Re: Eames/Holly: dreaming
He was glad the older boy didn't ask a lot of questions. It wasn't that the boy wouldn't know how to answer them, because he did know what a quartermaster was, but there wasn't time to waste on explanations. There was never time. This was a lesson the boy was learning daily, and it weighed heavy on shoulders that were plump in youth, even with hunger chasing him down the halls. The rationing on the ship was a problem, and the boy had taken to stealing, but sometimes you had to do what had to be done. He wasn't going to starve.
But right now? Wasn't about starving. It was about being chased and about the door that materialized where it should not have been, and the quartermaster had known it would be there. The boy was still looking on the other with narrowed eyes, even as the quartermaster, as E, looked at the moldering bed. "It's never changed be-"
That was as far as the boy managed to speak, because the door? It shook and shuddered, a fist landing on it from outside. This wasn't a spectral banging. This was real, and the rotting room filled with the sent of stale vodka on skin, sweat and sweet, and the boy dropped to his knees and jammed himself under the rotting bed with the practice of someone who'd done it often. He wasn't skinny, the boy, and it was a tight fit, but he managed, and he yanked on E's pantleg. "Get DOWN here before he sees you," he hissed as the door began to creak open.