Fic: Coming Down From These Heights (Inception - Arthur/Eames)
Dear Inception, thanks for making me write again. Love, me.
Inception
Arthur/Eames
PG-13, ~4’900 words
>> The first time they met, it took twenty-eight seconds for Eames to start hitting on Arthur. It took a good five hours for Arthur to point a gun at Eames’ head. <<
Many thanks to inderpal for making me dream bigger, and to mandalaya for very awake beta services!
Fake. Not mine. Just playing.
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Coming Down From These Heights
_________________________________
I.
The first time they met, it took twenty-eight seconds for Eames to start hitting on Arthur. It took a good five hours for Arthur to point a gun at Eames’ head.
He felt it was an appropriate reaction.
--
“There was really no need to shoot me, sugar.”
“There really, really was.” Arthur swung off the couch and dusted his suit off.
“Don’t play the game if you aren’t ready to pay up.” Eames was sprawled over his armchair with his hands folded over his stomach, a teasing curl to his lips. Arthur snapped his gaze away.
“No one told me standing in for the mark would include incest.”
“Where’s your sense of imagination?”
“It manifested in the form of a gun in my hand,” Arthur said. “Just what passage of my research told you, incestuous feelings for estranged brother?” He allowed his voice to lean slightly more towards sarcasm than it would in a conversation with Cobb or Mal. They knew him well enough to catch even undertones; Eames likely required a hammer to the head.
“It would shed an interesting light on the reason for their estrangement, wouldn’t it?” Eames sat up, running a hand along his jaw as if to make sure it was indeed unharmed. Arthur didn’t feel any remorse.
“Interesting? Yes.” He adjusted his tie and picked up his research folder, not looking up as he added, “Improbable? Also yes. I do believe the brother’s imprisonment is a fairly good reason already.”
“As entertaining as this is,” Cobb spoke up from his spot on the bed, “we should probably get back to the task at hand. Arthur, you said our next best chance to trap Webber would be Wednesday, right?”
“Yes.” Breaking into a room at the Marriott wasn’t an ideal opportunity, but it was their best bet in the upcoming two weeks. This was why Arthur hated working for the mob; they were always impatient to see results. On the other hand, they paid well, and the exquisite lodgings were another advantage. “For the record, I still think we should go with the childhood home.”
“That doesn’t give us enough room to build, and the pool where his brother used to take him is guaranteed to bring out the memories.” Despite it being a well-rehearsed discussion, Mal’s voice was fond. It was a common occurrence ever since her belly started curving out. “Also, there are enough lockers for Webber to store away his brother’s letters.”
It was an argument Arthur knew he wouldn’t win. He dropped his folder with a sigh, stretching before he returned to the couch for another trial run. For the briefest of moments, he met Eames’ eyes. It was Arthur who looked away first.
--
Eames caught his arm just as Arthur was about to exit the hotel suite. “Just for curiosity’s sake…” Eames’ grin wasn’t nearly as alluring as he probably thought it was. “Was that Webber who kissed me back? Or was it you?”
“You’re crazy.” Arthur twisted his arm free.
If possible, Eames’ grin widened. “I take that as a compliment.”
Arthur left without another word, and if anyone had accused him of fighting a reluctant smile, he’d deny it. It really hadn’t been a good joke, so there was no reason to smile.
--
The dreamscape was flooded with the light of a late spring day, water lapping at the edges of the pool and children’s laughter floating around. Every curve was crisp and sharp, every gesture intensified through the lens of Webber’s subconscious.
Now that the actual mark was present, Arthur’s task was reduced to being ready to intervene if something went wrong. As the dream remained bright and peaceful, he was free to watch Eames impersonating Webber’s imprisoned brother.
Eames was good. While physically a copy of the grown-up version that currently served prison time in Palermo, his demeanor was gentle and spoke of happier childhood memories, Eames appearing to take his cues from Webber’s reactions. It was impressive.
Not that Arthur would ever admit as much.
The second hand of Arthur’s watch showed that barely half an hour had passed when Cobb brushed up against Eames, apologizing profusely. Arthur could spot the moment the key exchanged hands, but only because he’d seen it a number of times. With another apology, Cobb moved on towards the lockers
Arthur tugged his towel up to soften the harsh edge of the next stone step before leaning back, slightly chilly despite the humid warmth in the room. A suit would be admittedly out of place, though.
Glancing up from his book once more, he caught Eames winking at him while Webber’s attention was diverted. The gesture was in jarring contrast to the tattoo-covered body Eames inhabited.
--
They parted ways at the airport in Rome. Arthur was surprised when Eames merely shook his hand and gave him a quick smile in parting. He watched as Eames picked up his baggage and turned towards the gate for his flight to London. Maybe, Arthur thought, maybe he should say something, but he had no idea what it might be.
Eames glanced back only once, and Arthur busied himself with his suitcase and hoped he hadn’t been caught staring.
II.
“Eames?” Arthur paused fiddling with the settings of his phone in favor of giving Cobb a pointed look. “Can’t we work with someone else? What about that Texan kid - Matt Gromer?”
“Not good enough.” Cobb shook his head. “What’s the matter with Eames?”
Arthur’s thumb slipped on a button. He kept his voice flat and his expression neutral. “He annoys me.”
“I couldn’t tell.” Cobb didn’t do irony very well.
“You wouldn’t appreciate having to be on your guard constantly, either. Especially not when trying to focus on more important things.”
“Honestly…” Cobb stooped over the model maze, frowning at something before he continued in a suspiciously off-hand tone, “I didn’t think you’d mind.”
Giving up on his phone, Arthur straightened and wished he hadn’t started the discussion. There was no point; if Cobb had made up his mind, Eames would join the team for the duration of their current mission. “What are you implying?”
“Oh, nothing.” A grin flashed over Cobb’s face. “But from what I gathered by the men you tend to pick up, Eames is just about your type. Mal agrees, by the way.”
“How’s the baby?”
Cobb laughed and shook his head. “Nice try.”
“It doesn’t matter if he is or isn’t my type.” Arthur turned away, picking up the contract that regulated the exchange of money against information that would prove highly valuable on the stock market. Adding Eames to their team would increase the rate they were charging, and Arthur calculated the new total in his head.
When he glanced back, Cobb was watching him expectantly. Arthur sighed. “Never within the team. It’s unprofessional and can only lead to disaster.”
“Of course.” Cobb nodded gravely, but his lips were twitching. “So Mal and I are unprofessional, then?”
Damn. It figured that Eames would impair Arthur’s reasoning even in his absence.
“That’s different. You were in a relationship before you started dreaming together.” Even Arthur could tell that his argument was weak. It didn’t stop him from forging ahead. “And anyway, just you wait until the problems start.”
“We’ll see about that.” Cobb’s smirk didn’t fade. He crossed his arms and leaned his hip against the table that held the model, giving the air of someone settling in for a lengthy chat. “So, please explain again why the situation would be different with Eames and you.”
“It would be the reverse of what you and Mal have.”
“So?”
Arthur set the contract down and scowled. “So that makes it different.”
For a moment, Cobb didn’t reply, studying Arthur. Then he breathed out a laugh. “Oh.”
“What?” Arthur said sharply.
“Nothing.” Cobb’s grin was much wider than the situation warranted.
“Cobb. What?”
“You really hate not feeling in control, don’t you?”
Arthur didn’t see how that required an answer. Lifting one shoulder, he picked the contract up once more. It was another few seconds before he heard Cobb exhale on another quiet laugh and finally move away, towards where he kept his drafts for the dreamscape.
--
Eames’ grip was firm, his smile warm. “Missed me?”
“Terribly.” Arthur was careful to keep the word free of inflection. He raised an eyebrow and waited for Eames to let go of his hand. When Eames did, it was with a flicker of disappointment that Arthur might have imagined.
--
The club was packed, bass thumping in Arthur’s blood and pulsating behind his forehead, all colors oversaturated despite the darkened room, more immediate than reality could ever be. Cobb was already in position, both elbows on the bar as he nursed a beer and looked out over the dance floor. Their eyes connected briefly in acknowledgment before Arthur moved closer to the restrooms, pushing his way through the crowd. The clubbing outfit Mal had picked out for him itched, pants clinging to his thighs in a way he found rather uncomfortable.
Well, the retribution would be generous.
He ducked out of a flailing dancer’s reach, taking a step to the side only to collide with another body. The apology was on his tongue when he found himself looking at a familiar smirk. It was rather out of place on the face of the blonde woman who could have walked out of a Playboy issue. While she had Eames’ mouth, the glaringly red lipstick oversold it, blew it up to obscene proportions.
Arthur fought the crowd that tried to push him closer. “Shouldn’t you be at the bar?”
The red dress slid lower as Eames shrugged. “Cobb can handle the bar. Since Crowley is happily murdering the moonwalk,” he swayed forward with a conspiratorial look, and Arthur didn’t have the strength to move away when Eames’ breath tickled his ear, “I figured I may as well try to spike his drink here.”
“So why are you talking to me instead of going for him?” Arthur appreciated their proximity only because it meant he didn’t have to yell for Eames to hear him over the music.
“You’re more fun, darling.” It was disconcerting to hear the endearment emphasized and drawn out in Eames’ usual manner, yet spoken by a female voice. Slender fingers settled on Arthur’s shoulder, thumb brushing against his neck. “We have plenty of time to get what we want, and I was rather looking forward to your reaction to this version of me.”
Arthur inhaled thick, humid air, and for all that the words might have come out slightly strangled, they were entirely truthful. “Sorry, hon. The body’s doing nothing for me.”
“Is that so?” Eames tipped back with a thoughtful expression. Surprisingly, Arthur found it easier to meet Eames’ gaze when his eyes were framed by black eyeliner, the lashes too long.
“I’m afraid so, yes.”
“Shame.” Yet Eames was smiling, the flashing strobe light catching on the red of his lips and making it glow. Women hadn’t tempted Arthur since graduating high school, but he wasn’t certain how he’d react if Eames were to lean in now.
He took a step back and nodded at Eames before he let the crowd swallow him up. The bass was still vibrating in his blood.
--
Cobb was on an earlier flight than Arthur and Eames were, already gone when they left the hotel. They shared a taxi to the airport, on opposite ends of the backseat, and Arthur hoped his study of Eames’ profile against the rain-streaked windowpane passed unnoticed.
III.
If Arthur could change the past to erase one sentence he’d said, it would be this:
Just you wait until the problems start.
IV.
The bullet took Eames out before Arthur even caught sight of Mal. She was as beautiful as she’d ever been, splendid in a violet dress with her hair blowing in an imaginary breeze. Perfect in a way only a projection could be.
Arthur had to shove his elbow into Cobb’s side to get his attention, and even then it was still a slow process, Cobb facing him reluctantly. “What?”
If circumstances were different, Arthur would consider it a stupid question. He supposed Cobb could be given a little leeway. “Mal shot Eames. Why would she- Cobb, what’s going on?”
“It’s not important.” Cobb was already turning back to Mal, who approached them with dangerous intent in her eyes.
“I think it is,” Arthur protested, but before he could expand on his argument, he was already dying.
--
Arthur lay still for a moment before he opened his eyes. He found Eames perched on his chair, light framing his silhouette and tension in every line of his body. Arthur watched him for several long seconds. Then he yanked the sedative out of his arm and sat up. Eames’ head snapped around at the sound.
“What the fuck,” he said slowly, voice dark, “was that?”
For once, Arthur found himself in perfect agreement with Eames. “Yes, that’s what I asked Cobb.”
“And did you get an answer?”
“Mal shot me before I could insist.”
“Join the club, darling.” The dry curl of Eames’ lips was comfortingly familiar. He got up to lean against the edge of the desk, and Arthur didn’t have the energy to bitch about his documents being knocked askew. Instead, he lay back down on his lawn chair, staring up at the dirty ceiling of the warehouse. Someone must have gotten a ladder to write Massachusetts suxx in big black letters over the faded white paint.
“So we wait?” Arthur asked the ceiling. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eames nod.
“So we wait.”
--
They waited five minutes, seven, then ten. Two hours, Arthur thought. He didn’t say it aloud; Eames knew as well as he did.
When Cobb finally woke up, twelve minutes after Mal’s shot had transported Arthur back to reality, Cobb didn’t meet their eyes. “It won’t happen again.” His voice was rough and unfamiliar. “I got the information.”
“To hell with the information,” Eames said calmly.
“It won’t happen again,” Cobb repeated. He rolled to his feet, stumbling as his hip caught on the edge of a table. Arthur supposed they could have stopped him before he left the warehouse, but all the words he could think of sounded hollow. He remained silent.
The closing of the door sounded inordinately loud. When Eames spoke, his voice seemed equally loud even though it was barely more than a whisper. “I need a drink.”
“So do I.”
If Eames was surprised, he didn’t show it. “There’s a bar around the corner.”
Arthur grabbed his suit jacket off a chair and slid it over his shoulders. He gave Eames a tight nod and tried not to remember the ashen color of Cobb’s face. “Lead the way, then.”
--
The bar was a seedy little dive with windows yellowed by years of smoke and light bulbs that had given up on brightening the room. Eames was overdressed; Arthur stuck out like a sore thumb. He attracted enough assessing gazes to make his fingers itch for his die, but most patrons turned away when Eames slung an arm over his shoulder and glared at everyone within vicinity.
Arthur didn’t shrug him off.
They ordered two vodkas on the rocks and retreated to a sticky table that caught even less light than the rest of the bar. Eames slid onto the bench, and Arthur hesitated a moment before he chose the chair opposite him. “I think we’re the only ones in here not drinking cheap beer.”
Eames raised his glass to toast him. “I didn’t say it was a decent bar.”
“I can’t say I really care right now.”
“I know what you mean.”
They were silent long enough for Arthur to notice the rusty speakers that coughed out nondescript country music, almost drowned out by the beeping sounds of an electronic dartboard. Mal had been good at darts.
“You know, I never found out why she did it,” Eames’ voice cut into Arthur’s thoughts. His expression was rueful, eyes focused on a charred spot on the tabletop. “I could hardly ask Cobb, but… I never understood. She loved him.”
Arthur swallowed dryly. “I think she lost sense of reality. At least that’s what I… The distinction between dream and reality. I think at some point, she just couldn’t tell anymore.”
“I caught her with a kitchen knife once.” Eames exhaled audibly, and Arthur watched him lift the drink to his lips, averting his eyes only when Eames wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. He was too exhausted to fight the spark of attraction and too unsettled to give it much thought.
He slid his fingers into his pocket to clutch his die in a tight fist. The sharp edges cut into his palm. “I don’t want to lose Cobb as well.”
“I know.” Eames met his eyes and Arthur was immensely grateful that he didn’t deny the possibility.
“He spent more than two hours in there, Eames.”
“I know,” Eames repeated.
Another moment of silence stretched between them while they drank. The vodka burned down Arthur’s throat and he relished the sensation; it eased the numb feeling in his chest, if only slightly.
“Do you…” He almost didn’t continue, but the shadows that surrounded them, the asthmatic country music and cheerful sounds from the dartboard made the entire scene feel surreal. It was enough of a prompt. “Do you sometimes get the impression that the dreams are realer than reality is?”
“Sometimes, yes. I suppose it’s an occupational hazard.” Eames paused, swirling the drink in his glass. “Is that why you do it?” There was no condescension in his tone, only curiosity.
Arthur took another sip of his drink before he replied. He focused on the game of darts in the corner rather than meeting Eames’ eyes. “Maybe. That, and I like the control it gives me.”
“Really? I couldn’t tell.” Eames laughed softly, without malice. The ice cubes in his glass clinked together when he lifted it, and Arthur forced himself not to watch him drink. “You know,” Eames followed up, after a moment of silence. “I could turn your statement about dreams exceeding reality on its head, if only you let me.”
Arthur allowed a small smile to flit over his face. “I’m impressed, Eames. For your standards, that was an almost classy pick-up line.”
Eames lifted one shoulder. “I got killed by Mal today. I can’t be held accountable for my actions.”
“Don’t tell me this was the first time Mal killed you.” Arthur’s gaze caught on Eames’ answering smile, just long enough to see it fade. Eames’ voice was quiet.
“Oh, it wasn’t. It’s just that the other times, I could tell her to sod off when we both woke up.”
There was really nothing Arthur could say in reply, so he lifted his glass in acknowledgement. They drank with their gazes locked, the stretch of the table between them.
--
Arthur hardly ever remembered his dreams, but what little he did remember was never as spectacular as what they constructed for others.
When he woke up the morning after the bar, he didn’t remember specifics, but the phantom taste of chlorine water lingered in his mouth. It only lasted until he became aware of his pounding head and the cottony feeling on his tongue.
V.
Inception.
It was madness that Arthur even considered the possibility. Had it been only the money, he would have told Cobb to shove the idea where the sun didn’t shine. It wasn’t just the money, though; it was the only chance Cobb might ever get to see his children again.
It was madness, simple and pure madness. If they wanted a shot at success, they needed Mal to stop meddling in their business; they needed powerful resources and the best team there was. They needed Eames.
Admitting as much, even just to himself, made Arthur want to hit something.
Instead, he crossed over to the hotel’s minibar and opened the small fridge. His fingers lingered on the neck of a tiny vodka bottle, but it brought back the echo of a dirty bar and worn-down country music, of momentary weakness that wouldn’t happen again. Arthur was used to Mal’s appearances by now; they didn’t rattle his defenses anymore.
He grabbed a miniature bottle of wine and took it to his desk, waking his computer from standby mode. When Cobb would inevitably suggest adding Eames to the team, a few calls to old contacts would likely suffice to find out Eames’ whereabouts. Still, Arthur liked to be prepared.
Eames was in the habit of frequently changing his numbers, and the GPS chip on his phone wasn’t functioning. Smart man. However, Arthur knew not only the fake identities Eames often went by, he also had information on the credit cards that went with them.
Mombasa, then. Dangerous territory for Cobb.
Arthur sat back and took another swig of wine. Adding Eames to the team was necessary, but that didn’t mean Arthur had to like it.
--
Cobb had called to say that their flight was scheduled to land in Paris just after nine, so when the door to the warehouse creaked open, Arthur was expecting it. He bent lower over Robert Fischer’s credit card statements.
As his desk lamp was the only source of light in the room, he didn’t catch more than Eames’ silhouette on the periphery of his vision. The quiet shuffle of footsteps informed Arthur of Eames’ approach. He made no move to acknowledge him.
“I know that you know I’m here, darling.” The words held more warmth than Arthur remembered. He stopped reading, his index finger pausing on an Amazon purchase from November 2006.
“So we both know you’re here.” Arthur turned his head to find Eames closer than he’d anticipated, barely a hand’s width between their faces. “Great. And I see you still haven’t developed a sense of personal space?”
“You pretend you’re annoyed, but I’m willing to bet,” Eames’ voice dipped lower, “you thought of me more than once.”
Arthur felt his face heat and hoped the shadows would hide it. There was no way Eames could know just how accurate his guess was. “If it makes you feel better, please, feel free to believe that.”
A soft laugh stirred Arthur’s hair before Eames brushed a hand over the back of Arthur’s neck. “It does make me feel better, actually.”
“Glad to hear it.” Arthur turned back to the printouts even though he found it hard to make sense of the letters
“Well then.” Eames sounded relaxed, content. “I’m going back to the hotel to sleep off the jet lag. You’re welcome to join me.”
“Thanks, but no thanks.” Arthur fought the traitorous impulse to clear his throat. “Some of us do take their work seriously.”
“Oh, I am very serious.” Eames’ smile was audible.
Arthur pulled the printouts closer and pointedly leaned away from Eames’ touch. “Goodnight, Eames.”
“Sweet dreams, darling.” The smile was still obvious and Arthur almost turned back to see those lips curved into an amused line. He was stronger than that, though.
He waited for Eames’ footsteps to disappear before he allowed himself to lean back, but even then, he barely processed what he was reading. He made a note to check the page again tomorrow, just in case, and left fifteen minutes after Eames had.
Skipping his usual routine of tossing from side to side for at least an hour, he fell asleep almost the moment his head touched the pillow.
--
Their system of backhanded compliments kept Arthur on his toes and provided a source of distraction, enough so that he sometimes forgot they were trying to achieve the impossible. He shouldn’t have enjoyed it as much as he did.
--
Robert Fischer’s subconscious had been militarized, and Arthur hadn’t known. How could he have missed that piece of information? Had the father ensured it had been done at such a young age that it didn’t show up in the records anymore? Was it buried in the company records, maybe? Was it- Fischer had taken a two-week vacation in Frankfurt in late 2006; there was a training center there.
Arthur’s shot missed the projection, again.
Late 2006. Fischer’s Frankfurt trip had been in late 2006. The precise period covered by the credit card statement Arthur had been reading when Eames came to see him. The part Arthur had neglected to reread, despite his intentions to the contrary.
He shoved the thought away when Eames, undisguised, joined him at the window.
--
Kissing Ariadne didn’t get Arthur’s mind off Eames for even a second. “Yeah, it was worth a shot,” he told her, quite honestly.
Once her momentary confusion had cleared, Ariadne’s shrewd look told Arthur she might understand him better than he was comfortable with.
VI.
It had been raining for three hours straight, and its steady rhythm on the tin roof of Arthur’s cabin nearly made him miss the knock on the door. He wasn’t expecting visitors; hardly anyone even knew he was here.
The knock came again, more insistent this time. For no reason at all, Arthur felt the back of his neck flush. He abandoned the coffeemaker, hesitating for a moment before he crossed over to the front door and pulled it open.
Eames’ hair was damp and flattened to his head, the white of his shirt had turned nearly transparent. The rain-darkened street behind him was empty. Further down, encaged by two houses, a slice of the ocean showed gray waves that were rolling onto the beach.
Arthur hated how difficult it was to find his voice. “What are you doing here?”
Instead of a reply, Eames’ gaze travelled down Arthur’s body. His lips quirked up. “I didn’t think you even owned jeans.”
Arthur stamped down on the faint sense of amusement. “Eames. Seriously, what-?”
“Cobb told me that this is where you hide to bemoan the fact that you’re human and made a mistake.” The words came quickly, well-rehearsed. Eames shifted his stance and crossed his arms in front of his chest, the soaked shirt clinging to him like a second skin. Arthur took his hand off the door.
“Cobb doesn’t know when to keep his mouth shut.”
He turned to go back into the cabin and left the door open.
The rush of rain quieted when Eames closed the door, leaving only the muted patter of drops hitting the roof. When Arthur glanced over his shoulder, Eames was slipping out of his damp shoes and socks, shoving them aside before he followed into the kitchen on bare feet. His steps were slow and careful, and Arthur felt his throat close up. He was tempted to finger the die in his pocket, but there was no need; he could retrace the day’s steps to assure himself he wasn’t dreaming.
“So.” Eames’ quiet voice blended with the rhythm of the rain. “Ready to stop fighting me yet, darling?”
Arthur reached for the box that contained a selection of coffee pads even though he’d lost his need for caffeine. Despite or maybe because of the gray light, the colors marking the different types of coffee seemed much too bright. He picked up an orange pad without even knowing what it was. “I didn’t notice that Fischer was militarized.” He cleared his throat and didn’t look up. “Remember when you came into the warehouse? I was going through Fischer’s credit card statement. The information was in there. I missed it.”
It was the nearest thing to an explanation that he was willing to offer.
Eames took a step forward, bare feet noiseless on the tiles. He was close enough to touch. “Don’t you think that you might have an easier time concentrating if you didn’t waste so much energy keeping me away?”
“I hate when you make sense,” Arthur told the orange pad. It was an effort to raise his head and meet Eames’ eyes.
“No,” Eames said softly. “You really don’t.”
“For the record, you aren’t nearly as irresistible as you think you are.” Yet Arthur didn’t withdraw when Eames closed the distance between them, couldn’t even bring himself to mind that his clothes got wet when Eames trapped him against the counter with only his body, offering Arthur the option of an easy escape. Arthur didn’t move.
Eames’ mouth curved into a broad smile. “Whatever you say, love. Listen, I’m going to kiss you now.” He paused for the time it took Arthur to draw a breath. “Will you hit me?”
“Probably not.” Arthur barely recognized his own voice.
“Good enough for me.”
Eames’ hand settled high on Arthur’s shoulder, fingertips cool. He was about to lean in when Arthur asked, “How long are you staying?” The question came out rushed, too high. His sense of balance felt misplaced.
Eames stilled. It took a moment before he replied. “As long as you’ll have me. I booked a one-way flight.”
“You didn’t bring any baggage,” Arthur pointed out. He’d have noticed a bag. Probably.
“Left it at the airport.” Eames’ laugh held a note of self-consciousness. His hand slid up to rest against the side of Arthur’s neck, gaze flicking down for just an instant. Arthur felt him exhale. “I didn’t want to seem presumptuous.”
“And booking a one-way flight isn’t?”
Eames smiled and shook his head. “Stop talking.”
Arthur kissed him.
===.finis.==
The title was taken from a song by Laura DiStasi, Expectations. It’s not available online, but three other songs of hers are, and I highly recommend checking them out.