seeorseem | (no subject)

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It's funny how reality can often be the most tricky of all.

Eames has been in a strange hotel not borne of anyone's subconscious for three days, but no matter what door he tries to exit, it consistently brings him back to the starting point in the hotel lobby. Eames would find that perfectly normal, given his predilection for diving into people's dreams and stealing their secrets from them, but his totem tells him that this is reality and no amount of effort has given him the ability to forge.

He's actually managed to find a version of reality that makes less sense than the dreamworld.

Or maybe, maybe he never left the inception job and he's in limbo. Maybe his mind is playing tricks on him. If that's the case, then he's about to do himself in even worse by hooking himself up to the PASIV to go deeper into his own mind. If this really is reality, then maybe there's something he's missed. If that's true, then his subconscious could very well be the answer, if only the projections don't cotton on to the fact that he's controlling the dreamscape.

He's set up shop in one of the guest rooms, stripping off his suit jacket efficiently and draping it over the back of a chair as he lies back on the bed and fiddles with the insertion needle. Once upon a time, he'd feared going to the doctor's office and receiving his shots.

Now, look at him.

It's a living.

The count drifts away and before he knows it, Eames awakes and finds himself in much the same hotel as before with pointed differences. It's almost as though this hotel has merged with the second level of the Fischer job. Carefully, Eames sits up and listens carefully for sounds as he checks his totem (and yes, this dream, he is, in fact, dreaming). "Come out, come out, wherever you are," he coaxes, of whatever's lurking in the shadows.

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"But of course not." We're too skilled for that. Or at least Arthur had thought he was. Now he's less sure.

"I walk out a door, now and then, and end up in LA. Or in Chicago." He doesn't bother saying that he means his apartment. It seems likely enough that Eames has made it his business to know everything about their residences. He's not a point man, but a clever forger needs the details.

Eames grins at that. "Well, that's no problem, then," he says, genuine about that much. He has residences in both cities, though Chicago is less of an apartment and more of a postal code he drops by before seeing who will let him stay under their roof for the night. The charming thing about being disreputable in real life is that it does lead one to having much stashed away in an event like ... well, not this. "I keep being led back here, as if one of your fancy little paradoxes."

It's spoken flatly, almost a compulsory nicety. "A paradox I didn't make."

And it drives him near-crazy thinking that.

"Does that burn you up, Arthur?" Eames asks conversationally, rapping his knuckles with a steady rhythm against the wall, hoping to irritate Arthur as best as he can. "That you're stuck in a place you can't control?"

For someone like Eames, it's probably evident in the sudden tightness in Arthur's jaw and the narrowing of his eyes just how much he'd like to force Eames' hand into his pocket and away from the wall.

Outwardly, he shrugs. "You know how much I hate 'out of control.'"

Eames does try to hold back on his delight, but it is a rather hard thing when everything in him screams that he wants to be ridiculous about this, especially when he's succeeded in getting on Arthur's nerves. "Yes, I do believe you wrote that on your business card," he jokes dryly. "So, is there any cause to have this conversation in dream space? Apart from the benefit of forgery, I'd like to keep my Somnacin levels somewhat down."

Just like an excitable seventh grader, Arthur thinks.

"You were the one who went under first. I merely followed to investigate."

"And my investigation has yielded answers, which bears the only question worth asking; do I give you the kick, then? Or would you like to do it to me, Arthur, dear?" Eames asks, plastering a broad smirk on his lips.

"There's a staircase that will do nicely, if you require a push down."

A careful eye, likes Eames', may note the razor thin smile that comes with Arthur's sarcasm.

"Well, then, perhaps today, and today only, you can have the chance to kill me," Eames offers, as though this is an incentive that has a limited time on it and shall vanish the very moment Arthur blinks. "Shall we? To the stairs?"

"Hopefully many more chances."

Arthur gestures toward the stairs. "After you, Mr. Eames."

Eames wanders to the top step and presses his toes flat upon the floor, his back facing the fall. It's a bit of a trusting thing, this, but he does have one little trick up his sleeve. See, he may allow Arthur to give him a bit of a kick, but no reason to do it without a bit of flair.

With a touch of concentration, Eames shifts himself, rolling his shoulders as he eases into the forgery of Arthur in the very same clothing that he's wearing, currently. "Come on," he encourages, flattening his vowels and affecting Arthur's accent as he presents a perfect mirror image. "Haven't you ever fantasized about vanquishing yourself in a dream?"

"Can't say it's on my agenda," Arthur admits, biting down on a combination of fear and pure annoyance. It's unnerving, particularly with how well Eames has gotten the imitation down.

All the same, he steps up next to Eames and stands at his side. Bracing an arm on the other man's chest, not looking at the borrowed face, Arthur lets himself fall backward and takes Eames with him.

Arthur does it together.

Interesting to note. Eames is a consummate observer of people, their patterns, and their behaviours and he notes this in the back of his mind to keep for a later date. That is, if he'll remember it. He's awoken with a shock, blinking groggily as he places himself at the odd Nexus Hotel once more.

He pries the IV from his arm and closes his eyes tightly before rubbing his jaw, as if coming back to his own skin takes a moment to readjust. "And here we are, back in the reality that makes no sense."

"Perfect," Arthur says, his tone so even that it's hard to tell if he speaks from sarcasm or satisfaction.

"Here we are again." In Hell.

Eames runs a hand through his hair, pushing stray hairs out of place back into place with the rest of them. He manages a brief smile in Arthur's direction, sleep still clinging to him as there appears to be no danger lurking nearby. "Yes, here we are. Now, what was it you were saying about doors?"

"Sometimes I open doors here and I end up back in...our own world. I'm able to stay awhile." And it's never long enough, never enough time to keep him from fraying underneath the surface. Now that Eames is here, more than ever Arthur clamps down on it, trying to maintain at least an illusion of his sanity.

"And then I turn a corner and here I am."

"Maybe there's something here you're meant to find?" Eames suggests. It's not like he has an appointment to be anywhere in particular. He's got money tucked away and isn't truly intent on working, but he had been fancying a trip to Monte Carlo and being stuck in this odd space wouldn't help him with that. "Maybe it's a sign."

"But this isn't a job. I wasn't even sleeping when I arrived."

But that doesn't really mean all that much in the dream world. Pretending an idle action, Arthur checks his totem again. The results are no surprise.

"Are you looking for a job?" Eames has always been very attuned to opportunity and he has been looking for a good point man. "I've got two lined up, you could walk away with ten percent, possibly fifteen of the take," he offers.

"I'm looking for a way out."

But money is equally useful, as is work. Maybe it's what he needs, the chance to throw himself into something and forget the rest of the particulars.

"Ten to fifteen percent of what total?"

"Nothing ridiculously high," Eames warns, given that Saito's generosity doesn't come along all the time, but Eames doesn't work for the money. He has plenty of that. He works for the thrill, the experience, and the delight of it. "Eight hundred thousand."

"It's no pittance," Arthur says, considering it. More importantly, it's work. There's no reason to run away from it, even if he has more money than he'll ever spend in a lifetime.

"Particulars?"

"Politician, European Union," Eames explains, given that he does prefer to work closer to home base. "We're doing a general sweep for the wife who thinks that her husband might be involved with either something terribly shady within his government. Honestly, chances are it's an affair. I need research on the background in case of security measures, but also to build a honey trap."

"Nice to stretch my legs, I suppose." Honestly, it's a job he could accomplish with a little bit of research in the waking world but if someone wants to part with eight hundred thousand who is he to complain?

"The blonde again?"

He shakes his head, thinking that she's a bit too out of the man's reach. "No," he muses. "No, I think something more buttoned up. More of the librarian type, with a secret underneath all those tight buttons."

"Bit restrained for you, isn't it?" Just as Eames can't resist a few 'friendly' jabs, Arthur makes an exception to throw a few at his sometimes colleague.

"It's not for you, dear," Eames replies easily, smirking as he brushes off lint from his shoulders, adjusting his grey tweed suit jacket as he does. "I have to fit her to his tastes otherwise he won't believe it's his deepest fantasy. I do so love these jobs. Lie back, think of England, and wake up rich."

"You're perverse." It's not said with any particular venom, merely a repetition of the same old argument.

He doesn't even bother answering to the barb about his tastes.

Eames smiles as if that's a compliment. "Thank you," he replies pleasantly, smoothing one of the lapels of his jacket as he regards Arthur. "Well? Are you willing to throw your hat in the ring? Do some research?"

"I suppose I could dip my toes," Arthur says, his voice and posture all but a drawl. He does not desire the job, he merely deigns to take it.

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