i hear him

Attention split between Neil and the PASIV, Eames pick up the chamois cloth off the table and finished wiping down key areas: the mirror and the column it was nailed to, the remaining table and folding chair next to it. Sellot had gotten the bathroom after he disposed of a few non-volatile chemicals. Then he shoved the cloth into his pocket and gave Neil a big smile. 

They arrived with absolutely no fanfare, and Neil shouldered his way to a booth in the corner.  It was a nookish place, with defunct ceiling fans and a collection of candid photographs taped along the walls in lieu of wallpaper, the faces of students who had attempted the "Mega Meat" eating challenge and inevitably failed.  But the food was good, and the waiters and waitresses were all young and attractive despite their hats and smocks.  At one point, Neil had been among them, but he wasn't exactly a people person.

Tina, who'd been one of his coworkers, was apparently still here.  She caught his eye, glanced between him and Eames a few times, and then grinned knowingly.  He gave her a fuck off look.  Today wasn't exactly his norm.

Or maybe it was the defiant look in dark blue eyes.

“It’s called a PASIV,” Eames took another drag, eyes never leaving Neil’s. “And I will explain that if you are willing to let me finish up here without running off.” He took in the thinness of Neil’s body despite the puffed posture. “I’m starving after something like this. Perhaps over some lunch?” 

His brain was telling him, in a voice that sounded quite like Wendy's, that accepting this man's company was a bad idea.  But Neil, as something of a connoisseur of bad ideas, wound up saying, "Alright, fine."  His heart hammered at this decision, but the tremble of fear was also a rush.  Something inexorably drew him to this man and that "PASIV" thing, partly curiosity but also partly the impending knowledge that excitement may be happening behind the scenes of this town, something more than Neil's drab 9-to-5 job and his leaky refrigerator and peeling wallpaper.

"But I get to decide where we go," he added boldly.  "I wanna go to that deli down the street."  He'd had a job there once, and even though he'd been fired for being a prick, the owner still wouldn't let Eames pull a gun on him or something, right?  It made as much sense as any of this anyway...

There was nothing ugly about the whiteness, oddly enough.  After the initial shock of unnaturalness, they were rather unimposing, moistly expressive as any other eye, the color easy to miss in the overall temperament.  Still, Neil's curiosity was a fault.

To me, perhaps. Eames thought.

"I'm nobody," he said.  "I was just dicking around.  I live near here, in those yellow apartments up the way.  My refrigerator leaks.  I'm not much of a threat."

"Nice to meet you too, Moonshine," Neil said, letting the strange name roll in his mouth a bit.  "It sounds like you're fated to also buy me a drink."  Ok, so he couldn't resist a little jab after all.

Eames slipped his hands into his trouser pockets and smiled. His totem felt perfect, the odd pattern of worn ridges ruffing against a questing thumbnail. Not a dream then, just a lad who looked like Arthur. A nervous and scared lad who shoved bravado in front of him like a knight’s shield. 

Under different circumstances the man might have been attractive, riding that border between well-kept professionalism and a certain practiced swarthiness.  He wore a suit the same way other people wore hawaiian shirts.  But in the context of what Neil had just seen, that air of charming, lassiez faire unpredictability became potentially threatening.  Neil knew a thing or two about playing dumb.

The cheap garden lounge chairs were gone and the last of the paperwork was guttering out in a barrel. It was all very hobo-chic, Eames though, as he watched the last of the team leave. It wasn’t unusual for Eames to stay to help clean up after an extraction but he’d never volunteered to wipe the place down, preferring to be long gone after any paperwork had been burned.

Cecelia, the architect, blew him a kiss as she headed out the door. “Don’t tarry too long, Eames!”

“Never, my dear, you know me!”

Her laughter echoed in the now empty warehouse and Eames let out a breath he’d been holding since he woke up, Sellot, their chemist, had been injecting the mark with a milder sedative to keep him asleep and Eames had gotten up quickly to check the PASIV. It was his, painstakingly built by Yusuf as an apology for… well things. As he’d bent over the machine a slight movement caught his eye.It had been reflected in a mirror he’d hung on a pillar for practicing expressions and movements without having to go under.

He’d spun before the image registered completely and the extractor, Mackimmson, had stared at him hard. “What the hell?”

Eames had smirked and shook his head. “Did you switch the plates on the car?”

“Oh fuck you, Eames. This is not my first job,” Mackimmson had groused but Sellot had snickered and Cecelia had stretched fetchingly as she got off her chaise and all had been forgotten as they maneuvered the mark to the car and clean-up began.

Now Eames scrubbed a hand across his face and turned slowly. Somewhere, in the dark corners of the warehouse, possibly on the catwalk, was Arthur. It had been a swift glimpse of his face Eames had caught and if Arthur was here, something had gone wrong somewhere.

Rowan felt a bit of pride at how he looked at everything, fingertips almost gentle. She could tell, if she couldn’t before, that he was a good soul simply from that—one wouldn’t believe how many rude, heartless people have come in here, squeezing everything brashly, being ill-mannered, knocking things over—and so on. He was gentle, handling her potions like they were—well, magic. 

It was alright when he said her name—many people didn’t realize the power a name held over a person, and many a time Rowan has given her name to the underserving, the ones who’ll use it against her. This was not the case, Rowan could feel it. “Neil.” She reiterated, humbly pleased. He had offered it without her asking, and—even though he may not be aware of the magic in a name, it showed a sign of trust, even to the slightly eerie witch who owned a shop at the edge of nowhere. 

He had a lovely name, one that fit his face, his spirit. It meant ‘cloud’, fitting—something about the way you could breathe it out, soft and fluffy but also able to be filled with rain. And even more fitting— ‘champion’. He had been through something, something horrendous and painful, Rowan could tell. But he got through—and if not yet, then he would. It fit. Rowan knew, she knew.

Neil swished the pink liquid slightly, the same as mixing a flask in high school chemistry, and the fruity smell briefly intensified.  His fingertips tingled.  It was a nice idea, wasn't it?  The ability to make someone love you with a snap of magic.  Neil had no clue who he'd give such a potion to, but the concept itself made a hollow longing condense in his stomach.  There was such surety in a love potion.  Give it to someone, and you'd know that they loved you, because you were the one who implanted the idea.  When they confessed their love or treated you kindly, there would be no way to doubt it, because it was already fixed and unwavering and simple.  You would be this person's favorite, and you could curl up in that knowledge and stop working and sleep.  Neil was starting to believe that sort of love didn't actually exist in real life, not for long anyway.  It had to be worth just about anything.

Heat began creeping up his neck, the anxiety of impending revelation, and he quickly stoppered the bottle again.  He grinned to cover up his sudden nerves.  "Unluck.  Wouldn't that just be regular ol' life?" he asked.  He jangled the bottle suggestively.  "Most importantly, will it get me laid?"

Back to sex, natural as blinking.  Neil wasn't aware of quite how perfectly his present train of thought had matched his general behavior.  He was naively all-or-nothing.  A part of him had always wanted to be loved completely, trustfully and permanently, like the love of a parent but chosen.  He would settle for no less, and so in the face of that impossibility, he wound up taking nothing but the superficial scraps.

But what was he even thinking in the first place?  The love potions weren't actually real.  This was part of the reason he didn't take Rowan's warning seriously.  The other part was that he had trouble picturing her dispensing any sort of harm.

It was not worth it to her, but some people were so full of hatred that, yes, they gave it a shot.

Rowan put a gentle hand against a bookshelf as they walked, sending out a quiet ‘behave’, noticing the way the shop immediately stopped sending out chilling factors. The air lightened—sweetened, almost, like caramel popcorn. Rowan rolled her eyes. Her cheeky shop would be the death of her.

“Flavors.” She repeated, turning her head a little to look at him as they walked. “I’ll have to admit, no one has ever asked me about the…flavors of love potions, before.” A smile tugged at her lips, and the shop seemed to calm even more, the scent of flowers in the air. There was something calming about her smile—soft and warm, it was comforting. “I can make it whatever flavor, however, you would prefer.” She shrugged.

He picked up a pink, pyramid-shaped bottle and sniffed at it experimentally.  It indeed smelled a bit fruity.

Thinking of the work that must have gone into preparing the little things, he was quietly impressed.  He admired, and perhaps was slightly envious of, that level of commitment.  Strangely, the little love potions seemed to be a labor of love themselves.  For the second time he felt oddly humbled in this weird little shop.

"Rowan," he repeated.  He'd never heard the name before, but it wasn't too strange on the tongue.  He wasn't sure whether she'd entirely answered his question, but he was equally unsure of what exactly he was asking in the first place.  "So what are the effects of these little potions?  If I down this right now, do I fall in love with you?"  For once he actually wasn't flirting, although the question was slightly thoughtless.

Passing through the aisle that absolutely held no purchase for his needs, Moonshine grimaced softly, knowing he simply could not drink any form of tea found in a bag. Lifting one of the boxes, he decided that the brand of loose leafed tea would have to do until morning.

He had thought he was the only customer in the store, and when sounds to his left told him otherwise, the man looked up, white eyes locking with another’s. Much to his dismay, the other had been filling his pockets with goods, and the grin shot at Moonshine told him he had no intention of paying.

So, strolling down the opposite aisle, Moonshine cut the man off before either was able to get to the door, one hand resting on his arm as he muttered a soft, “Thievery is a crime, sir, no matter how small the package. It is not something to be proud of, nor something to rely on. If you cannot pay, I will gladly pay for you.”

Neil watched him the whole while, his stunned expression slowly morphing into another grin.  A part of him was embarrassed at first, even a bit resentful, but, whetted by Neil's typical self-effacement, this gradually became a sense of begrudging admiration.  The guy had balls to call Neil out in the first place, but even moreso to actually help him out.  Talk about a white knight type.

Neil waited for him, and followed him like a shadow with a Cheshire cat smile when he left the store.

 He shrugged at the offer of a more expensive drink, sipping his beer. “I don’ really need anything fancier nor stronger than ‘is.” It was simple, light, but smooth. Kyle couldn’t complain much in terms of a three star beer. 

 ”Uh, sure.” Kyle eyed Neil, but decided to roll the dice this one time. Normally he had them leave a note with the bartender, or another shopkeeper he dealt to around town, but it was getting to be a hassle to check every so often. Taking a napkin and jotting down a set of numbers, he slid it back to Neil.

"What about you?" he asked.  "Are you bored?"  To Neil the answer had to be yes.  He simply could not fathom how sitting alone with a boring drink couldn't be tortuous, despite Kyle's explanation.

He gestured generally at the games happening around them, no doubt with the occasional casual gamble involved.  "You good at any of these?" he asked.  "Darts?  Poker?  C'mon, we can team up.  I have to win you some money at least for the joint."