Re: Eames/Holly: dreaming
There was cold sea water slushing around his ankles as the youth - not a man, nor a boy, but caught in the difficult place in between - ran too. His feet pounded and the water sprayed and any answer would have tumbled into the glut of ocean that had trickled down expensive carpet, lazily reclaiming what it was owed. It was the sort of dream that had enough fixed points in shared experience - films, photographs and so on, that it didn't take much of a mind to create the space. All the better to flesh out the reality within it, or so Eames thought on the descent into the bowel of heat and noise.
"You've established a foothold here," he observed. Which might have been the boat, or it might have been memory and dream and all that fuelled the hide-out in the belly of a sinking ship. It was likely the latter, given the flash-light which Eames glanced at. He had a chain around his neck, and a ring, ugly and gold on his left index finger, and he smiled at the boy with very white teeth.
"I'm a pirate. I don't crew, I hijack." Which was entirely truthful. "And I like treasure. Particularly when it belongs to someone else. Where do they want to send you?" He didn't say he was with the boy, but he hadn't said he'd stand against him. He observed the tilted chin and the fisted hands and Eames grinned, all white teeth and sly, pleased enjoyment. "I don't want to be ended, thanks."