Re: Dreaming: Billy & Eames
Eames saw the way the boy's hands dropped as if they'd been occupied elsewhere. He took in the interior of the glooming room with sharp eyes that flicked from the stone floor to the windows, to the tapestries on the wall to the bandaged boy in front of him. Tended to, but hurt. Eames's mouth didn't express much but it flattened a touch into a line that looked austere on the beautiful, severe face he'd adopted. The boy - child, youth, whatever he was, looked like pity in his eyes and at the corners of his mouth.
"No questions at all," Eames said with the degree of carelessness that made it utterly irreverent, as he stuffed both hands in the pockets of his linen pants and strolled the length of the room. "Why would I have questions? I'm only in a very odd place without rhyme or reason to be here." He looked at the bandage, with hawkish consideration.
"How often does he hurt you?" It didn't matter who he was. He was a figment of subconscious presently, and much like the pirate, Eames planned on running along with this until it reached logical conclusion. "Rape you, beat you, which is it, darling?" They were logical conclusions. The bandage, the youth in the clutch of a castle that seemed rather desolate, all things considered.
Eames didn't want his secrets, he didn't know whose secrets he had. But he had them. "If he has you, why does he want me?" He didn't say a word about fighting. It was irrelevant.