Eames didn't need curtain-twitching, darling, or ghosts in windows. He had a nightmare to guide him on what dead, walking might look like and he didn't need the show and tell. He had no real idea why he had decided to take his frustrated Halloween companion on a town walkabout but the thought of turkey held no strong emotional pulls. He expected to see someone out of place, who didn't wear plaid and wool and denim or think the local pub the best place to be.
He was an exceptionally broad man. It had gradually got more and more cold until it was frostier than a mermaid's tits and Eames had to grapple with whether fashion or comfort took up the greater balance. He had given in a little, but no further. He wore a cashmere-wool coat in a shade that resembled good wine, and clinging wool slacks in pale grey. His shoes were handmade and beautifully shaped and he was resigned to losing at least a pair to the eventual snow. He wore a turquoise scarf loosely thrown around the neck of his jacket and none of the tailoring did much to hide that Eames was tall - over six foot - and broad, with the sort of chest someone ran into, rather than stopped.
He sized Jeremiah's wardrobe up first. The scarf was classic, the shoes were non-descript and Eames loathed chinos. They were the trousers of a man who didn't have the heart to be bold. But there was no suggestion of royalty, and Eames smiled, very white teeth above turquoise wool.
"Not personally, darling. I didn't knock any of them off, either," he said, in estuary drawl. "Eames. You're Jeremiah."