artfulforger | Eventually the storm gives way to silence

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Eventually the storm gives way to silence - For Muted

The talk with Arthur at Mallorie's graveside had been less than logical, at least on Eames' part. In fairness, he wasn't trying to be logical, or use reason. At the time he'd wanted nothing more than to find an answer, a quick and easy solution to fix things, and let him move on with his life.

Instead he'd found an uneasy peace, believing he had the answer and could work it all out on his own. That had lasted nearly three weeks before the dream.

Mallorie had looked smug, smart and sharp as she always had in life. The place was her home, that overdone California house that she had turned into a home. Music and light, the children playing and friends even if they had begun life with business and dreams.

Despite knowing it was a dream, Eames couldn't help himself. He wanted to go to her, hold her in his arms and then dance with her on the deck as they had one night with Dominick sitting nearby, sipping his scotch and watching them with a laugh and a fond smile.

It was not to be.

The moment he touched her, everything changed. They were falling. Hurtling towards the ground, hurtling towards death at fifty miles per hours towards concrete and certain death.

He came to with a jerk, crying out to the empty hotel room. Alone.

His hands shook as he picked up his phone, dialing a number he memorized each and every time he'd found Arthur had changed it, waiting for the point man to answer.

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The call connects, taking Eames to an automated reply system which states he could leave a message, or stay on the line for further instructions.

Eames made a face, rolling his eyes as he hit the button to leave a message.

"Arthur, call me."

He hung up, knowing it could be minutes, or days if he called back. If ever given their last talk.

In this case, it takes until the next morning. At about 6:00 AM EST, Eame's phone indicates that he has a text message.

It reads : What is it?

Somewhere around three, maybe four, Eames had fallen asleep watching crappy infomercials on American television. The tone of his phone startled him awake, nearly bolting upright as he scrabbled for his phone.

He stared at the message for a moment, considering the answers he could send. He should count himself lucky to hear back after last time. He sent a message back.

Can I see you?

He frowns down at the screen, reading over the reply.

You can. Though I do have to ask why? There are a multitude of possible reasons, though only one seems pressing. He had left the other man with an open offer to contact him.

Again there was a pause, some time before he sent back his reply. It wasn't easy to say, especially after his behavior.

this time it wasn't you. it was her.

He types and backspaces through several messages before settling on a simple sentence.

Give me two days. You have a location in mind?

The fact that it's Mal he's seeing almost makes the decision for him.

He hadn't even gotten that far, pushing himself out of bed and pacing the small room. He flipped on the coffee maker, giving up on tea after the dream, and pondering where the world was going. More importantly, where he was going in the world.

name a place. ill be there.

The cafe across from the Symphony Hall. Boston.

They'll both have to do some traveling to get there, at least considering where he knew the other man was last.

He sets the phone aside, cleaning off a space on the desk he'd been working at. Booting up his laptop and making arrangements.

Eames considered how long that would take, what he had in cash and realized he could do it. Not too hard, just the time schedule.

When?

A flight from California would neither be hard or, in the grand scheme of the traveling he did, all that long.

He let's the phone sit while he finished up with a ticket booking. Two days is enough to get from Chicago to Boston by train.

10 AM there.

In the end Eames was thankfully. He hadn't been sure that Arthur would agree to see him. Not after how he'd behaved. He'd been an ass, because he'd wanted a quick answer but there wasn't a quick answer and he had to accept that.

i'll be there.

There was a pause before the next message.

thank u

He'd been about to set his phone on silent when it buzzes again, showing the presence of the second message. He muses over the reply.

Don't thank me yet.

He'll rather fix the problem first, and the way to go about it isn't always pleasant.

Eames didn't bother with a response. He packed his things and left that day. California was for memories, and that was what he was having enough trouble with. Boarding a late evening flight, he was in Boston before midnight.

A late dinner and then he walked the city until he was exhausted, waiting until he was worn out to head back to the hotel and passing out sometime around three. Witching hours and all that.

By ten he was there, knowing that on time could be late in Arthur's book. Shades in place, he shrugged a bit further into the heavy wool peacoat he wore and looked around for a familiar face.

By early, Arthur himself had been in the city a day already, train travel to Boston itself took nearly a day, barring delays. And so he'd found himself with some time in which to settle down before using the excuse of a coffee run to make his way to the meeting point.

Old habits die hard, and the table Arthur had been sitting at gives a clear view of the exits while still being out-of-the-way.

Giving a nod, he crossed the room to where the other man was sitting, sliding into the chair across from him.

"Do I get to thank you now?"

You really shouldn't. Not unless they do manage to make headway into his troubles, and by no means is that going to be easy.

He taps his fingers against the table before diving into the matter at hand.

What happened when you saw her?

Eames didn't answer right away, looking away as he tried to work it out in his head. Not what had happened because he was seeing it time and again. It was how to say it, the words to use.

"We were at the house," he said, words soft, choking in his throat. "Then, when I touched her, we were falling. Dropping down. Falling like... like she did."

He tilts his head to the side, processing what Eames had said.

We?

He didn't want to look at Arthur but there was no choice, his gaze staying on his hands.

"Mallorie and me," he muttered.

Still only one projection then, he doesn't quite relax, but the fact that there's one issue less to deal with is perhaps more reassuring than it should be.

Arthur's not judging, not on this anyway. In this case, Mal's more disruptive than destructive. Rather than dwell on what had been going on, he offers a hypothesis instead.

Contradicting forces? You may want one thing, but your mind wants another.

That was when Eames' gaze rose. He looked less angry as he had before, and instead confused.

"Before you were saying I should quit dreamshare because of this and now it's just me..." He took a breath, running a hand over his head. "What I want is to get back to work and put the past behind me."

I'm not saying you shouldn't, but that isn't solving anything except in limiting possible effects towards other people. Cobb did burn through a lot of people because of his little projection problem.

He places both elbows on the table, leaning forward. And how did you intend to do that? Because it certainly hasn't been working.

"Hey, know what," he said, leaning forward with a bright smile. "Why don't you keep being an asshat? See, this is is why I stopped seeing shrinks when I was a kid," he pointed out, rolling his eyes.

"Arthur I don't get why now, after all these years, I'm having issues with the death of a friend. Do you know how many friends I've buried over the years? Maybe nearly as many as you probably have. So why now? Why her?"

He straightens in his chair, adding distance back between then in a sense. This is exactly why he told the other man not to thank him yet. Eames may find psychiatry to be pointless, but their methods are not. There's no point in beating a dead horse.

Not that a lecture would be appreciated.

By friends, I'm assuming you mean other people you met and got along with mostly through one business or another. Feel free to correct him. I'm also doubtful that you ever ended up running through each other's minds the same way.

As to why it had to happen then... it could be that it was the first time since the incident that Eames had worked with Cobb, and hence Mal, in a way.

Ello hun.

*LOVES!*

Have to add you, will do it after this comment.

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And bedtime, so goodnight.

Re: And bedtime, so goodnight.

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... hopefully, geography works out.

More than works. Sounds good :D

\o/

Hope a wee bit of fast forwarding is cool.

Oh yay! Progress

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LOVES!