(no subject)
Days pass, and sometimes Eames isn't sure he's not losing his mind. Oh, it's easy enough to fall into patterns, to keep himself occupied, but always in the back of his head, there's doubt. And it's a doubt he can't stand, but one that, even so, he knows is a necessity. He spends his days like he's awake, because to overthink it would be even more maddening, but he can't - and, he suspects, never will - be entirely convinced that he is. There's too much at stake for that, and too much about this place that just doesn't add up, and, from what he's been told, never will. To be cautious, to keep himself from deciding fully one way or the other, it's all that makes sense, but he's never been the type to get lost in the divide between reality and dream. That he's the one who has to question it now is just bloody frustrating.
It doesn't mean he acts like it, or even lets it weigh on his mind too heavily all the time. In some regards, being here is no different than being on a job. He has a cover story, passing himself off as an ordinary businessman, and though it's no longer for an eventual payoff, he watches people, studies their mannerisms, works out what makes them tick. If anything, it's pure entertainment, better than almost, but not quite, everything else here. More often than not, though he isn't especially fond of the place itself, it brings him to the Compound. For one, it's just amusing, watching people swear at the bookshelf and jukebox, and it's a magnet for activity, anyway. Still dull, compared to the life he's used to, but being here involves compromises, and this is one thing he won't complain about.
After getting dinner in the kitchen, Eames does exactly this, sitting on a couch looking out at people over the top of a book he isn't paying much attention to. It's uneventful, for the most part, but then, the same would be true of just about anywhere on the island. He isn't sure what time it is, but eventually, the rec room starts getting more quiet, and the caffeine in the coffee on the table in front of him doesn't do as much as it should. He's unaware that he's dozed off at all, until the jukebox kicks in. Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien, Edith Piaf's voice sings, the sound all too familiar, and he's pulled out of a dreamless sleep with a start, breaths coming short and shallow as he looks around, reorienting himself. It shouldn't be surprising, that he's here, but in some way, he's disappointed, and rattled besides. Still out of it and needing the reassurance, he reaches into his pocket, fishing out the poker chip that he still carries around, holding it in one palm to make sure the feel of it is right. It is. This sign, as with many others, means he ought to be awake. It just can't quite be convincing enough.
[Timed to Monday night. All manner of tags welcome.]
It doesn't mean he acts like it, or even lets it weigh on his mind too heavily all the time. In some regards, being here is no different than being on a job. He has a cover story, passing himself off as an ordinary businessman, and though it's no longer for an eventual payoff, he watches people, studies their mannerisms, works out what makes them tick. If anything, it's pure entertainment, better than almost, but not quite, everything else here. More often than not, though he isn't especially fond of the place itself, it brings him to the Compound. For one, it's just amusing, watching people swear at the bookshelf and jukebox, and it's a magnet for activity, anyway. Still dull, compared to the life he's used to, but being here involves compromises, and this is one thing he won't complain about.
After getting dinner in the kitchen, Eames does exactly this, sitting on a couch looking out at people over the top of a book he isn't paying much attention to. It's uneventful, for the most part, but then, the same would be true of just about anywhere on the island. He isn't sure what time it is, but eventually, the rec room starts getting more quiet, and the caffeine in the coffee on the table in front of him doesn't do as much as it should. He's unaware that he's dozed off at all, until the jukebox kicks in. Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien, Edith Piaf's voice sings, the sound all too familiar, and he's pulled out of a dreamless sleep with a start, breaths coming short and shallow as he looks around, reorienting himself. It shouldn't be surprising, that he's here, but in some way, he's disappointed, and rattled besides. Still out of it and needing the reassurance, he reaches into his pocket, fishing out the poker chip that he still carries around, holding it in one palm to make sure the feel of it is right. It is. This sign, as with many others, means he ought to be awake. It just can't quite be convincing enough.
[Timed to Monday night. All manner of tags welcome.]