The Sharpest Lives, 1/2
Title: The Sharpest Lives
Pairing: Eames/OMC, Arthur/Eames
Words: ~4000
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, references to abuse (physical/emotional/sexual).
Author's Note: Based, ehhh, quite loosely on this prompt: A 19year-old Eames loves Arthur, a man he meets frequently at a supermarket. (Neither of them work there). Arthur finds Eames charming, but after they're first few meetings he starts to notice bruises on Eames body. Turns out Eames has an extremely abusive boyfriend, who beats Eames when he comes home because he thinks Eames is cheating on him. But Eames continues to see Arthur, cause those are some of his happiest moments.
Basically my fail!brain snatched the words 'supermarket' and 'abuse' and ran with it. I've actually been wanting to write an abusive relationship fic for awhile now, because realistic ones seems disappointingly rare, but I could never come up with a way to write it believably... Till I stopped imagining Arthur as the victim and instead inserted Eames. Ta-daaa.
(My rationale is that if I post the first part, I'll be compelled to finish it. Fingers crossed xD)
The first time Arthur met Eames, he was barely an afterthought. Arthur mostly had eyes for his boyfriend, who epitomized tall, dark and handsome.
The bell above the door jangled to signify the pair's entrance into the store and Arthur hastily stuffed his homework under the counter so as to look attentive. There were three cash registers usually -- the store was small, barely more than a convenience store really except in that it sold fresh produce, but it was a job, and Arthur had debts -- at this time of night, though, only one or two cash registers were open. Tonight he had the pleasure of working alongside Nash.
The two men didn't even glance at him. They wandered the store leisurely. Arthur found his gaze drifting repeatedly to the feeds from the various security cameras. They were colourless and grainy, but it was better than outright staring. The man accompanying Eames (Arthur would become familiar with Eames' name later, as well as Tony's) was slightly taller than him, broad in the shoulder, and so attractive it made Arthur's mouth a little dry.
“Nash,” he hissed, when the pair started wandering back over with a shopping basket full of groceries. Nash glanced over his iPhone at Arthur disinterestedly. “Go and sweep.”
Nash rolled his eyes, but got to his feet and grabbed a broom, leaving Arthur as the only available cash register.
“Look at that, darling,” said Eames, just before they reached the cash. He nodded toward the fridge. “They have cherry Coke. I haven't seen that in years.”
His boyfriend laughed, a short, amused huff of breath. “I know what you're thinking. Don't buy any.”
Eames was already reaching for the door handle. He withdrew his hand. “Why not?”
“Because when you drink Coke you get addicted to the caffeine, and besides,” he laughed again, “your teeth are already a dentist's nightmare, Eames. Don't make it any worse.”
Eames smiled ruefully, and stood off to the side while Arthur rang up their purchases, occasionally flicking glances at him. Damn. They were together, then. Not that he had a significant shot anyway -- Eames' boyfriend looked at least thirty (Eames himself somewhat closer to Arthur's age), and Arthur was, after all, still in college, and working in a goddamn supermarket to pay off his student loans.
They paid and left and Arthur stared wistfully out the door after them, until Nash yelled to ask where the dustpan was and Arthur had to stomp over to where the dustpan always was and deliver it to him.
+
Next time, Eames came in alone. Mainly Arthur recognized his accent, which was bound to stand out in Manhattan; but Arthur prided himself on having a good memory for his regular customers.
“Where's your friend?” he couldn't resist asking, while he bagged Eames' groceries.
“Why d'you ask?” Eames replied, arching an eyebrow. “Doing some sort of high school project on the gay couple in its natural environment?”
Arthur snorted dryly. “If I was doing a project about gays I would set up a camera in my own apartment.”
The corners of Eames' lips curved up. “Ah, I see.”
“And I'm in college. Not high school.”
“Even better.” Eames leered, then smiled and winked. “Tony's at work, sorry to disappoint.”
“At this time of night? What is he, a supermarket cashier?”
“NYPD.” Eames gathered up his groceries. “Cheers.”
A cop. Arthur liked that. He couldn't wait for Tony to return. Even if Arthur was a college student, and a cashier by night, and only twenty-three; and even though Tony had a boyfriend -- well, it was nice to dream.
But it was always Eames who came in after that. He was always alone, and it was always at night, so during Arthur's shift. Arthur would ring up his items and imagine which things were Tony's, try to decipher the man's life through his groceries. He didn't actually take in much about Eames at first -- though he did notice that Eames never bought Coke. And he always seemed content, ready for a laugh. He liked to linger and make small talk.
“So?” he said, leaning over the counter, while Arthur piled oranges into a paper bag. “Got anyone special in your life?”
“Not at the moment,” said Arthur.
Eames raised an eyebrow. “No boyfriend? No love interest?”
“None of the above. Too busy with school,” said Arthur. He glanced around to check that the store was empty, and decided to indulge Eames with conversation. “How did you meet your boyfriend?”
“Online.” Eames chuckled. “Romantic, I know. I moved to the States a year ago to be with him and the rest is history.”
“I think it's romantic,” Ariadne piped up from the other cash register. She was familiar with Eames by now, even though he always went to Arthur's cash. “You left your country to be with your man.”
Eames grinned. “My family wasn't quite as impressed, unfortunately.”
“Ten cents is your change,” Arthur said, handing him a dime.
Eames, in response, held the dime up between two fingers, closed his other hand around it, drew the hand away, and made a show of spreading his fingers to reveal an empty palm.
“The French drop,” said Arthur dryly. “Very good.”
Eames opened his other hand. The dime wasn't there, either. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. That made Arthur frown, and Eames started to laugh.
“See you later, Arthur,” he said, and grabbed up his groceries.
“He's into you,” said Ariadne from behind her magazine, once Eames was gone. Arthur frowned again.
“He has a boyfriend. A really attractive one. And frankly, I'd rather the boyfriend be into me.”
Ariadne just smiled wryly. “Looks aren't everything.”
+
As the weather grew chillier, Eames was among the first to start bundling up.
“English constitution, you know,” he sniffed, when Arthur raised an eyebrow at his heavy jacket. “I don't tolerate the cold very well. Just a pack of Bensons today, cheers.”
Arthur obligingly rang up the pack of cigarettes and slid it back over the counter. As Eames reached for it, his sleeve rode up a little.
“What's that from?” Arthur asked, as he took the money Eames proffered. Eames glanced down at his wrist, which was marred by a dark bruise.
“Must have slept on it funny. Thanks, Arthur, you're a love.”
Tony remained an enigma, but over the months, Arthur came to know quite a lot about Eames. He liked Earl Grey tea, and he was the only person Arthur knew who regularly liked to buy pomegranates. He had a weakness for the trashy romance novels the store usually had in stock (“You know those are targeted towards middle-aged housewives, don't you?” Arthur had said, raising a dubious eyebrow, and Eames had replied unabashedly, “I'm a hopeless romantic, darling”).
And he was ridiculous. He loved to provoke reactions. Arthur nearly did a double-take when Eames dumped a bottle of hand lotion and a box of tissues on the counter, which made the Englishman burst out laughing.
“Only joshing. The lotion's to keep my hands nice and baby-soft in the cold, and the tissue's just 'cause we need it. Here, I'll take these things, too ...”
“You have an absurd sense of humour, Mr. Eames,” Arthur told him sternly, scanning in Eames' other items.
“Always glad to brighten your evenings, Arthur,” Eames beamed at him.
+
When Tony finally reappeared at the store, Arthur was unprepared. It had been several months. Hastily, once again, he stowed his work away, something he'd fallen out of the habit of doing whenever Eames came by to shop.
He couldn't help but notice, though, how different Eames seemed now, with his boyfriend in tow. It had escaped his notice before, but now he knew what Eames was like on his own. With Tony, Eames was quieter, more subdued. Eames always liked to talk when he was in here alone: now, he didn't say anything.
Arthur didn't hear him speak until Tony's voice drifted over faintly from where they were looking at pasta.
“I'm taking Darcy to the Christmas party this year, is that alright?”
Eames' voice followed.
“Darcy, your ex-girlfriend Darcy? Again?”
“It's just that the guys already know her and she knows them, and they don't know we broke up yet. I'm just trying to avoid all the awkward explanations and introductions and everything. And she already said she'd go.”
Eames was silent.
“Is that okay?”
“Yeah, sure,” said Eames.
There was another silence. Arthur glanced at the security feeds and saw that they were standing close, probably kissing. He felt a flicker of envy. When they spoke again their voices were lower, but they'd drifted closer now, so Arthur only had to strain a little to hear them.
“You know it's not a personal thing. I just don't want to damage my career.”
“I know,” said Eames.
Tony was the one who laid out all their groceries on the counter and paid with a credit card. Unexpectedly, Arthur felt quite tongue-tied in front of him. He seemed somehow more intimidating now that Arthur knew he was a cop. Instead of saying anything to him, he shot a quick, awkward smile at Eames, who was standing off to one side.
“No sleight of hand today?”
Eames smiled back. “You poke holes in all my tricks. You don't deserve any.”
Tony shot a quick glance at him, then at Arthur. He gathered up the bags of groceries and left without saying anything, and Eames followed him.
“Do you think those guys were gay?” Nash asked belatedly from the other cash register.
+
It was a week later, maybe two weeks, when Eames came in for a pack of cigarettes and Arthur glanced up at him and exclaimed, “What the hell happened to your neck?”
Eames grunted, tugging up his scarf, and said, “It's nothing,” but Arthur was already reaching over the counter and yanking at his scarf till Eames stepped back. “It's just a bruise.”
“Jesus, Eames.” Arthur gaped. The brief glimpse he'd gotten wrapped all the way around Eames' throat. “Did someone do that to you?”
Eames' expression turned to a sheepish, rueful grin. “Yeah, he does like to play rough in bed,” he said, and now Arthur noticed how his voice was slightly hoarser than usual.
“Oh,” said Arthur, flushing. “Sorry.”
Eames shrugged. “You asked.”
Arthur rang up the cigarettes quickly and Eames left.
“I think he's lonely, you know,” Ariadne commented, one time.
“Why?”
“Well, he's always coming here and talking to you. I think he's memorized your work schedule, he only ever comes in during your shifts. It makes me feel like he doesn't really have anyone else to talk to.”
Arthur wasn't so sure -- he'd always just figured it was in Eames' nature to be chatty and annoying -- but he didn't argue. Ariadne was the psychology student, after all.
+
It so happened, one night, when Arthur wasn't working, that he returned home from a late lecture and found Eames standing under the awning outside his building, to avoid the freezing rain.
“Eames?” he said incredulously, lowering his umbrella once he'd reached shelter.
Eames looked at him, startled, and blinked. “Oh,” he said. “Arthur.”
“What are you doing here?” Arthur asked, drawing closer.
“It's raining,” said Eames, unnecessarily.
“I know, but ... this is my apartment building.”
Close enough, he could smell the reek of alcohol that clung to Eames' sodden clothing. Eames looked up at the building.
“Oh,” he said again. He squinted and pointed down the street. “Mine's over there. We're neighbours, Arthur, look at that.”
“Yeah.” Arthur fidgeted, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Is everything okay?”
Eames nodded, shrugged, shook his head. He stared blankly into the rain. Arthur stood next to him for a few minutes, shivering.
“I'd take a fucking bullet for him,” Eames said finally, his voice breaking just a little. “And he wouldn't even care. He'd just move on.”
“You should come inside and warm up,” Arthur said.
Eames shook his head. “I can't. No. Sorry. I can't. But thank you.”
He stumbled back out into the rain and the slush. Arthur watched him go, mystified. He hadn't known Eames was a drinker.
+
In the end, Arthur couldn't believe how long it took him to figure it out. Really, he'd just never given thought to the idea that a man could be the victim of an abusive relationship. Particularly a man as large and capable as Eames.
He didn't think it was all physical, though, and that was the problem. He didn't know how to confront Eames about it. It was easier to make comments when he saw bruises; when Eames couldn't pay for his cigarettes and confessed to not having a credit card, Arthur found he didn't know what to say.
“No debit card?” he asked.
“No bank account.” Eames smiled a little and shrugged, turning away. “Guess it can wait till the end of the week.”
“Take them anyway,” Arthur blurted out. Pity was wrenching at his gut. “On me.”
“Nah, that's alright. Gives me another excuse to come and visit you.” He winked. “See you, Arthur.”
“Who doesn't have a bank account?” Arthur demanded to Ariadne, once Eames had gone.
“Someone who doesn't have a job?” she hazarded.
It made so much sense that Arthur felt his mouth snap shut. Well, shit. No wonder Eames was lonely. Did he ever even leave his apartment, except to run errands and pick up cigarettes?
At the end of the week, when Eames returned, Arthur asked cautiously, “Are you okay?”
Eames' eyes flickered up to him, no trace of their typical laughter there. “What do you mean?”
Arthur fumbled for words. He really was terrible at this. If he wasn't increasingly convinced that Ariadne was right, and he was quite possibly Eames' only friend, he probably wouldn't bother at all.
“Your lip is bleeding,” was what came out, startled.
“Oh.” Eames raised a hand to his lip and drew it away with blood on his fingers. “Yeah, they dry out a bit in winter.”
Arthur scrutinized him for a long moment and said, “Really?”
At that precise moment, Eames' cell phone chose to start ringing.
“I've got to go.” Eames snatched up the cigarettes and strolled away. “Have a good night, Arthur.”
Arthur watched him leave. Then, on an impulse, he said, “Watch the registers, Nash,” and darted off his stool, heading for the door.
Outside, Eames hadn't gotten far.
“I'm on my way now,” he was saying into his phone. “Yes, right now. I don't know, three minutes?” He checked his watch. “Three and a half? I'll hurry... Okay. See you in a few.”
He pocketed the cell phone and kept walking, and Arthur called out, “Eames.”
Eames barely glanced over his shoulder. “I have to go.”
“Just wait, okay?”
“I have to go, Arthur,” he repeated, and conveyed more in that one broken word than anything else he'd said so far. Arthur stopped walking, and let him.
+
He didn't see Eames for two weeks after that. Ariadne said she hadn't seen him on any of her shifts, either, and Arthur fretted a little, though upcoming exams soon wiped any outside worry from his mind.
When he did see Eames, he suddenly found he had little room for any other thoughts.
“Evening, gorgeous,” Eames said, with a brave attempt at his usual cocky smile, though the effect was ruined by the blood that trickled from the corner of his mouth, the dark bruise on his jaw that his scarf didn't quite cover, and the fact that he was reeling slightly even though he was standing. “Just the usual fags, thanks.”
Something about the sight of this raw, undeniable physical evidence did something strange to Arthur's chest. He scrambled off his stool and grabbed Eames by the sleeve.
“We're talking,” he said. “Right now.”
“I'll cover,” Ariadne called over, as Arthur hauled him bodily to the break room.
Once the door was shut, he suddenly felt slightly awkward. Eames spared him the trouble of having to come up with something to say first.
“I got in a bar fight, it's nothing.”
“Bullshit,” said Arthur sharply. “Sit down.”
“I'll stay standing up, thanks.”
“Sit,” Arthur ordered, blocking the door.
Eames' gaze lifted from the floor to Arthur's face for a brief second. Then he pulled up one of the plastic chairs and sat. His breath hissed softly through his teeth as he did.
Arthur's heart sank. He, too, pulled up a chair and sat, his knees inches from Eames'.
“Eames, fuck,” he said softly, raising a hand so he could pull at the man's scarf. “What's he doing to you?”
Eames allowed him to unknot the scarf and tug it away, so that Arthur could see the butterfly bruises wrapped around his throat, the dark spread of fingertips on either side of his neck.
“Just bedroom stuff,” he said, hoarsely and quietly. “I told you, he likes it rough.”
“He hit you,” Arthur said. “Is that bedroom stuff, too?”
Eames shook his head and sniffed, his nose running from the cold. He swiped a hand over his nose, then over the corner of his mouth, too, smudging the blood there with a wince.
“He thinks I'm cheating,” he confessed.
“Why would he think that?”
“Because he says I take too long to pick up groceries.”
Arthur stared at him. “He thinks you're sleeping ... with me?”
“Don't feel badly,” Eames said quickly. “It's my own fault. He's gone to work now, though, we can talk,” he added, though he checked his watch compulsively.
“Okay,” said Arthur, drawing in a deep breath. “Then tell me what's going on.”
Eames did. He stood up, because it was painful to sit, and he told Arthur about Tony, and how he despised himself for being gay, and sometimes took it out on Eames, the living embodiment of what he hated about himself. He'd moved them out of their old apartment building because neighbours were starting to complain about their fighting, and in his opinion, the less people who knew he was living with Eames, the better. He regularly saw his ex-girlfriend, to keep up appearances in case his colleagues found out about him, and Eames suspected they were still sleeping together. But he loved Eames despite all this and was terrified of losing him.
“It's not worth it,” said Arthur, as soon as Eames told him this. “You've got to leave him, Eames.”
“I can't,” said Eames. Arthur took another deep breath.
“I know you love him, and everything, but--”
“I mean, I can't,” Eames interrupted him. “I literally can't leave him. The second I do, he'll go to the Department of Immigration. I'm not here legally, Arthur, he could have me deported at any time. I'll be shipped back to England without so much as a stick of furniture to my name, let alone a single penny, or a family member who'd support me. I'd be homeless. I've got no job here, no prospects without a visa. I can't ever go to the hospital because they'll know I'm an alien. I can't go to the police, because he is the police. And it's not like there's a handy shelter out there for battered men. Do you understand? Even if I wanted to leave him, I can't.”
“Eames,” Arthur said quietly, horrified.
“It's not as bad as I'm making it sound,” Eames said, his voice losing its hard edge. “I make him sound like a monster, but he's not, really. I get frustrated because I expect him to read my mind, but it's not like I've ever actually said, 'Hey, do you think you could spend a little less time with your ex-girlfriend,' or, 'Hey, maybe once in awhile I'd like to go to the gym or something,' or, 'You know, I actually really don't like it when you wake me up by shoving your prick inside me'--”
“Who the hell needs to be told that?” said Arthur, gaping. “It's common fucking decency, Eames.”
“I'm too passive,” Eames said stubbornly. “Too non-confrontational. I never tell him I don't like any of this shit, so why should I expect it to stop?”
“Because you're a human fucking being and not a pet!”
“I'm not a fool, Arthur,” Eames snapped. “I know you probably think I'm an idiot for getting into this relationship and not trying to get out of it, but I'm not stupid. I know it's fucked up. I know it's not right, what he's doing. I know. But we can't pick the people we love, you know, and whatever else I say, at least he loves me back. For every night we have a disagreement, there's at least ten nights where we're a normal couple, and we watch TV and he tells me about his day and we fall asleep on the couch together, and -- and at least he supports me, I don't even have a job, I'm bloody useless -- and, look at him, Arthur. He could have anyone, and he wants me. Who else would?”
“I would,” Arthur blurted out, surprising himself. He surprised Eames even more.
“I--” Eames seemed to stammer before he tried to regain his usual composure. “I appreciate your concern, really, truly I do, but your pity isn't--”
“It's not pity,” Arthur interrupted him. “You have to leave him, Eames, you have to. He's going to end up killing you. He's a cop, he keeps a gun.”
“Aren't you listening to me, I can't--”
Before he knew what he was doing, Arthur lurched upright out of his chair and practically fell onto Eames, grabbing him and crushing their lips together. Eames immediately made a weak, shocked sound of pain, and Arthur pulled back a little before he tried again, more gently. He licked at Eames' lower lip, trying to entice him into this kiss, and tasted Eames' blood. Eames' lips parted, slightly, and Arthur leaned into him, trying to claim more--
“Stop,” Eames wheezed, shoving him off. “Stop. I can't.”
“Eames,” Arthur tried pleadingly.
“I have a boyfriend,” said Eames weakly. “And that means something to me. Even if it doesn't always mean something to him.”
Arthur felt a hot lance of anger in his chest. “He's not going to change, Eames. Do you get that? He's going to get worse. You don't mean anything to him.”
“That's not true.”
“If he loved you he wouldn't fucking hurt you!”
“I have to start shopping at another supermarket,” Eames said. “And then I can show him the receipts, and he won't be as bad. I know him. He's just possessive. He'll be better when he knows there's nothing going on.”
“Yeah, until he thinks you're having sex with the next person he sees you exchange two words with.”
Eames opened his mouth to reply, but just then his cell phone rang. They both stared across at each other for a moment. Then, his shoulders slumping in resignation, Eames took out his phone and answered it.
“Hi,” he said. He was quiet for a moment. “Sorry. I went for a walk.” He checked his watch. “About twenty minutes ago.” Another pause. “About three minutes away, I guess. I'll start heading back over there. See you later -- love you.”
He hung up and pocketed the phone, not looking Arthur in the eye. “I've got to go. He's expecting a call from the flat in three minutes.”
“Eames,” Arthur said softly, again.
“Thanks again for being concerned.” Eames knotted his scarf securely around his neck once more. “I'll see you -- well, I guess I won't see you around.”
Short of clinging onto him like a child, Arthur couldn't think of anything to do to make him stay. So he didn't do anything.
ETA: part two.
Pairing: Eames/OMC, Arthur/Eames
Words: ~4000
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Language, references to abuse (physical/emotional/sexual).
Author's Note: Based, ehhh, quite loosely on this prompt: A 19year-old Eames loves Arthur, a man he meets frequently at a supermarket. (Neither of them work there). Arthur finds Eames charming, but after they're first few meetings he starts to notice bruises on Eames body. Turns out Eames has an extremely abusive boyfriend, who beats Eames when he comes home because he thinks Eames is cheating on him. But Eames continues to see Arthur, cause those are some of his happiest moments.
Basically my fail!brain snatched the words 'supermarket' and 'abuse' and ran with it. I've actually been wanting to write an abusive relationship fic for awhile now, because realistic ones seems disappointingly rare, but I could never come up with a way to write it believably... Till I stopped imagining Arthur as the victim and instead inserted Eames. Ta-daaa.
(My rationale is that if I post the first part, I'll be compelled to finish it. Fingers crossed xD)
The first time Arthur met Eames, he was barely an afterthought. Arthur mostly had eyes for his boyfriend, who epitomized tall, dark and handsome.
The bell above the door jangled to signify the pair's entrance into the store and Arthur hastily stuffed his homework under the counter so as to look attentive. There were three cash registers usually -- the store was small, barely more than a convenience store really except in that it sold fresh produce, but it was a job, and Arthur had debts -- at this time of night, though, only one or two cash registers were open. Tonight he had the pleasure of working alongside Nash.
The two men didn't even glance at him. They wandered the store leisurely. Arthur found his gaze drifting repeatedly to the feeds from the various security cameras. They were colourless and grainy, but it was better than outright staring. The man accompanying Eames (Arthur would become familiar with Eames' name later, as well as Tony's) was slightly taller than him, broad in the shoulder, and so attractive it made Arthur's mouth a little dry.
“Nash,” he hissed, when the pair started wandering back over with a shopping basket full of groceries. Nash glanced over his iPhone at Arthur disinterestedly. “Go and sweep.”
Nash rolled his eyes, but got to his feet and grabbed a broom, leaving Arthur as the only available cash register.
“Look at that, darling,” said Eames, just before they reached the cash. He nodded toward the fridge. “They have cherry Coke. I haven't seen that in years.”
His boyfriend laughed, a short, amused huff of breath. “I know what you're thinking. Don't buy any.”
Eames was already reaching for the door handle. He withdrew his hand. “Why not?”
“Because when you drink Coke you get addicted to the caffeine, and besides,” he laughed again, “your teeth are already a dentist's nightmare, Eames. Don't make it any worse.”
Eames smiled ruefully, and stood off to the side while Arthur rang up their purchases, occasionally flicking glances at him. Damn. They were together, then. Not that he had a significant shot anyway -- Eames' boyfriend looked at least thirty (Eames himself somewhat closer to Arthur's age), and Arthur was, after all, still in college, and working in a goddamn supermarket to pay off his student loans.
They paid and left and Arthur stared wistfully out the door after them, until Nash yelled to ask where the dustpan was and Arthur had to stomp over to where the dustpan always was and deliver it to him.
+
Next time, Eames came in alone. Mainly Arthur recognized his accent, which was bound to stand out in Manhattan; but Arthur prided himself on having a good memory for his regular customers.
“Where's your friend?” he couldn't resist asking, while he bagged Eames' groceries.
“Why d'you ask?” Eames replied, arching an eyebrow. “Doing some sort of high school project on the gay couple in its natural environment?”
Arthur snorted dryly. “If I was doing a project about gays I would set up a camera in my own apartment.”
The corners of Eames' lips curved up. “Ah, I see.”
“And I'm in college. Not high school.”
“Even better.” Eames leered, then smiled and winked. “Tony's at work, sorry to disappoint.”
“At this time of night? What is he, a supermarket cashier?”
“NYPD.” Eames gathered up his groceries. “Cheers.”
A cop. Arthur liked that. He couldn't wait for Tony to return. Even if Arthur was a college student, and a cashier by night, and only twenty-three; and even though Tony had a boyfriend -- well, it was nice to dream.
But it was always Eames who came in after that. He was always alone, and it was always at night, so during Arthur's shift. Arthur would ring up his items and imagine which things were Tony's, try to decipher the man's life through his groceries. He didn't actually take in much about Eames at first -- though he did notice that Eames never bought Coke. And he always seemed content, ready for a laugh. He liked to linger and make small talk.
“So?” he said, leaning over the counter, while Arthur piled oranges into a paper bag. “Got anyone special in your life?”
“Not at the moment,” said Arthur.
Eames raised an eyebrow. “No boyfriend? No love interest?”
“None of the above. Too busy with school,” said Arthur. He glanced around to check that the store was empty, and decided to indulge Eames with conversation. “How did you meet your boyfriend?”
“Online.” Eames chuckled. “Romantic, I know. I moved to the States a year ago to be with him and the rest is history.”
“I think it's romantic,” Ariadne piped up from the other cash register. She was familiar with Eames by now, even though he always went to Arthur's cash. “You left your country to be with your man.”
Eames grinned. “My family wasn't quite as impressed, unfortunately.”
“Ten cents is your change,” Arthur said, handing him a dime.
Eames, in response, held the dime up between two fingers, closed his other hand around it, drew the hand away, and made a show of spreading his fingers to reveal an empty palm.
“The French drop,” said Arthur dryly. “Very good.”
Eames opened his other hand. The dime wasn't there, either. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt. That made Arthur frown, and Eames started to laugh.
“See you later, Arthur,” he said, and grabbed up his groceries.
“He's into you,” said Ariadne from behind her magazine, once Eames was gone. Arthur frowned again.
“He has a boyfriend. A really attractive one. And frankly, I'd rather the boyfriend be into me.”
Ariadne just smiled wryly. “Looks aren't everything.”
+
As the weather grew chillier, Eames was among the first to start bundling up.
“English constitution, you know,” he sniffed, when Arthur raised an eyebrow at his heavy jacket. “I don't tolerate the cold very well. Just a pack of Bensons today, cheers.”
Arthur obligingly rang up the pack of cigarettes and slid it back over the counter. As Eames reached for it, his sleeve rode up a little.
“What's that from?” Arthur asked, as he took the money Eames proffered. Eames glanced down at his wrist, which was marred by a dark bruise.
“Must have slept on it funny. Thanks, Arthur, you're a love.”
Tony remained an enigma, but over the months, Arthur came to know quite a lot about Eames. He liked Earl Grey tea, and he was the only person Arthur knew who regularly liked to buy pomegranates. He had a weakness for the trashy romance novels the store usually had in stock (“You know those are targeted towards middle-aged housewives, don't you?” Arthur had said, raising a dubious eyebrow, and Eames had replied unabashedly, “I'm a hopeless romantic, darling”).
And he was ridiculous. He loved to provoke reactions. Arthur nearly did a double-take when Eames dumped a bottle of hand lotion and a box of tissues on the counter, which made the Englishman burst out laughing.
“Only joshing. The lotion's to keep my hands nice and baby-soft in the cold, and the tissue's just 'cause we need it. Here, I'll take these things, too ...”
“You have an absurd sense of humour, Mr. Eames,” Arthur told him sternly, scanning in Eames' other items.
“Always glad to brighten your evenings, Arthur,” Eames beamed at him.
+
When Tony finally reappeared at the store, Arthur was unprepared. It had been several months. Hastily, once again, he stowed his work away, something he'd fallen out of the habit of doing whenever Eames came by to shop.
He couldn't help but notice, though, how different Eames seemed now, with his boyfriend in tow. It had escaped his notice before, but now he knew what Eames was like on his own. With Tony, Eames was quieter, more subdued. Eames always liked to talk when he was in here alone: now, he didn't say anything.
Arthur didn't hear him speak until Tony's voice drifted over faintly from where they were looking at pasta.
“I'm taking Darcy to the Christmas party this year, is that alright?”
Eames' voice followed.
“Darcy, your ex-girlfriend Darcy? Again?”
“It's just that the guys already know her and she knows them, and they don't know we broke up yet. I'm just trying to avoid all the awkward explanations and introductions and everything. And she already said she'd go.”
Eames was silent.
“Is that okay?”
“Yeah, sure,” said Eames.
There was another silence. Arthur glanced at the security feeds and saw that they were standing close, probably kissing. He felt a flicker of envy. When they spoke again their voices were lower, but they'd drifted closer now, so Arthur only had to strain a little to hear them.
“You know it's not a personal thing. I just don't want to damage my career.”
“I know,” said Eames.
Tony was the one who laid out all their groceries on the counter and paid with a credit card. Unexpectedly, Arthur felt quite tongue-tied in front of him. He seemed somehow more intimidating now that Arthur knew he was a cop. Instead of saying anything to him, he shot a quick, awkward smile at Eames, who was standing off to one side.
“No sleight of hand today?”
Eames smiled back. “You poke holes in all my tricks. You don't deserve any.”
Tony shot a quick glance at him, then at Arthur. He gathered up the bags of groceries and left without saying anything, and Eames followed him.
“Do you think those guys were gay?” Nash asked belatedly from the other cash register.
+
It was a week later, maybe two weeks, when Eames came in for a pack of cigarettes and Arthur glanced up at him and exclaimed, “What the hell happened to your neck?”
Eames grunted, tugging up his scarf, and said, “It's nothing,” but Arthur was already reaching over the counter and yanking at his scarf till Eames stepped back. “It's just a bruise.”
“Jesus, Eames.” Arthur gaped. The brief glimpse he'd gotten wrapped all the way around Eames' throat. “Did someone do that to you?”
Eames' expression turned to a sheepish, rueful grin. “Yeah, he does like to play rough in bed,” he said, and now Arthur noticed how his voice was slightly hoarser than usual.
“Oh,” said Arthur, flushing. “Sorry.”
Eames shrugged. “You asked.”
Arthur rang up the cigarettes quickly and Eames left.
“I think he's lonely, you know,” Ariadne commented, one time.
“Why?”
“Well, he's always coming here and talking to you. I think he's memorized your work schedule, he only ever comes in during your shifts. It makes me feel like he doesn't really have anyone else to talk to.”
Arthur wasn't so sure -- he'd always just figured it was in Eames' nature to be chatty and annoying -- but he didn't argue. Ariadne was the psychology student, after all.
+
It so happened, one night, when Arthur wasn't working, that he returned home from a late lecture and found Eames standing under the awning outside his building, to avoid the freezing rain.
“Eames?” he said incredulously, lowering his umbrella once he'd reached shelter.
Eames looked at him, startled, and blinked. “Oh,” he said. “Arthur.”
“What are you doing here?” Arthur asked, drawing closer.
“It's raining,” said Eames, unnecessarily.
“I know, but ... this is my apartment building.”
Close enough, he could smell the reek of alcohol that clung to Eames' sodden clothing. Eames looked up at the building.
“Oh,” he said again. He squinted and pointed down the street. “Mine's over there. We're neighbours, Arthur, look at that.”
“Yeah.” Arthur fidgeted, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Is everything okay?”
Eames nodded, shrugged, shook his head. He stared blankly into the rain. Arthur stood next to him for a few minutes, shivering.
“I'd take a fucking bullet for him,” Eames said finally, his voice breaking just a little. “And he wouldn't even care. He'd just move on.”
“You should come inside and warm up,” Arthur said.
Eames shook his head. “I can't. No. Sorry. I can't. But thank you.”
He stumbled back out into the rain and the slush. Arthur watched him go, mystified. He hadn't known Eames was a drinker.
+
In the end, Arthur couldn't believe how long it took him to figure it out. Really, he'd just never given thought to the idea that a man could be the victim of an abusive relationship. Particularly a man as large and capable as Eames.
He didn't think it was all physical, though, and that was the problem. He didn't know how to confront Eames about it. It was easier to make comments when he saw bruises; when Eames couldn't pay for his cigarettes and confessed to not having a credit card, Arthur found he didn't know what to say.
“No debit card?” he asked.
“No bank account.” Eames smiled a little and shrugged, turning away. “Guess it can wait till the end of the week.”
“Take them anyway,” Arthur blurted out. Pity was wrenching at his gut. “On me.”
“Nah, that's alright. Gives me another excuse to come and visit you.” He winked. “See you, Arthur.”
“Who doesn't have a bank account?” Arthur demanded to Ariadne, once Eames had gone.
“Someone who doesn't have a job?” she hazarded.
It made so much sense that Arthur felt his mouth snap shut. Well, shit. No wonder Eames was lonely. Did he ever even leave his apartment, except to run errands and pick up cigarettes?
At the end of the week, when Eames returned, Arthur asked cautiously, “Are you okay?”
Eames' eyes flickered up to him, no trace of their typical laughter there. “What do you mean?”
Arthur fumbled for words. He really was terrible at this. If he wasn't increasingly convinced that Ariadne was right, and he was quite possibly Eames' only friend, he probably wouldn't bother at all.
“Your lip is bleeding,” was what came out, startled.
“Oh.” Eames raised a hand to his lip and drew it away with blood on his fingers. “Yeah, they dry out a bit in winter.”
Arthur scrutinized him for a long moment and said, “Really?”
At that precise moment, Eames' cell phone chose to start ringing.
“I've got to go.” Eames snatched up the cigarettes and strolled away. “Have a good night, Arthur.”
Arthur watched him leave. Then, on an impulse, he said, “Watch the registers, Nash,” and darted off his stool, heading for the door.
Outside, Eames hadn't gotten far.
“I'm on my way now,” he was saying into his phone. “Yes, right now. I don't know, three minutes?” He checked his watch. “Three and a half? I'll hurry... Okay. See you in a few.”
He pocketed the cell phone and kept walking, and Arthur called out, “Eames.”
Eames barely glanced over his shoulder. “I have to go.”
“Just wait, okay?”
“I have to go, Arthur,” he repeated, and conveyed more in that one broken word than anything else he'd said so far. Arthur stopped walking, and let him.
+
He didn't see Eames for two weeks after that. Ariadne said she hadn't seen him on any of her shifts, either, and Arthur fretted a little, though upcoming exams soon wiped any outside worry from his mind.
When he did see Eames, he suddenly found he had little room for any other thoughts.
“Evening, gorgeous,” Eames said, with a brave attempt at his usual cocky smile, though the effect was ruined by the blood that trickled from the corner of his mouth, the dark bruise on his jaw that his scarf didn't quite cover, and the fact that he was reeling slightly even though he was standing. “Just the usual fags, thanks.”
Something about the sight of this raw, undeniable physical evidence did something strange to Arthur's chest. He scrambled off his stool and grabbed Eames by the sleeve.
“We're talking,” he said. “Right now.”
“I'll cover,” Ariadne called over, as Arthur hauled him bodily to the break room.
Once the door was shut, he suddenly felt slightly awkward. Eames spared him the trouble of having to come up with something to say first.
“I got in a bar fight, it's nothing.”
“Bullshit,” said Arthur sharply. “Sit down.”
“I'll stay standing up, thanks.”
“Sit,” Arthur ordered, blocking the door.
Eames' gaze lifted from the floor to Arthur's face for a brief second. Then he pulled up one of the plastic chairs and sat. His breath hissed softly through his teeth as he did.
Arthur's heart sank. He, too, pulled up a chair and sat, his knees inches from Eames'.
“Eames, fuck,” he said softly, raising a hand so he could pull at the man's scarf. “What's he doing to you?”
Eames allowed him to unknot the scarf and tug it away, so that Arthur could see the butterfly bruises wrapped around his throat, the dark spread of fingertips on either side of his neck.
“Just bedroom stuff,” he said, hoarsely and quietly. “I told you, he likes it rough.”
“He hit you,” Arthur said. “Is that bedroom stuff, too?”
Eames shook his head and sniffed, his nose running from the cold. He swiped a hand over his nose, then over the corner of his mouth, too, smudging the blood there with a wince.
“He thinks I'm cheating,” he confessed.
“Why would he think that?”
“Because he says I take too long to pick up groceries.”
Arthur stared at him. “He thinks you're sleeping ... with me?”
“Don't feel badly,” Eames said quickly. “It's my own fault. He's gone to work now, though, we can talk,” he added, though he checked his watch compulsively.
“Okay,” said Arthur, drawing in a deep breath. “Then tell me what's going on.”
Eames did. He stood up, because it was painful to sit, and he told Arthur about Tony, and how he despised himself for being gay, and sometimes took it out on Eames, the living embodiment of what he hated about himself. He'd moved them out of their old apartment building because neighbours were starting to complain about their fighting, and in his opinion, the less people who knew he was living with Eames, the better. He regularly saw his ex-girlfriend, to keep up appearances in case his colleagues found out about him, and Eames suspected they were still sleeping together. But he loved Eames despite all this and was terrified of losing him.
“It's not worth it,” said Arthur, as soon as Eames told him this. “You've got to leave him, Eames.”
“I can't,” said Eames. Arthur took another deep breath.
“I know you love him, and everything, but--”
“I mean, I can't,” Eames interrupted him. “I literally can't leave him. The second I do, he'll go to the Department of Immigration. I'm not here legally, Arthur, he could have me deported at any time. I'll be shipped back to England without so much as a stick of furniture to my name, let alone a single penny, or a family member who'd support me. I'd be homeless. I've got no job here, no prospects without a visa. I can't ever go to the hospital because they'll know I'm an alien. I can't go to the police, because he is the police. And it's not like there's a handy shelter out there for battered men. Do you understand? Even if I wanted to leave him, I can't.”
“Eames,” Arthur said quietly, horrified.
“It's not as bad as I'm making it sound,” Eames said, his voice losing its hard edge. “I make him sound like a monster, but he's not, really. I get frustrated because I expect him to read my mind, but it's not like I've ever actually said, 'Hey, do you think you could spend a little less time with your ex-girlfriend,' or, 'Hey, maybe once in awhile I'd like to go to the gym or something,' or, 'You know, I actually really don't like it when you wake me up by shoving your prick inside me'--”
“Who the hell needs to be told that?” said Arthur, gaping. “It's common fucking decency, Eames.”
“I'm too passive,” Eames said stubbornly. “Too non-confrontational. I never tell him I don't like any of this shit, so why should I expect it to stop?”
“Because you're a human fucking being and not a pet!”
“I'm not a fool, Arthur,” Eames snapped. “I know you probably think I'm an idiot for getting into this relationship and not trying to get out of it, but I'm not stupid. I know it's fucked up. I know it's not right, what he's doing. I know. But we can't pick the people we love, you know, and whatever else I say, at least he loves me back. For every night we have a disagreement, there's at least ten nights where we're a normal couple, and we watch TV and he tells me about his day and we fall asleep on the couch together, and -- and at least he supports me, I don't even have a job, I'm bloody useless -- and, look at him, Arthur. He could have anyone, and he wants me. Who else would?”
“I would,” Arthur blurted out, surprising himself. He surprised Eames even more.
“I--” Eames seemed to stammer before he tried to regain his usual composure. “I appreciate your concern, really, truly I do, but your pity isn't--”
“It's not pity,” Arthur interrupted him. “You have to leave him, Eames, you have to. He's going to end up killing you. He's a cop, he keeps a gun.”
“Aren't you listening to me, I can't--”
Before he knew what he was doing, Arthur lurched upright out of his chair and practically fell onto Eames, grabbing him and crushing their lips together. Eames immediately made a weak, shocked sound of pain, and Arthur pulled back a little before he tried again, more gently. He licked at Eames' lower lip, trying to entice him into this kiss, and tasted Eames' blood. Eames' lips parted, slightly, and Arthur leaned into him, trying to claim more--
“Stop,” Eames wheezed, shoving him off. “Stop. I can't.”
“Eames,” Arthur tried pleadingly.
“I have a boyfriend,” said Eames weakly. “And that means something to me. Even if it doesn't always mean something to him.”
Arthur felt a hot lance of anger in his chest. “He's not going to change, Eames. Do you get that? He's going to get worse. You don't mean anything to him.”
“That's not true.”
“If he loved you he wouldn't fucking hurt you!”
“I have to start shopping at another supermarket,” Eames said. “And then I can show him the receipts, and he won't be as bad. I know him. He's just possessive. He'll be better when he knows there's nothing going on.”
“Yeah, until he thinks you're having sex with the next person he sees you exchange two words with.”
Eames opened his mouth to reply, but just then his cell phone rang. They both stared across at each other for a moment. Then, his shoulders slumping in resignation, Eames took out his phone and answered it.
“Hi,” he said. He was quiet for a moment. “Sorry. I went for a walk.” He checked his watch. “About twenty minutes ago.” Another pause. “About three minutes away, I guess. I'll start heading back over there. See you later -- love you.”
He hung up and pocketed the phone, not looking Arthur in the eye. “I've got to go. He's expecting a call from the flat in three minutes.”
“Eames,” Arthur said softly, again.
“Thanks again for being concerned.” Eames knotted his scarf securely around his neck once more. “I'll see you -- well, I guess I won't see you around.”
Short of clinging onto him like a child, Arthur couldn't think of anything to do to make him stay. So he didn't do anything.
ETA: part two.