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.

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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.

"You know, I believe that." And she's not hurt by it. It's fine to understand you priorities—and dogs are easier to like than most people, let alone vampires.

But with the dog off doing important dog things, Natasha is free to talk about other things. "So if I remember correctly, there was going to be dinner to go with the beer."

Not that she imagines either of them think she's here for dinner.

"I did say that, didn't I?" Eames raises an eyebrow and stands up, gesturing for Natasha to come with him to the kitchen.

It's a real effort not to make any dumb jokes about dessert, and everyone should appreciate that.

Natasha is almost impressed that he doesn't take the opportunity to segue into a joke—about dessert, or something else related to eating. The possibilities are endless.

She smiles as she follows him, glancing around the room again, in the habit of cataloguing the lay of a room immediately. Her gaze settles on him again.

"Did we decide if things would be civilized or not?"

"I think it's still up in the air," Eames says with a slight smirk as he leads her through to the kitchen. It's a spacious room, the back all glass that opens out onto the garden. It'd be a lovely room for hosting a dinner if Eames were the kind of person who liked having that many people in his home.

As it is, it mostly seems like the space is for Boxer's benefit; the dog's claws clacking on the floor as he entertains himself with a toy. He looks up at the two of them when they come in, but it's no one new and no one dangerous so he's immediately back to giving that toy what for.

"Have a seat," he says with a gesture toward the table by the windows; it's dark out, so he hasn't bothered rolling the blinds down, and he busies himself heading to the fridge and cupboards. Grabbing the food, plates, cutlery, etc. To bring over.

Natasha almost regrets that she won't be able to see the dining space during the day. Not unless she gains some more power, and even then, she doubts she'll ever be exactly comfortable in daylight. Still, she appreciates the space.

She takes a seat and waits, politely, as he works.

"Let me know if you need a hand," she says, not used to having people take care of things without her.

That's the benefit of magic, once he knows where everything is, Eames doesn't need to use his hands at all. The plates and cutlery and food, etc. etc. all hover by him as he walks toward the table. One of his hands occupied by a beer, but otherwise free.

"I think I've got it."

"Looks like you do," Natasha says, amused. Obviously she's not used to people with this kind of power. Power, sure, but not fae. Fae had a particularly close relationship with magic.

"Should I ask what else you can move like that?" Because this does raise very important questions.

"Are you worried?" Eames sits down opposite her with a raised eyebrow, dishing out some salad on a plate and gesturing for Natasha to help herself. Truthfully, he could probably move Natasha with little effort, but he certainly couldn't throw her. So there's a hypothetical relief?

"Do I look like someone who's worried?" She leans in, watching him as she dishes up some of the salad. It does look good, so that much she can appreciate; and it's seasonally appropriate.

She does not, in fact, look like someone who's worried.

"Oh, Natasha," Eames drawls her name like he's savouring it, and he taps his bottom lip with his fork with a lopsided smile that's as amused as it is teasing, "you and I both know better than to judge by looks."

"No." She agrees in good humor, stirring her salad briefly before taking a bite. Her smile doesn't fade. "I'd say you'd be amazed by how many people don't know better, but..."

Her brow twitches up. He knows exactly how many people are taken in by appearances, just as well as she does.

"Still, sometimes those looks are pretty appealing."

It's a significant part of how he could afford this house, knowing how easily people are taken in by appearances, and he laughs softly around a mouthful of salad. Giving Natasha a look up and down that, whilst not exactly lecherous, isn't exactly innocent either.

"That is very true."

Natasha would not be surprised to learn how Eames got his house, would even perhaps be more surprised if he'd come by it honesty. But vampires weren't known for their honest revenue streams either. She's not here to judge. No, she's here for something entirely more congenial.

She eats a bit, smiling, watching him through her lashes, and extends one leg under the table to nudge his ankle with her toe teasingly. ~~Don't you wish you had a smaller table now.~~

"True enough for practical intents and purposes, at least."

Which is as true as Natasha ever bothers to aim for.

Eames quirks an eyebrow at the nudging, tilting his head a little at Natasha with his lips pulling into a smile. Voice taking on that same teasing and suggestive tone it always seems to when he and Natasha talk for long enough. But at least it's situationally appropriate.

"And how practical is this?"

"I didn't have practicality in mind tonight," she admits, lifting her beer and taking a healthy swig, not breaking eye contact.

Her eyes narrow slightly, a tilting almost smile as she sets it down. "The beer goes with the salad. I'm impressed."

"Course it does," Eames says with a loft of his eyebrows, "what kind of host would I be if the drinks clashed?"

Would he still be as devilishly handsome and charming? I don't think so.

"I didn't know fae hospitality extended to drink pairings," Natasha says lightly, clearly teasing. "If I'd known that, maybe I'd have visited sooner."

Hard to say though—it might help with the charm, but he would still be devilishly handsome even if he'd have tried to pair the salad with another beer.

Some other beers.

If he'd have tried to pair it with a Russian stout, she might have had to walk out.

Eames winks over the rim of his bottle and takes a swig, smirk still playing over his lips. "Well now you know for the future."

"I'll remember it." She smiles, leaning back slightly and giving him a warm look. "You better be careful. You're going to raise my expectations this way."

Eames laughs softly, "it's only a problem if I can't meet those expectations."

Call him arrogant, but Eames is fairly confident he can meet any bar he's set for himself.

"You're not wrong about that, I suppose." Her smile seems to imply that she wonders what other expectations he means to set and meet or exceed. "You don't pity whoever might come along after you? The next poor fae who has me over for dinner and doesn't have your keen palate or cute dog?"

Eames laughs and leans an elbow on the table, apparently done with his food.

"How much mind do you pay to whoever might be in line behind you?" He asks, voice low and smooth.

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