Re: [Woods: Atticus & Eames]
Eames didn't know the dead lurked in the woods. He wouldn't have put it past Repose to wander anywhere and the dead seemed to find the act of being dead a personal challenge, but he was very much alive, darling, and so was the approaching man. If he wasn't, he was doing an exceptional job at pretending to be. Eames's face came up from the carving, and his eyes - very shrewd and very blue, landed on the younger man's face and as Atticus came closer into view, snagged on the smears of gray that twined like tattoos on skin. Eames liked details and collecting them was habit.
He smiled, Eames did and he didn't recognize the young man in front of him, even if he had met the older once. His memory wasn't that good, it caught up habits, postures, ways of moving rather than features because it was rare people recollected the precise shade of someone's eyes so much as their manner of standing, or speaking. "Good afternoon. You're a little off the path," there wasn't a path, but it was obvious this wasn't it. But he sounded affable about it, sat in front of the house that was new and occupied, compared to its fellows in the woods.