[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 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.
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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. ( ... )
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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.
Reply
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.
Reply
[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.
Reply
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