[The second that they enter the dream world and the disorientating fog quickly lifts from years of practise, it becomes instantly apparent that something is wrong. Where there should be heat there is only wet and cold, and where light should be radiating down on them it's dark and dismal.
It doesn't take Arthur long to figure out where they are exactly and, on top of that, that this must be a memory of Eames' from the time he spent out in the real world lost and alone.
But it doesn't stop the shock from hanging off his every feature when he turns around and comes face-to-face with this distorted version of the man he loves. He's never so much as seen a picture of Eames in earlier days and it's unnerving to have him standing there.
Arthur takes a step forward, approaching slowly, and it's evident that he's worried, a deep indent sitting upon his forehead and the way he holds his hands just above his waist as if to calm everyone within sight. He doesn't sound accusing when he speaks, voice neutral so he doesn't startle the other man.]
Eames. Keep calm, all right? Don't panic. [Because when a dreamer does do that, the entire structure has the tendency to fall down around them, and the last thing they need is a slow, painful death.] We can work with this. If you can focus, we can fix this.
[Eames is literally rooted to the spot, tied down with fear and panic, eyes a little too wide, breathing a little too fast. His gaze flickers back down over his own body, tries to figure out what's happening to him. When Arthur takes a step towards him, it's like electricity sparking under his viens, his whole body goes tense in a second, expression already shuttering into something hard like he would had anyone approached him back then, and it clearly takes all of his will to get him to suck in a great gulp of air, still himself and loosen up the tight coil of his shoulders.]
I can't forge. [It's almost hushed out like in the aftermath of something terrifying and terrible. Eames' accent is deeper like this, and that's startling in itself, to see how much he's smoothed off over the years to become something less traceable. Here it's all London with the faintest tint of the country still clinging to it.] Oh fuck, I can't bloody forge. What's - this shouldn't be happening.
[Still not making any sudden movements, Arthur makes his way right up close beside Eames, gently placing a hand against the other man's exposed arm.] Hey, hey. It's all right. You're all right. [He takes a calming breath and refrains from running a hand through his hair. He should have realised how bad things were and considered how they might manifest in the dream world.
He looks around them, still calm and collected, and tries to figure out what to do. Dying would be the easiest option, but he doesn't want to suggest it, and he certainly doesn't want to witness it.] This is my fault. I'm sorry. Sometimes, if a dreamer doesn't have a firm grasp on their emotions, it can surface within a dream. But it's fine, you'll be fine, we just need to wait this out.
[Eames seems to keen into that touch, pushing his arm up against his fingertips. There's a moment where he just breathes, blinking rainwater out of his eyes, lashes clinging together wetly. He looks up to Arthur, seems to shrink a little when the revelation hits him.] I can't - I can't change anything. I can't even dream up a sodding gun. Arthur, we have - shit - there's twenty four hours down here on the clock and I can't change it.
[Suddenly a boy on a bicylce speeds past, shouting abuse at them, and Eames doesn't even think about it, just extends his arm and flips the kid off to a replying cry of 'wanker'. He blinks when he realises, crossing his arms over his chest and shivering.] Fuck. Bugger, fucking, shit.
[Arthur's been too busy worrying about Eames to really focus on the fact that it's chucking it down, the two of them slowly but surely become soaked through. He's wearing less than he usually would in dark green combats that could easily be rolled up to the knee and a plain red t-shirt beneath a thick black cotton jacket. He doesn't hesitate in shaking himself out of the sleeves and wrapping it around Eames' bare shoulders.]
It's all right. You've got me, remember? If we need weapons- [He cuts himself off when he tries and fails to will a gun into his hand, frowning, but doing his best not to panic. An entire twenty-four hours in the mind of someone as messed up as Eames is right now could prove to be dangerous, but they're good at improvising.] Come on, we need to find shelter.
[It doesn't seem to be registering on a physical level, but that could be more due to the shock. When Arthur wraps his jacket around him, Eames blinks, snaps out of it long enough to curl his fingers against the crook of his elbow and start moving without really thinking about it.
He leads him to the right, towards the larger bank of grungy looking flats. Graffiti lines the walls, mismatched tags everywhere, slurrs painted in neon yellows and pinks. A group of youths are apparently spray-painting a giant cock on a bin, and Eames pulls a face as they pass, moves to the building door. There's a security buzzer to his right, but it's broken, and Eames can force the door open enough to duck in and hold it for Arthur. He doesn't say much, just keeps his gaze trained to the floor as they take the stairs. He's running on automatic apparently, mind taking him where he needs to go. There's a row of flats on the third floor, and Eames pauses in front of one, patting down his jean pockets for the key.] Fuck.
[A door to their right opens up and a young, blonde girl steps further into the corridor to show a man in a suit out. He ignores them as he passes, but she stares at Arthur with open curiosity. Blowing her bubblegum before popping it, she narrows her eyes at him like she's suspicious of him, before speaking out the corner of her mouth to Eames.] Forgot your key again, Willsy?
[Arthur falls silent and allows Eames to lead the way, sticking close at his side the entire way into and through the building while still managing to get a good look around. He can see the shock on his face, the face that's so much younger than it should be and without the odd little crease here and there that comes with age. He doesn't like this, can't help but have a bad feeling, but there's not a lot he can do and while they're here they might as well make the most of it in the best way possible.
He stops when Eames stops, head turned towards him whilst keeping a watchful eye on the man and woman. He doesn't think there's any immediate danger in store, but he isn't going to take the risk.
Arthur maneuvers himself between Eames and the projections, like he's preparing to be a human shield, but freezes when the nickname sinks in. Willsy. There's no one else in the hall besides the three of them and Eames is the only one she could be speaking to. He frowns between the woman and Eames, brain working quickly, and he lowers his voice, mumbling so only they can hear.] In the real world, she's your friend, but here, under these circumstances, it might be a different story. Be careful.
[He looks back at Arthur and nods, expressive because he can't quite get his features under control, he looks panicked, out of shape because everything is so familiar here. They both know the danger of memory, of getting trapped, or creating something wrong and wicked, but he's not sure how he could twist his own like Dom had.
The blonde is still watching Arthur, but there's something instinctual about it, like an over-protective lioness protecting a cub. Eames almost smiles in her direction, shrugging nervously inside Arthur's jacket.] Yeah. I thought I had it, but. [His voice is softer now, still as broad, but quiet as she shakes her head at him.] Sorry angel.
I'll go and get the spare. [Her smile is wider than his, and she half turns on her heels to return to her flat, but thinks better on it, stepping closer to Arthur for a moment.] You better not be a client, and he better be in one piece when you leave, because I know a lot of people, and you wouldn't want to fuck with me, y'hear me mate?
[Eames makes a noise from the door and she turns without another word, disappearing into her own. Grabbing Arthur's wrist instinctually, Eames can't help the nervous way he's tapping his foot now, impatient and a little afraid, constantly moving.] Bloody hell, I forgot that she did that. This is not what I wanted to happen today, Arthur. I'm sorry.
[There's nothing he can do but stand there and watch the exchange, but when she moves closer to him, Arthur stands up that much straighter, brings out his serious business expression, and he certainly doesn't flinch beneath the intense threat session.
Rather than scowling and making a move, though, he surprises himself by smiling, it's tightly controlled and only tugs at one side of his mouth, but it's there never the less. He likes her. He doesn't forget that she's a projection, not for a second, or how dangerous she could be as the memory of someone from the real world, but this isn't the same as Mal - she might not be in Eames' life, but as far as he's aware she isn't dead, and she doesn't seem intent on attacking.]
I assure you, ma'am, I am not a client, and I have no intention of breaking anything.
[He looks down at his own wrist caught beneath Eames' grasp and then up into his terrified eyes, and with his free arm he reaches up to brush Eames' cheek.] Stop apologising. This isn't your fault. So far, so good, right? As long as we remain calm and go with it, we'll be fine. You'll be fine. [He stares over to the door where she woman disappeared, not releasing his hold, but clearly curious.] It's going to be an interesting day.
[He's nodding, about to say something when she comes back, dangling a key between her forefinger and thumb. Eames' relief is palpable, like this is something that's happened many a time. It probably has, from the way she doesn't hand him the key just steps into the space before the flat, unlocks the door with a smirk and turns to him.] Remember your key next time Willsy, lot of dodgy people hanging around here lately, and I don't want to kick a paying customer out because you're freezing your skinny wee arse off, y'hear?
[He nods, and she smiles, ruffles her fingers through his damp hair and pockets the key again. She moves back to her own flat, one last glace towards Arthur, and then she's gone. Eames' shoulders sag as he swings the door open, ushers Arthur inside, and deadbolts it behind them.
The flat itself is made up of one large room with a smaller two leading off. All they can see upon immediate entry is the small, unmade bed tucked into the corner, the torn sofa propped in the middle of the room next to a coffee table. There's a radio, a stack of records sitting just inside, books scattered along the floor like he'd been picking them up and discarding them one by one. On one cabinet in the far corner there are bottles of alcohol, some half drunk, some covered in dust. Eames stares at it all like he's seeing a tomb, fingers flexing against Arthur's wrist.]
[Arthur stands there, expressionless, and takes a good long look around the room. He takes note of the few bits of scattered furniture and it drops an intense weight of sadness down over him. It's basic, bland, and it would be outright depressing if it weren't for the fact that it does appear to be lived in. It's basic, and he isn't sure what he had expected, can't remember how he pictured it inside his mind when he had been allowed into this part of Eames' life, but somehow it wasn't this. This is so real, and he knows it's close to accurate, a memory that will probably never quite fade into the background.
He makes to move around, but he tugs his hand free only to lace their fingers together so the other man has to step with him.] How long did you live here like this? [He isn't sure if it's wise to disturb anything, so he avoids reaching out to touch, but he does peer down at the book covers.] Aside from the obvious, why would she think I was your client? You didn't...? [He can't finish, knowing all too well that life, and he hopes that was one thing Eames never had to suffer, consensual or not.] Sorry. It's just... Never mind.
No. [He lets Arthur tug him around the room, smile a little sad, because he knows Arthur did, knows how his friends had all felt at some point in their lives, hates that the other boy had to for survival. He shakes his head quickly.] I would have told you when we talked Arthur. Thought about it. Even asked her once - but she gave me a black eye simply so nobody would want to. Got a right mean hook on her. But she never trusted anyone, not really. I'm - I was - the baby of the place.
[He blows out a sigh, drawing his hand through his hair. It's going light and fluffy now, drying out from the rain.] This isn't any worse than what you went through, love. This is better, I was never - [Cupping Arthur's face with his hands.] I was protected wasn't I? You didn't even have that.
She hit you? [He torn between outrage and amusement because he can imagine how forceful she could probably be in a fight and all he got was a stern warning, but the overwhelming sense of gratitude wins over.] Where I grew up, the younger you were, the likelihood was that you were the first to be picked off. No exceptions. I'm glad you had people here to look out for you. And that woman? She even brought a trickle of fear into my heart.
[He smiles and leans into the touch, but he doesn't quite meet Eames' eyes.] I made a choice. I know now it was the wrong one, but I learned from it eventually, and it kept me going in the moment. You were forced to move out here. [He slips his arms around Eames' waist and locks his hands at his back, choosing to ignore the fact that when he looks into the other man's face it's not quite the same, but it's still the man he loves, and it's odd, the difference in size, the slighter waist trapped within his arms.] At least it's dry and safe in here.
I ran away. [He looks down at the floor then, but still leans in to Arthur's touch. He's softer like this, because this is long before Eames learnt how to fight like a soldier. Mouth turning down, he can't quite meet Arthur's gaze.] I had a place, I was in boarding school, but I chose to go.
I keep thinking I should be bigger. [He announces suddenly, rolling his shoulders like he would to work off the stress in his neck.] We should get changed, cup of tea, then we can figure out what the fuck is going on, mm?
[He smiles slightly when he extracts himself, kicks his shoes off and hops a little on his barefeet to yank the soaked through jeans from his body. They fall to a heap and Eames hums, glancing towards the front door when he hears a noise outside, a drunken kind of giggling, and when he turns back it's with a wry little tilt to his mouth.] Welcome to London.
No child runs away without a good reason, Eames. [He lifts a hand to gently push Eames' chin up.] I thought about doing it all the time back when we lived in New York and my dad was still in the picture, but I couldn't leave Mom and Rachel behind. You had no one worth staying for. Did you? For everything I went through, after we moved to LA, I always knew I had somewhere safe to go when I needed it. It fucking kills me to know that you didn't even have that.
[He nods slowly, realising how drenched he is all of a sudden where he hadn't really stopped to think about it before.] I've been reliably informed that tea solves all of life's woes. [He tries for a smile, but it's forced and half-hearted.
He can't help watching as Eames fights his way out of the jeans, the difference in the size of his frame so much more noticeable now, and he doesn't know if he should feel guilty more for staring or enjoying the view. But he pulls his gaze away to glance over to the door when Eames does and makes a face.] Please tell me the walls aren't thin enough to hear everything that goes on in this building.
[His shirt gets the same treatment, peeled off his body and tossed to the floor with a wet slap. Eames doesn't even seem to realise he should be uncomfortable with this, because it's Arthur and he's still himself at the core. He's missing some of his tattoos though, old ink looking new again. His waist his thinner and there are a few bruises scattered up his side, a scar just above his left hipbone.]
You get used to it. Or desensitized to it. Only so many beatings you can hear before you stop wanting to help. [He pauses mid-flow and sits down heavily on the bed, still in only his boxers. When he looks up at Arthur there's something vulnerable in his expression.] I'm going to have to ask you a big favour, Arthur. It might be going above and beyond what we have, but you're the only one alive I'd trust with my life.
It doesn't take Arthur long to figure out where they are exactly and, on top of that, that this must be a memory of Eames' from the time he spent out in the real world lost and alone.
But it doesn't stop the shock from hanging off his every feature when he turns around and comes face-to-face with this distorted version of the man he loves. He's never so much as seen a picture of Eames in earlier days and it's unnerving to have him standing there.
Arthur takes a step forward, approaching slowly, and it's evident that he's worried, a deep indent sitting upon his forehead and the way he holds his hands just above his waist as if to calm everyone within sight. He doesn't sound accusing when he speaks, voice neutral so he doesn't startle the other man.]
Eames. Keep calm, all right? Don't panic. [Because when a dreamer does do that, the entire structure has the tendency to fall down around them, and the last thing they need is a slow, painful death.] We can work with this. If you can focus, we can fix this.
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I can't forge. [It's almost hushed out like in the aftermath of something terrifying and terrible. Eames' accent is deeper like this, and that's startling in itself, to see how much he's smoothed off over the years to become something less traceable. Here it's all London with the faintest tint of the country still clinging to it.] Oh fuck, I can't bloody forge. What's - this shouldn't be happening.
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He looks around them, still calm and collected, and tries to figure out what to do. Dying would be the easiest option, but he doesn't want to suggest it, and he certainly doesn't want to witness it.] This is my fault. I'm sorry. Sometimes, if a dreamer doesn't have a firm grasp on their emotions, it can surface within a dream. But it's fine, you'll be fine, we just need to wait this out.
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[Suddenly a boy on a bicylce speeds past, shouting abuse at them, and Eames doesn't even think about it, just extends his arm and flips the kid off to a replying cry of 'wanker'. He blinks when he realises, crossing his arms over his chest and shivering.] Fuck. Bugger, fucking, shit.
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It's all right. You've got me, remember? If we need weapons- [He cuts himself off when he tries and fails to will a gun into his hand, frowning, but doing his best not to panic. An entire twenty-four hours in the mind of someone as messed up as Eames is right now could prove to be dangerous, but they're good at improvising.] Come on, we need to find shelter.
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He leads him to the right, towards the larger bank of grungy looking flats. Graffiti lines the walls, mismatched tags everywhere, slurrs painted in neon yellows and pinks. A group of youths are apparently spray-painting a giant cock on a bin, and Eames pulls a face as they pass, moves to the building door. There's a security buzzer to his right, but it's broken, and Eames can force the door open enough to duck in and hold it for Arthur. He doesn't say much, just keeps his gaze trained to the floor as they take the stairs. He's running on automatic apparently, mind taking him where he needs to go. There's a row of flats on the third floor, and Eames pauses in front of one, patting down his jean pockets for the key.] Fuck.
[A door to their right opens up and a young, blonde girl steps further into the corridor to show a man in a suit out. He ignores them as he passes, but she stares at Arthur with open curiosity. Blowing her bubblegum before popping it, she narrows her eyes at him like she's suspicious of him, before speaking out the corner of her mouth to Eames.] Forgot your key again, Willsy?
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He stops when Eames stops, head turned towards him whilst keeping a watchful eye on the man and woman. He doesn't think there's any immediate danger in store, but he isn't going to take the risk.
Arthur maneuvers himself between Eames and the projections, like he's preparing to be a human shield, but freezes when the nickname sinks in. Willsy. There's no one else in the hall besides the three of them and Eames is the only one she could be speaking to. He frowns between the woman and Eames, brain working quickly, and he lowers his voice, mumbling so only they can hear.] In the real world, she's your friend, but here, under these circumstances, it might be a different story. Be careful.
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The blonde is still watching Arthur, but there's something instinctual about it, like an over-protective lioness protecting a cub. Eames almost smiles in her direction, shrugging nervously inside Arthur's jacket.] Yeah. I thought I had it, but. [His voice is softer now, still as broad, but quiet as she shakes her head at him.] Sorry angel.
I'll go and get the spare. [Her smile is wider than his, and she half turns on her heels to return to her flat, but thinks better on it, stepping closer to Arthur for a moment.] You better not be a client, and he better be in one piece when you leave, because I know a lot of people, and you wouldn't want to fuck with me, y'hear me mate?
[Eames makes a noise from the door and she turns without another word, disappearing into her own. Grabbing Arthur's wrist instinctually, Eames can't help the nervous way he's tapping his foot now, impatient and a little afraid, constantly moving.] Bloody hell, I forgot that she did that. This is not what I wanted to happen today, Arthur. I'm sorry.
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Rather than scowling and making a move, though, he surprises himself by smiling, it's tightly controlled and only tugs at one side of his mouth, but it's there never the less. He likes her. He doesn't forget that she's a projection, not for a second, or how dangerous she could be as the memory of someone from the real world, but this isn't the same as Mal - she might not be in Eames' life, but as far as he's aware she isn't dead, and she doesn't seem intent on attacking.]
I assure you, ma'am, I am not a client, and I have no intention of breaking anything.
[He looks down at his own wrist caught beneath Eames' grasp and then up into his terrified eyes, and with his free arm he reaches up to brush Eames' cheek.] Stop apologising. This isn't your fault. So far, so good, right? As long as we remain calm and go with it, we'll be fine. You'll be fine. [He stares over to the door where she woman disappeared, not releasing his hold, but clearly curious.] It's going to be an interesting day.
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[He nods, and she smiles, ruffles her fingers through his damp hair and pockets the key again. She moves back to her own flat, one last glace towards Arthur, and then she's gone. Eames' shoulders sag as he swings the door open, ushers Arthur inside, and deadbolts it behind them.
The flat itself is made up of one large room with a smaller two leading off. All they can see upon immediate entry is the small, unmade bed tucked into the corner, the torn sofa propped in the middle of the room next to a coffee table. There's a radio, a stack of records sitting just inside, books scattered along the floor like he'd been picking them up and discarding them one by one. On one cabinet in the far corner there are bottles of alcohol, some half drunk, some covered in dust. Eames stares at it all like he's seeing a tomb, fingers flexing against Arthur's wrist.]
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He makes to move around, but he tugs his hand free only to lace their fingers together so the other man has to step with him.] How long did you live here like this? [He isn't sure if it's wise to disturb anything, so he avoids reaching out to touch, but he does peer down at the book covers.] Aside from the obvious, why would she think I was your client? You didn't...? [He can't finish, knowing all too well that life, and he hopes that was one thing Eames never had to suffer, consensual or not.] Sorry. It's just... Never mind.
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[He blows out a sigh, drawing his hand through his hair. It's going light and fluffy now, drying out from the rain.] This isn't any worse than what you went through, love. This is better, I was never - [Cupping Arthur's face with his hands.] I was protected wasn't I? You didn't even have that.
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[He smiles and leans into the touch, but he doesn't quite meet Eames' eyes.] I made a choice. I know now it was the wrong one, but I learned from it eventually, and it kept me going in the moment. You were forced to move out here. [He slips his arms around Eames' waist and locks his hands at his back, choosing to ignore the fact that when he looks into the other man's face it's not quite the same, but it's still the man he loves, and it's odd, the difference in size, the slighter waist trapped within his arms.] At least it's dry and safe in here.
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I keep thinking I should be bigger. [He announces suddenly, rolling his shoulders like he would to work off the stress in his neck.] We should get changed, cup of tea, then we can figure out what the fuck is going on, mm?
[He smiles slightly when he extracts himself, kicks his shoes off and hops a little on his barefeet to yank the soaked through jeans from his body. They fall to a heap and Eames hums, glancing towards the front door when he hears a noise outside, a drunken kind of giggling, and when he turns back it's with a wry little tilt to his mouth.] Welcome to London.
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[He nods slowly, realising how drenched he is all of a sudden where he hadn't really stopped to think about it before.] I've been reliably informed that tea solves all of life's woes. [He tries for a smile, but it's forced and half-hearted.
He can't help watching as Eames fights his way out of the jeans, the difference in the size of his frame so much more noticeable now, and he doesn't know if he should feel guilty more for staring or enjoying the view. But he pulls his gaze away to glance over to the door when Eames does and makes a face.] Please tell me the walls aren't thin enough to hear everything that goes on in this building.
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You get used to it. Or desensitized to it. Only so many beatings you can hear before you stop wanting to help. [He pauses mid-flow and sits down heavily on the bed, still in only his boxers. When he looks up at Arthur there's something vulnerable in his expression.] I'm going to have to ask you a big favour, Arthur. It might be going above and beyond what we have, but you're the only one alive I'd trust with my life.
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