Prison Posies
For the past one-thousand, four-hundred and sixty-one days, for Eames, the sky has mostly been divided by three thick, black bars. Although the sky constantly flittered between shades of blue, pink, lavender, grey and black, the bars remained the same.
The bars were a heavy reminder that he had been caught alone, midway through a thievery job in a gallery and for one single painting, just because it was worth 42.8 million pounds, just because the job was so obviously carefully planned and so very nearly successful, he had been sentenced for six years in prison.
After his arrest, he pled guilty immediately in exchange for total anonymity. Even though his personal documents could be carbon-dated and they would still appear genuine, still identifying him as Edmund Dockley, born on the twenty-first of February, 1976, to parents Stanley and Crystal, both deceased, Eames wasn't willing to risk being visibly identified, particularly if he was going to be in a fixed place for so long whilst he had no one to get in touch with. He only knew three people who could have potentially helped him but one of them he didn't fully trust, another was Saito but he had died six months before and the other was Arthur. However, their interaction that was somewhere between snark and sex and affection and cohesiveness was on hiatus because Arthur had to go so deep underground after a screwed up job in Ankara that Eames didn't have a clue where he was.
For the first two years of his sentence, Eames was considered a high risk prisoner and spent most of his time being constantly ghosted from one prison to another so he never had the chance to fully understand the layouts, create connections and try to escape. At some point midway through his second year, he got so worn down that he gave up. The best thing about being invaded with a sense of hopelessness meant that he became so docile that it appeared he was behaving extremely well and he got his sentence reduced down to four years. Lucky him.
It's the early morning of his final day in Dartmoor Prison, and Eames is in his permanently chilled, cramped cell that contains a dull silver toilet, a porcelain sink, a nailed down desk and chair, an undecorated notice board and a metal-framed bed with a scratchy, olive-green blanket and three-inch thin mattress.
Staring at the barred off sky that is filled with pale charcoal clouds, Eames sat on his bed, waiting for roll check to be over, knowing that he'll be collected by his personal officer and be escorted out of the building. He is grey-faced with hollowed out cheeks and wrinkles deeper than the average forty-year old. His stubble is as thick as his hair-which has been short, soft brown spikes since the third month into his sentence as he preferred to use his shampoo as extra body wash- and dressed in a blue jumper and black jogging bottoms.
As it was his last day, Eames had been unable to sleep so he'd been watching the clouds curl, swell up and deflate and swell again with thoughts zipping through him for a very long time. Despite the fact he'd spent an hour a week for the last two months with a young counsellor who had learnt about body language from pop-psychology articles, Eames had to admit he felt a little overwhelmed about being a free man.
He couldn't help but wonder how much of the world had changed without him, if he would ever catch up and what the hell was he going to do once he got out. His life had been suspended in the same endless, fixed routine for four years. Although following rules and orders had been a part of his life when he was much younger, being in prison meant he was buried in a place with no hard edges that was populated with many people who had mental health issues that were too banal or eccentric for Broadmoor. Unfortunately for him, the screws felt he was a soothing influence so he had been put forward for the Listener's Scheme and Eames ended up becoming the worst kind of psychologist; unpaid and ethical.
Now, he is getting his life back with all its variables and benefits, including ability to choose the comforts people out there considered part of the everyday. He would be able to pick the clothes he would wear based on what he liked. He could eat any food he craved and luxuriate in as much soap and shampoo as he desired. He would be able to decided how hot or cold he wanted the water he showered in to be and how he would do all his newly acquired time.
Eames really had no idea what he would do with his regime-free life. When he wasn't being an ear to his fellow inmates, he kept to himself and spent his time reading books, drawing, cleaning the prison libraries and exercising like hell to try and prevent his muscles from fading and giving him a totally ragged wolf look that was being caused by the prison food. When he was locked up in his box of blackness he would blot out all the noise and lose himself in worlds he'd create with his mind before slipping into sleep.
Some nights that was extremely difficult to do, particularly when above all the howling, shouting, banging, he could hear some poor bloke sobbing in pain as the truth that he was really stuck in here jammed itself in. Twice he had been placed on a course of sleeping pills that were no where near as effective as Somnacin for allowing reality to slide away.
The first time was during his stay at Belmarsh Prison, a week into his stretch when he was trying to adapt to his new environment. Those were taken away a couple of months later when he was misdiagnosed with depression as it looked liked he had tried to poison himself. He had actually been secretly brewing a beer with marmite and rotten fruit and vegetables but couldn't stop vomiting after a cupful. There was a reason he wasn't a chemist and so he spent his thirty-seventh birthday dressed in orange scrubs and chucking his guts up in the medical wing.
The second occasion was at the start of his third year in Wormwood Scrubs when his body was doused in exhaustion because thoughts of Arthur kept popping off in his mind like light bulbs, never allowing him to sleep. This was happening because he'd been woken up by a screw in the middle of the night and ordered to get dressed. Eames thought he was being ghosted again but then he was led into the visitors centre where Arthur was stood amongst the tables and chairs, bathed in artificial light. He was so pale, hair hanging like ebony rat tails around his face and on wrong side of skinny, dressed rumpled jeans and a creased, faded-white shirt. After staring at Eames for about five seconds, Arthur surprised him and fainted clean away.
Whilst sat down at a table and drinking a very sugary tea, Arthur explained that everyone thought he was dead, including himself because he couldn't find him anywhere and the only reason he'd come to check out Scrubs was because about a month ago an extractor who Arthur had once worked with told him he'd seen a con who was the image of Eames in Durham Prison and was so sure it was Eames that he put his kneecaps on the line. They were stuck in silence for a few long minutes before Arthur breathed out the words, "I thought you were dead." Eames reached across the table and picked up Arthur's hand. He inspected the long, slender, elegant digits with the fine round ends and neatly trimmed nails and brought Arthur's hand to his mouth if he was going to kiss the smooth back. Instead, Eames pressed his thick lips down just below the knuckle on Arthur's pinkie. He inhaled Arthur's scent, storing it away in his memory and slowly sucked on the flesh gently before kissing his way across each of Arthur's fingers, lingering a little bit longer on each digit. He then turned the hand so he could access the thumb, which he stroked with his own thumb and then placed a small peck at its base, on its wrinkled knuckle and on the nail. And then, with flinty eyes, Eames told Arthur to never come and see him again. To never write to him or request visiting orders or bribe the screws so he could have midnight meetings or even get a job as a prison officer. Eames dropped Arthur's hand and shoved back his chair and asked the screw to be taken back to his cell. He felt so horrible but he knew if he got to see Arthur every week, it would have made every single he did thing inside be dragged out longer. It would have given him something to look forward to and if he indulged in the fantasy that Arthur would be waiting at the gates for him then he may as well have had his sentence tripled. Soon after that meeting, he was transferred to Dartmoor and that became his home.
Until now.
Clanking alerted Eames that his pale-green cell door was opening and he rose to his feet. In came his personal officer, a tall, well-built man in his early-fifties. He has rugged face, eyes the colours of fox fur, short, silver hair and wears the standard uniform, which is a white shirt, thin black tie and black trousers decorated in with a single key chain.
Eames had never felt any disdain towards this screw. He wasn't he one of the many sadistic bastards he had encountered who just loved reminding him and every other inmate that while they were inside they were nothing more than a number in the system. So many people snapped after incidents like that and end up hanging themselves with shoelaces. What the screws could get away with was criminal.
Eames stuffs his bare feet into trainers that pinch and picks up a large, clear plastic bag that contains a few books, a large sketchbook, a battery-operated radio, seven pairs of socks and underwear and his toiletries. He follows the screw out on the wing, through the maze of corridors, stopping frequently at gates. At some point he is told that he has been a well-behaved resident, a positive role model for the younger residents and there is a nice delicatessen in the village where he can get a good breakfast if he fancies it but Eames' brain is stuck on the thought that he is finally getting out.
After exchanging his prison clothing for a pair of faded blue jeans, a thin, black round-necked t-shirt with long sleeves and a baggy, charcoal polyester jumper to go on top, he collects the sealed, brown paper bag that holds the belongings that he first had when he entered the system. He knows that when he opens it up he'll find his black suit, white shirt, a dull silver tie, black shoes, his gold watch and his wallet chain, which something he intends to dispose of when he gets the chance because it has too many connotations of being inside. He places the sack inside a large, natty red and silver sports bag, along with his plastic bag and is shown the door by his prison officer, who reminds him to call his parole officer any time he feels the need to.
As Eames steps outside, the first thing he realises is that the grey sky is no longer divided. The sky is so vast, so endless and as his legs propel him out into the courtyard, he thinks that the world is slightly distorted. The gravel ground feels too solid. The blades of grass seem too finely cut. At the end of the road, the brown metal doors are fantastically colossal and are surrounded by an archway of pale stone with a long stretch of cobbled walls topped with a thick crust of cement either side. The archway is crowned with a hollow square made from granite and inside the space resides a large, off-gold bell.
He reaches the door and waits, his grip tightening on his bag. He gazes at the ground, concentrating on the icy air filling his lungs. There is a loud, long buzz, followed by the mechanical whirring as the doors pull themselves apart, slowly revealing the world. For one mad moment he is tempted to go and ask for his cell back. With a deep sigh, he passes through the archway and stops on the other side, still staring down in a state of disbelief. Slipping his eyes shut, he listens to the door behind him bang shut and that's it. He's free. Edmund Dockley dies, he is back to being Eames and he has no idea what to do.
The hairs on the back of his neck prickle and realising that someone is staring at him, Eames looks up. Shock and giddy delight bullets right through him. Not at the fact that in about twenty steps he has to pass through another archway with similar walls on either side or that beyond the walls there are endless green hills and rolling fields which are covered with a haze of morning mist but at Arthur, stood underneath the second archway, his posture rigid and face deadpan. He is wearing a tailored, three-piece suit made from mocha-brown material, complimented with dazzling white shirt and a russet tie and is holding onto a short, green cone with puffs of candyfloss coming from its circular base.
Arthur. Dressed in the most expensive thing he has seen in four years. With flowers.
It's so damn ludicrous and so oddly lovely that Eames' quivering lips spread out into a wide smile. He tries to push down the laughter that is threatening to burst out of his chest but ultimately fails. A short snort causes his shoulders to jolt up and he drops his bag, covering his face with his hands, massaging his fingertips into his closed eyes as a low chuckle morphs into a deep, wicked cackle that echoes off the walls After a minute of pure laughter, he moves his hands away, is silent whilst he takes in the sight of Arthur and explodes into a fresh fit of hissy giggles that make it difficult to breathe. Eventually, he pushes his hand against his mouth, trying quieten himself in case the screws realise that he needs to be dragged back inside and sent off to Ashworth Psychiatric.
Eames snatches up his bag and as he gets closer to Arthur, who is smiling and looks far healthier than he had done two years ago, he sees that flowers are a concoction of pale pink and magenta roses, around fifty of the delicate, swirly blossoms nestled tightly together, wrapped up in forest green gauze. Eames dips his head briefly, pushing his lips together. Arthur bought him roses and he really can't think of a better way to start his first day as a free man.
Written for the following prompt over on the kink meme: The first thing Eames sees when he gets out of prison is Arthur, standing stiffly by the gate, looking utterly ridiculous in a three piece suit and holding a bouquet of flowers. He waited.
Thank you for reading. Txxxxx