[ This particular evening turns into an early night for one Mister Eames, having returned to work in the garage this morning and aid Yusuf with what he could in the basement thereafter. Progress on the PASIV is slow - the fire putting a pause on the development of the machine itself, and them in need of finding an assortment of chemicals for Yusuf to work with in the first place. The tracker on Eames' ankle isn't helping matters, considering he still has about two weeks to go before it's removed, but at least he's no longer confined to house arrest. Little blessings, which he finds ironic for a dream, but that's another can of issues that he's not certain he wants to address tonight, considering every other night.
After a shower and battling with Ariadne's hair in the drain (it's only been three days, Ariadne, jesus), he drags himself to his bedroom down the hall to change into a lose pair of sweatpants and long sleeved shirt. Powering down the device after a quick run through the network, he sets it on the small ledge provided by the window sill before easing himself down on the edge of the bed. He's been feeling anxious as of late, unable to really truly settle on an explanation as to why, apart from the restrictions that come with living in the City at the blinking hunk of electronic on his ankle, but neither are new things. There's the possibility of getting sick, but it's been since the beginning of the month, the sort of gritted-teeth edging at the fringes of his mind.
He considers messaging Stephen to ask - perhaps a bit bluntly - what it'd felt like just before leaving, considering he can barely remember it himself, but how much weight could he really put on it? It's difficult to be certain of anything here in the City until you're the one experiencing it for yourself. Too many side-lined variables that neither of them can predict, no matter their years of experience with the dream. With a displeased twist to his mouth, Eames pulls back the covers, shuffling into bed with his back propped up with the pillows, grabbing one of the copies of Ariadne's fanfiction he'd made her print out for him the previous day.
Not one of the "lemon" ones, though.
Eames is just looking to see her perspective on their characterization, is all. It interests him, even if the basic concept of any of these stories is midline bordering on disturbing, minutely silly. ]
LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT THIS GINGERoneminutemazeNovember 20 2011, 21:21:55 UTC
[ The weekend curse is winding down, aided by the fact that every writing utensil in the house and most electronics that can be written with have been hidden from Ariadne by two wizards. Mentally, she's exhausted; the curse took her natural creativity and ran with it, making her come up with idea after idea and even so far as to change the way she acted (she would never, for example, tell Harry that he and Ginny are her OTP, even if she does think they're cute). She's taken to telling Waffle her ideas since she can't write them, which has gotten the bird happily chirping things like "Lemon!"; she'll have to convince everyone that he just really, really likes fruit. For now, however, he's back in his cage, and Ariadne is restless. She may be mentally exhausted, but her brain isn't slowing down any.
The shower is off, and she considers going to take one for a moment before remembering that her morning shower had involved getting even more ideas (and that she'd had a morning shower in the first place). Arthur has his own bathroom, and Yusuf has the one downstairs, which means the footsteps outside belong to Eames. Before she can really think about it, she's heading to her door in her oversized t-shirt and shorts.
Maybe it's because he's been trapped inside up until lately, but chatting to Eames has become something of a routine for her. It usually isn't about much or about anything too heavy, save for the chat in which she convinced him to let her paint his toenails, but it's something to do while they're stuck. "Team bonding", only they're a little less of a team and more like... she doesn't really know what they are, now.
[ Eames doesn't take easily to friendship but there's a difference between that and just talking, errant conversations and the like. But with Ariadne there is at least the basic undertone of understanding between them, similar background and understanding of the environment that he didn't have with Mister Orange and certainly doesn't with Stephen. Eames has a general dislike of people on the whole but he still is, ultimately, a social creature, needs to get his kicks in with witty two-toned conversations with or without symbolism, or at least have people to spend his time on in observations.
Thus, Ariadne had been the brunt of it, Yusuf too when it didn't err on the side of pestering (there's only so much conversation you can have with the chemist when he's trying to work without putting yourself at risk of eight different kinds of chemical burns). But talking with Ariadne is, at least, entertaining - she's easy in keeping up, forceful with her opinions, commands the sort of youthful respect that is the same amounts of naivete and honesty that Eames finds ultimately refreshing.
Eames lifts his head from page three of Billy and the Yellow Submarine at the sound of her voice over the mild raps on the door, reaching down to push the pack of paper underneath his bed before responding. ]
/THROWS OUT WINDOWoneminutemazeNovember 20 2011, 21:48:18 UTC
[ It's ultimately easier to call them friends in the City; calling them her colleagues would bring up too many questions, and besides, how many people live with their colleagues? That doesn't mean she's necessarily any closer with them than she is with the others she's met here, however, outside of a common background and that 'understanding' of the environment that she questions daily. She hasn't been working in dreams as long as the others, and her mind is more open -- when they say "this is so", Ariadne replies with either "but why?" or "but what if it isn't?", even if she doesn't always say it outloud.
She's observant, always has been, and Eames has layers -- many of them. She isn't foolish enough to try and slip into his dreams, as she had been with Cobb; she likes to think she's learned his lesson, and as long as no ghosts of his past come to try and rip them to pieces once the PASIV gets working, she thinks she may be better off not knowing. The two days she spent as a cheetah were, perhaps, the most emotion she's seen from him that wasn't just snark.
The door opens, and Ariadne steps inside, shutting it behind her in case Arthur is trying to sleep and heading over to sit on the foot of his bed without asking. ]
NOOOOOooooooooo.....shiftsNovember 20 2011, 23:06:49 UTC
[ At that, Eames hides a smile behind the closed twist of his mouth, letting out a small, rasping chuckle. He tips his head a bit at her, legs crossing at the ankle as his hands clasp on his stomach, fingers linking. ]
Get hit with another writing bug? You're not too awful at it, aside from the content.
[ But Ariadne is an architect, not a novelist, and he thinks she's far better at the former, anyhow. ]
[ Some of it is pretty awful. But he keeps that one behind his teeth, the crook of his canine catching on his lip. He does glance over at the roman numerals of the clock perched on his dresser, though, rolling his shoulders. ]
Think you can crank out another masterpiece in three hours? [ He teases, voice tight with barely concealed amusement before he reaches over to grab one of his pillows, offering it over to her with a silent toss of it. ]
Please don't tempt me. [ She could probably write several in that time, depending on the length. ] Otherwise I'll be stealing your network device and using that to write it up, and I don't think you'd appreciate that.
[ She's absolutely serious about that, but she catches the pillow and decides sitting up is overrated. Instead, she stretches out at the foot of his bed, settling an elbow on the pillow and propping up her head in her hand. ]
Pick another subject, then. [ He slips out of bed to tug open the window a crack, moving to the armoire to grab his extra stash of cigarettes and lighter from his linen trousers. He's been trying to quit ever since the curse that got him addicted in the first place, having not smoked regularly since his teens, but having taken to it with a forced vengeance, it's some work. ]
[ Ariadne watches with a sort of half-interest, not particularly surprised that Eames is smoking, but unable to resist a jab. ] Try not to burn the house down.
[ His next comment has her swallow slightly. There are several of them, so he probably doesn't mean what her mind first jumped to. She shifts to buy herself time, rolling onto her stomach. ]
Ginny's boyfriend, Harry, and I met on the first day. I guess it's just sort of natural progression from there. [ Yes, natural progression. Because making out on a desk with Ginny's brother is totally natural progression.
In fact, there's a pause. ] Are all the British so fond of petnames?
Mmm, depends. Some more than others, some don't utilise them at all. No more than Americans, I'd say.
[ He props himself up on the window sill, flicking the tip of the cigarette to life with a snap of the lighter. Inhaling sharply, he peers at Ariadne with a raised brow. ]
[ Could be kitten. Or kittentits. Or any variation thereof. It reminds Eames of a conversation once had with Ginny and he has to smile, tongue swiping over his teeth. ]
[ Urgh. Maybe it's the word 'sweetie' or just the idea that, if she wants answers, she'll have to actually give context, but those cigarettes are looking good. She doesn't smoke much by any means, but she's picked up a few things in France.
In fact, she's shifting to where he left the pack of them, nodding toward it. ] You mind?
After a shower and battling with Ariadne's hair in the drain (it's only been three days, Ariadne, jesus), he drags himself to his bedroom down the hall to change into a lose pair of sweatpants and long sleeved shirt. Powering down the device after a quick run through the network, he sets it on the small ledge provided by the window sill before easing himself down on the edge of the bed. He's been feeling anxious as of late, unable to really truly settle on an explanation as to why, apart from the restrictions that come with living in the City at the blinking hunk of electronic on his ankle, but neither are new things. There's the possibility of getting sick, but it's been since the beginning of the month, the sort of gritted-teeth edging at the fringes of his mind.
He considers messaging Stephen to ask - perhaps a bit bluntly - what it'd felt like just before leaving, considering he can barely remember it himself, but how much weight could he really put on it? It's difficult to be certain of anything here in the City until you're the one experiencing it for yourself. Too many side-lined variables that neither of them can predict, no matter their years of experience with the dream. With a displeased twist to his mouth, Eames pulls back the covers, shuffling into bed with his back propped up with the pillows, grabbing one of the copies of Ariadne's fanfiction he'd made her print out for him the previous day.
Not one of the "lemon" ones, though.
Eames is just looking to see her perspective on their characterization, is all. It interests him, even if the basic concept of any of these stories is midline bordering on disturbing, minutely silly. ]
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The shower is off, and she considers going to take one for a moment before remembering that her morning shower had involved getting even more ideas (and that she'd had a morning shower in the first place). Arthur has his own bathroom, and Yusuf has the one downstairs, which means the footsteps outside belong to Eames. Before she can really think about it, she's heading to her door in her oversized t-shirt and shorts.
Maybe it's because he's been trapped inside up until lately, but chatting to Eames has become something of a routine for her. It usually isn't about much or about anything too heavy, save for the chat in which she convinced him to let her paint his toenails, but it's something to do while they're stuck. "Team bonding", only they're a little less of a team and more like... she doesn't really know what they are, now.
Ariadne knocks. ] Mind if I come in?
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Thus, Ariadne had been the brunt of it, Yusuf too when it didn't err on the side of pestering (there's only so much conversation you can have with the chemist when he's trying to work without putting yourself at risk of eight different kinds of chemical burns). But talking with Ariadne is, at least, entertaining - she's easy in keeping up, forceful with her opinions, commands the sort of youthful respect that is the same amounts of naivete and honesty that Eames finds ultimately refreshing.
Eames lifts his head from page three of Billy and the Yellow Submarine at the sound of her voice over the mild raps on the door, reaching down to push the pack of paper underneath his bed before responding. ]
It's unlocked.
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She's observant, always has been, and Eames has layers -- many of them. She isn't foolish enough to try and slip into his dreams, as she had been with Cobb; she likes to think she's learned his lesson, and as long as no ghosts of his past come to try and rip them to pieces once the PASIV gets working, she thinks she may be better off not knowing. The two days she spent as a cheetah were, perhaps, the most emotion she's seen from him that wasn't just snark.
The door opens, and Ariadne steps inside, shutting it behind her in case Arthur is trying to sleep and heading over to sit on the foot of his bed without asking. ]
This curse needs to end.
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Get hit with another writing bug? You're not too awful at it, aside from the content.
[ But Ariadne is an architect, not a novelist, and he thinks she's far better at the former, anyhow. ]
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[ Pulling her legs up onto the bed a bit, knees folded over each other, she sighs. ]
The writing bug hasn't left yet. Hopefully it's just another weekend curse and not anything longer; I guess we'll see in a few hours.
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Think you can crank out another masterpiece in three hours? [ He teases, voice tight with barely concealed amusement before he reaches over to grab one of his pillows, offering it over to her with a silent toss of it. ]
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[ She's absolutely serious about that, but she catches the pillow and decides sitting up is overrated. Instead, she stretches out at the foot of his bed, settling an elbow on the pillow and propping up her head in her hand. ]
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I saw you met the Weasleys.
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[ His next comment has her swallow slightly. There are several of them, so he probably doesn't mean what her mind first jumped to. She shifts to buy herself time, rolling onto her stomach. ]
Ginny's boyfriend, Harry, and I met on the first day. I guess it's just sort of natural progression from there. [ Yes, natural progression. Because making out on a desk with Ginny's brother is totally natural progression.
In fact, there's a pause. ] Are all the British so fond of petnames?
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[ He props himself up on the window sill, flicking the tip of the cigarette to life with a snap of the lighter. Inhaling sharply, he peers at Ariadne with a raised brow. ]
Why?
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It's hard to shrug, sprawled out on her stomach as she is, but Ariadne manages. ]
I'm not used to being referred to as "love" every few sentences.
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[ Could be kitten. Or kittentits. Or any variation thereof. It reminds Eames of a conversation once had with Ginny and he has to smile, tongue swiping over his teeth. ]
Does that sort of thing make you uncomfortable?
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No, not really. I'm just not sure how to take it, I guess.
[ Stupid charming British ginger wizards and their stupid charming petnames. ]
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[ He leans back, tipping his mouth toward the crack in the window to exhale a long plume of smoke outdoors. ]
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In fact, she's shifting to where he left the pack of them, nodding toward it. ] You mind?
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