space, and quite a bit of dark wood. Like a modern take on early-modern design.

"He sneezed in my coffee this morning, he can't be that grateful," Eames says it with a playful little smack on Boxer's side, which doesn't get much of a reaction past the dog looking up at him with a big, dumb, happy expression.

Natasha's not sure if it's a surprise or not. It's not what she would have pictured, but seeing it makes a certain amount of sense. Either way, it was always nice to see immortals who weren't trapped in the past. She'd seen more than one vampire who either couldn't give up the styles of their youth, or couldn't be bothered to.

The decor is met with a look of mild approval.

Boxer gets a warmer reception though."Maybe that's how he shows his gratitude. He's certainly not torn up over it."

Eames laughs and looks down at Boxer, giving him a gentle scratch under the chin to get his attention, "what do you think, hm? Is she right?"

Boxer, who recognises the tone as a question, but none of the words, cocks his head at Eames and trots off through the kitchen. He'll come bounding back in a minute or so with a toy, but for now he's just sort of... wandered off.

Natasha watches him go, one brow twitching higher in an unspoken question. Her attention goes back to Eames a beat or two later, and she takes another sip of her beer.

"That was probably rude of me, wasn't it? I came out to see you and got distracted by floppy ears and a big, silly puppy smile."

"It's fine," Eames says with a smile and a dismissive wave of his hand, "I can almost guarantee things would be the same if our roles were reversed."

Because really, what kind of person doesn't love dogs? A wrong person, that's what kind.

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