ME. TOO. B| We need instant-cake....I have no idea, technology?!penroseMay 28 2011, 03:45:17 UTC
[ Again there's the sound that isn't a word and is certainly more than a little derisive as Arthur continues to eyeball the glass of water like it's something alien and not just a little repulsive; or maybe that's how he feels about the pills. No, Arthur doesn't really have feelings about the pills at all except that they ought to make this all a little more real and they don't.
Maybe once Eames is gone, maybe then it will set in, and he'll adjust, and that'll be that. He thinks about how he spent the most hyper-intensive years of his life chasing after a man who wasn't even really there (until he was, until he could go home) and not even a twinge then. Some delay. The job they'd just been working recently wasn't even interesting much less complicated.
He has no idea what brought this all on, so maybe that's what's keeping him from digesting it with even a modicum of grace. Normally his pride at least accounts for some of that, but right now it's just making him impossible and he knows it and thinks if it bothers Eames he can leave, which Eames himself knows.
They've taken separate hotel rooms on many accounts not just because it was neater for the job but because it is infinitely harder to do one's work when the two people involved are yelling or griping at one another to move your Kilimanjaro of paperwork, would you or do you have to do that right there -- so on and so forth.
This isn't that.
He knows it.
He ignores it and takes the stupid pills. There really is no more accurate a word for this than gross. It's gross. Arthur is thinking he preferred the heart attack. When he sets the glass on the bedside table, he absently flexes the hand now empty. ]
Maybe once Eames is gone, maybe then it will set in, and he'll adjust, and that'll be that. He thinks about how he spent the most hyper-intensive years of his life chasing after a man who wasn't even really there (until he was, until he could go home) and not even a twinge then. Some delay. The job they'd just been working recently wasn't even interesting much less complicated.
He has no idea what brought this all on, so maybe that's what's keeping him from digesting it with even a modicum of grace. Normally his pride at least accounts for some of that, but right now it's just making him impossible and he knows it and thinks if it bothers Eames he can leave, which Eames himself knows.
They've taken separate hotel rooms on many accounts not just because it was neater for the job but because it is infinitely harder to do one's work when the two people involved are yelling or griping at one another to move your Kilimanjaro of paperwork, would you or do you have to do that right there -- so on and so forth.
This isn't that.
He knows it.
He ignores it and takes the stupid pills. There really is no more accurate a word for this than gross. It's gross. Arthur is thinking he preferred the heart attack. When he sets the glass on the bedside table, he absently flexes the hand now empty. ]
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