[ And maybe that's why he asks. It's easier to ask her, mostly because it's Natasha and she knows what it's like to be broken just to be set anew again, be shaped into something you're not and how hard it is to see past that fog. Tony dreams about — Afghanistan, probably, Steve just the shell-shocked soldier as Stark is and maybe that's when they're all at their most human. Sleeping, dreaming of something that keeps them up at night, nipping at their heels. ]
Yeah. [ Clint's quiet, his free hand reaching up to rub idly at the back of his neck. His beer sweats a ring into the wood of the table. Fuck coasters; if SHIELD can spring for a safehouse in Cairo, they can spring for a new table. ] That's the problem. They don't ever go away, do they?
[ she's not going to lie to him, even if he already knows the truth and probably doesn't want or need it hammered home. but she shakes her head anyway, reaching for her own drink and curling her hand around the glass. ]
Not really. They're less frequent, after a while, and you start to handle them better, but they're never really gone.
[ she takes a long pull from her drink, staring at the stained surface of the table. after a minute, she looks back up, studying his face. she knows why he asked, knows that he's been having his own trouble sleeping, for reasons that are much different than they used to be, but she hasn't asked for the specifics because she knows when to step back and when to step in, knows that if she'd tried the former too soon he'd just shut her out, stubborn and stupid and determined to fix it on his own. that he's asking about her own experience without any prompting makes her think that maybe it's time to do the latter. ]
What about you? What have you been dreaming about?
[ He huffs out a laugh, dry and wry and tired all at once. He doesn't say c'mon, Tasha, you know what I mean because that would be missing the point, would be doing her a disservice. The thing is that this is Natasha, all red for the first time when he saved her life and dripping with it now, still, after all these years. He trusts her (maybe). He loves her (maybe). His name is Clint Barton and he has a brother and he's human but he can hit a target anytime, anyplace, just say the word, (maybe). In the span of a couple of days that's what his life's been reduced to, just maybe's and pretty sure's. His own mind is screwing him over because Clint remembers what that's like, to believe so strongly that Loki was the one doing the right thing, that everything was good and in its place. It was with as much conviction and strength he has when looking down the sight of a sniper rifle and fuck if he knows how to deal with all that.
Clint isn't one to second guess himself. On the rare days that's happened, he's known Natasha's had his six. (Maybe.) ]
You really wanna know? [ He picks idly at the label on his beer. His hands are antsy and restless. This was a stupid idea. ] S'nightmares, Natasha. Does it matter what they're about?
[ natasha has been where he is too many times to recall, knows what it is to doubt and second guess every step you take and every thought in your mind. knows what it is to look in the mirror and not be sure of who you are and to question everyone and everything around you, whether or not they're going to suddenly turn on you or if you've already turned on them. it's awful and it's something she'd prefer not to go through ever again, but if she could go back in time and reverse their positions, she'd do it in a heartbeat. it's not that she thinks he's not equipped to deal with the aftermath, it's that he shouldn't have to be.
but the world is far from perfect. ]
No. [ there's a long beat as she watches him fidget, peel at the label and avoid answering her question. ] But you asked. Why ask if you didn't want to talk about it?
[ she's not going to force him if he truly doesn't want to, but she'll sit here as long as it takes for him to get what he needs to off his chest. ]
[ Clint doesn't want to answer but, distantly, he knows that he should. That's Natasha for you, pulling punches except when she knows he can take it. He doesn't say you. I dream about you. He doesn't say you, dead, not a clean kill but a messy one because he doesn't trust himself with words like that: he wants to say you, with me, some suite in a European hotel where we live off room service for a month but those are selfish words and he's not one to say them either. His fingers pick away at the corner of his label instead, chipping away at the picture of some fucking trout or whatever the hell that's got to do with beer. ]
Just uh. [ He clears his throat. Clint knows Natasha is being kind and patient when she does have to be, has kicked his ass between the odd break-up and days when he's too busy feeling shit sorry for himself. ] Y'ever feel like your life is slipping through your fingers? Like everything's just— [ He exhales, shakier than he means to, his eyes finally glancing up to meet hers. ] How do you get through it, Tasha?
[ now she leaves her own drink untouched, letting her hands rest on the table as she watches him, waits for him to tell her what he's been dreaming or ask her the question she knows has been gnawing on the back of his mind since she broke him out of the reverie loki had him wrapped up in. he's hinted at it before, made vague attempts that didn't get off the ground because he'd backed out at the last second, but this is the first time he's outright asked her what he needs to. ]
A day at a time. [ it sounds ridiculous and she knows it, like some cheesy soap opera title that they'd make fun of if the situation were at all appropriate. ] On the really bad days, an hour or half-hour at a time.
[ He huffs out a laugh (a day at a time, huh) because he picks up on it too — it sounds like a fucking fortune cookie, but he knows that that's what he himself said to Steve too, way back when SHIELD still had him on lockdown and getting acclimitized to life in the 21st century. Sometimes that's the only choice you have. Objectively, he understands that.
Clint can be patient when he's looming over an area for security detail or looking down the sight of a scope. It's different when it's here, away from work. It's different when it's to do with Natasha; not because she can't take care of herself, but because it's to do with home. ]
Yeah. [ He scrubs a hand over his face. Jesus, he feels— tired. Exhausted. ] Yeah.
[ Clint tips the beer back, the column of his throat long as he knocks his head back to drain the remainder. The empty bottle gets slid along the table, stopping just at the opposite corner where the rest of the empties are stacked, the glass clinking together softly. ] How do you know when you— [ When you're ready, he wants to say. When you can trust yourself. When you stop feeling like a liability because all we are is human, 'Tasha, and we're working with fucking gods.
[ she doesn't know if he really wants to hear the truth - that there are still days when she doesn't know if she is, if she can, if the things she's sure of are reliable or if they're some twisted story based on something that might have been true, but hasn't been in a long time. she knows that's not what she wants to tell him, but she's not about to lie.
she's quiet for a long while, waiting for him to string words together, to ask what he wants to (needs to) if he can get the words out, if he doesn't choke on them first. eventually, he does, changes the subject, and she dips her head in a nod. ]
On the bad days. [ the days where she has to force herself through every task and conversation, when she second guesses every action, where she's sure everyone she's supposed to trust are actually the ones he helped her escape from. he's always been her touchstone, even if he didn't know if and it wasn't something she fully realized herself - he's been the one she knows she can trust not to betray her, the one she knows she has no reason to doubt.
he's always been that, until everything that happened, and she still doesn't doubt him but she knows he's doubting himself, and it breaks her heart to see him on the other side of this, makes her angry, makes her want to find some way to get to asgard so she can tear loki apart for this. but anger and wanting revenge won't help him through this.
she's not sure if she's the one who can, if anything she says or does is going to help him live through this, but she's willing to die trying. she owes him that much. ]
[ It's a blink-and-you'll-miss-it, his hands stilling just for a second and then continuing to type away at his laptop. Arthur's reply is more of a non-answer. ]
Come now, [ This is Eames, evening her cuticles with the metal tip of a mechanical drafting pencil of dubious origins. Satisfied with her thumb, but not Arthur's evasion, Eames flips her hand in his direction. ] Don't be stingy.
That's unsanitary, [ Arthu notes idly, dry as a bone. He isn't actually doing anything right now, methodically cleaning out his personal inbox along with twenty other false ones. It's what he does on the off-chance he has ten minutes to spare. Which would explain why there's over fifty new messages promising penis enlargement. ]
Is this supposed to be professional curiosity? [ His eyes don't stray far from his laptop screen. Click, delete. Click, delete. ] The job in Dubai.
I believe the word you're trying for is resourceful. [ Moving on to her pinky nail because fuck you that's why! She spares him a glance over her not quite fully extended pinky. ] Points for effort, though.
[ There he goes again, refusing to dream bigger.
She waits him out, through his question — you know the answer to that, you just don't like that you know it — and his repetitive clicking, to be rewarded with four words. It's a straightforward answer and Eames wonders where Arthur's eyes would stray if he didn't have that laptop to focus on. ] Liked it, did you?
[ There's a funny half-snort, half-huff of laughter that comes from Arthur. Come on, Eames. Everyone knows there's no such thing as points for effort. ] The job or Dubai? [ He gives a mild tic of the head (I didn't not like it.) There's no particular reason to be so guarded about the whole thing; Arthur ended up hating the job but Dubai turned out to be okay, barr the fact that he still can't do much with Arabic than read street signs. To share that, though, with Eames, feels like— like he's inviting some kind of rudimentary friendship, and that's a fucking dumb idea no matter which way he looks at it.
Click, delete. The beat of silence that follows is enough for Arthur to look up, brows creased slightly in the middle. ] Is this going somewhere?
[ As in: are you trying to talk to me about something? ]
[ What a wonderfully genuine sound— robust and a little sharp, like the smell of his coffee in the morning.
Dubai had been hot, the only way Dubai knows to be, and Eames remembers the fine beads of sweat that dotted his hairline, trying to compensate for the professional dress he simply would not give up, constantly getting swept back into his hair for their efforts. He hadn't seemed to like it, if not for the heat than for the language barrier that always snapped his shoulders back and set his mouth to thinning. Then again, time is money and no one enjoys having their time wasted; Arthur on the principle of it, and Eames on the practicality of it. ] Dubai would be the better answer.
[ His finger hovers over his laptop's touchpad and Eames has seen the tie he's wearing twice before. ] Does it have to?
[ Press him and Arthur won't say he remembers much about Dubai, other than air conditioning in his hotel and what it was like outside of it. It's Eames that catalogues the details — those nuances in a person that Arthur's never cared enough about to see how it all fits — but he does catalogue some things. The bracelet slung around her wrist, knotted right above the round of bone there; the weight to her smile, the misdirect in the curve of it. Dubai was hot and the job was fucking stupid. He doesn't have illusions about that, at least. ]
Ideally, that's how a conversation works. [ The pinch to his brow gets more prominent, though it's not as if clearing out his fucking email requires a lot of patience or finesse. His gaze drops to the screen again. ] It's fine, Eames.
[ Not synonymous with I'm sleeping, but Cobb's been exhausted for years. Arthur can follow, for a little while. There's just always one more thing. ]
Yes, please do remind me how to engage others. [ And to your left ladies and gentleman, you will see the majestic flying pig. Eames upends her palms in a gimme gesture, not quite as showy while holding her pencil-cum-cuticle pusher. ] Your suggestions are always appreciated.
[ Knee resting snugly up in the hollow of her other knee, the toe of Eames' right foot seems to point directly at Arthur's desk. Poking fun at his poor choice of critique is easier than getting to how the hollows under his eyes say something different; a clear no, it's not fine, to anyone who has enough irreverence for his personal life to point them out. Not quite the punched purple bruises he sports when he's cast sleep off as a luxury commodity, they hold the possibility of being worse- the next step in his neatly bulleted itinerary. Destination: self-destruction.
It's a Cobb special and Arthur's a happy hour regular. ]
"Fine," [ Eames parrots, the word sorely lacking in inflection, devoid of the character that shapes her words into colorful parts of a more interesting whole. Boring has more life than fine. ] What generously ambiguous word.
One of these days, Arthur, [ Eames says gustily as she studies the underside of one of her nails, ] you're going to have to think up a different line. [ She flashes him a smile, sardonic and dry. Were it someone else she might try harder to mask her condescension, but for him it's almost a flirtation.
Good thing I have ten more. [ His tone matches her smile, familiar enough to settle into whatever Eames is trying to weedle out of him this time. Clearing his inbox doesn't require much finesse other than telling extractors and architects alike to go fucking shove it and come back with something better, his reply usually sent in the form of something copy-pasted, but Arthur has some time and personalizing them seems like a good idea today.
He glances at her over his screen. ] Or you could stop asking. [ Or change and/or clarify the question, but that seems a bit like inviting the devil into his home. ]
[ He scratches idly at his jaw, nails catching at the hint of stubble there. For all that Ariadne understands him — that happens with being twins and all that — she's also insatiably curious. Add that to being family and, well, there's not really much route left for escape. ]
Sleeping isn't really, [ he stops, twirling the pencil in his hands to erase away the tip of a skyscraper he's currently sketching. ] Paramount. I dunno. Isn't that what you dream about?
[ His eyebrows shoot up, half in-alarm and half scrunched together in a funny way, just in the middle there (that's really kind of you, Eames.) ] No thanks. [ Between knives wielded by spectres and falling through snow and ice and glass to water, that's one of the few experiences Aristos doesn't have much yearning for. ] I don't really have plans to become the next Bond.
[ There's a half-eaten ham and cheese croissant on his plate, abandoned for a doodle on the back of a newly minted buisness card. It took him a little while to pick it up, but it's not like he had a poor teacher. Maybe Aristos still has trouble with what to ask sometimes, or what to ask for, but taking things is new in his arsenal. He'll get better at it soon enough. ] Do you still, [ He aims for nonchalant and misses by an inch, glancing up to briefly meet Eames' eye. ] —sleep?
[ Not the word he was aiming for, but close enough. ]
[ Eames shrugs carelessly, her legs uncrossing and recrossing beneath the table, the nylon of her stockings making a subtle hushing noise. It's something that Aristos will have to learn to get used to eventually, if he has any intention of keeping up with the 'Share. But that's a piece of knowledge she's already imparted to him and Eames has no intention of beating horses not-quite-dead. He was a smart boy, after all, and stubborn. He'd either learn his lesson or move on — there was little room for something in between.
She sucks her teeth as she watches the tip of his pencil, the lead feathering across the paper in short, deliberate strokes. There's a part of her that's proud, but positive reinforcement tactics have never been Eames' style. ]
Not sleeping is Arthur's department, not mine, [ she says finally with a descending sort of cadence. ] He's got plenty of pathos for it. While I— [ Eames waves vaguely through the air and settles forward, elbows on the table. ] &nmdash;haven't the taste of it.
[ Not dreaming is a different story. But Eames fails to point that out. ]
[ He huffs out a laugh, the curve of his smile growing upwards. It's kind of pathetically domestic really, spending a lazy Sunday afternoon with Jaye sprawled over his couch, her legs propped up in his lap. With his free hand he rubs the jutt of bone at her ankle in small circles, the other busy holding up a folded section of the Sports column, reading up on this week's odds. Never let anyone say Dominic is a half-assed minder. ]
Why don't I believe you, [ he says, his thumb still sweeping lightly. His tone isn't accusatory — far from it — choosing to remain neutral and mildly observant instead. ] Y'could have come up with a better story than that.
Because you're a fucking cheater, [ Jaye chirps, moving the leg he's not paying attention to in order to poke at his thigh with her toes.
It's stupid how much she trusts this man. If he wanted to, he could break her ankle right now and she'd be fucked, unable to fight as efficiently until it healed; she'd have to get out in order to get to Coyote and get it healed, and Dominic can't lose. But instead she has her legs propped up in his lap, lazy and utterly content not to move for a little bit -- a rare enough thing in itself. She relents anyway, sighs a bit and settles into Dominic's couch a little more. ] I try to forget them. They're not really great dreams, so there's not much use remembering them.
Oi. [ Sharp-edged but it's nothing more than a front, his hand batting lightly at her calf in response. His eyes are still on this week's odds but Nike doesn't dole out to just anybody, and Dominic's peripheral vision hasn't failed him yet.
It's under the guise of not paying attention or not staring at something head-on, and he's found that that's what works for them. Jaye is like the sun, bright and all-encompassing but dangerous too, and this is his way of keeping both of them in check. Run for long enough and it becomes second nature — he gets that. All the more reason to fight to keep this, whatever it is, whatever they choose to call it. ]
You alright? [ He lifts his hand from her leg to wet his thumb before turning the page of his paper, settling again at her ankle.
It's an open invitation to talk about it, if she wants. ]
[ There's a laugh at Dominic's protest, her foot lightly kicking back at his hand. It's easy to get Jaye to laugh for him, to smile like she means it instead of grinning her sharp predator grin. She tries not to think about what that means, doesn't want to run from him; she knows that if she looks too close, at least right now, she probably will. Dominic cannot be beaten and she trusts him and it's so stupid, because he could kill her and Jaye would fight but how do you win against someone who can't lose?
She hasn't really considered that maybe finishing her off would be losing for him. Sometimes it's hard to remember that there are different types of winning. ]
Yeah. Most of them aren't anything new -- just shit from Detroit. [ A pause. ] My brother. [ Another pause, longer this time; Jaye shifts slightly again, frowning a bit. ]
... Sometimes that shit with Belial, when I went after that cult. [ Alone, because someone had to do something and there wasn't time to call for backup; Kane had to stay with Coyote and Coyote was ready to die, so she had to go, had to search and she'd found them. She couldn't stop them, but she found them, and it had gotten Coyote back in the game. It just could have gone very differently; she's still not sure why it didn't. She would have killed her, had their positions been reversed. ]
[ Dominic hums. Lightly (mildly) so as to tell her that he's listening; he's heard enough about her brother to connect the dots. It's never anything he asks about — she doesn't ask him about his life either, what he did before Nike or his parents or where he's from, and like all things that suits them just fine.
When she shifts, uncomfortable and with that draw in her brows, Dominic's hand circles the joint of her ankle again. (It's alright. You can stop, if you want.) The mention of Belial makes his brows shift the tiniest fraction, glancing up from the paper to Jaye's face. Truthfully, Dominic doesn't remember much about that time — too busy fighting with knuckles and luck and chance and blood to keep track of why it was happening. When it boils down to it, his own allegiance is to Nike, not the gods or the Greco-Roman pantheon. He was too busy trying to win enough battles so she could breathe to fixate on the source of the problem. ]
Y'made it out though, [ he says, which is Dominic's way of asking wanna share with the class? ] Ten fingers, ten toes.
[ She honestly believes that, and it's written all over her; from the way she glances at his face before her eyes flicker away, the way she shifts again -- tugs her ankle free from his hand, sits on his couch like a bird ready to fly away at a moment's notice. ]
I went in alone, made Kane stay with Coyote -- he was... it was bad. Old Man Coyote, ready because if it's time, it's time. I wasn't going to let him, so I went hunting and found them through dumb luck and rumors. Took a swing at Payton as a bear, nearly got him but his cult swarmed me. They knocked me out -- as a fucking bear. Left me in the basement surrounded by empty bags of Doritos where a demon's minder found me and woke me up. Coyote was back in the game, but...
[ Her arms cross over her chest, like that will hold the memory in. ]
They should have killed me. I would have killed me, if someone had come in like that and fucked up that badly. Should've snaked him, shouldn't have given him time to shout.
[ Arthur is leaned back in an office chair, the tip of his pen tapping his chin noncommittally as he flips through pages in a file. One, then two, then three, his hand dipping down to catch the next leave with the rest and then lifting them all again to read the one underneath. It's mostly perfunctory stuff and so, isn't nearly as interesting to him as the nitty-gritty. But facts are facts and better than nothing. (They've tried running on empty before and it didn't work.)
The corner of his mouth twitches but he doesn't look up. ] Are we talking business or—? [ He doesn't say 'pleasure' because he means off-hours and everybody in the room already knows that 'business vs pleasure' isn't how Arthur's dichotomies roll. ]
Edited 2012-07-12 00:18 (UTC)
and now to take this in a totally weird direction!!!
[ She doesn't use the office much anymore, so it made sense that Arthur get some use out of it while he's here. It's easier for her to work in the dining room or the kitchen, the laptop perched on the counter as she stirs marinara sauce or makes pancakes in the morning. It's not that life is less busy or needs less organizing. It's that there's a closet in that room filled with sealed cardboard boxes and the odd photo album that Dom still doesn't like to look at, though that metaphor about skeletons and closets is getting a little heavy these days. Maybe she'll bring them out this Christmas. ]
Or. [ Her forehead rests lightly on the side of the doorframe, hands cradling a mug of cocoa. That small twitch is enough for Dom to smile. ] We're talking about 'or', Arthur.
[ There are a lot of perks to being in space- starting with the space babes and ending with the diplomatic ass kissing (if you could find one, that is) that more often than not involves alien liquor. Alien liquor can range from watered down piss to who kicked me in the face and what planet am I currently on?? Space, at the helm of a intergalactic starship, is resplendent with possibilites for new and exciting experiences.
But, staring at his cuboidal jelly lunch, Jim thinks he might just trade it all for a grill and a fucking rack of ribs. He can't eat this shit. ] Barbecue...
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bird.
[ but she sounds eerily unphased. ]
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Yeah. [ Clint's quiet, his free hand reaching up to rub idly at the back of his neck. His beer sweats a ring into the wood of the table. Fuck coasters; if SHIELD can spring for a safehouse in Cairo, they can spring for a new table. ] That's the problem. They don't ever go away, do they?
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Not really. They're less frequent, after a while, and you start to handle them better, but they're never really gone.
[ she takes a long pull from her drink, staring at the stained surface of the table. after a minute, she looks back up, studying his face. she knows why he asked, knows that he's been having his own trouble sleeping, for reasons that are much different than they used to be, but she hasn't asked for the specifics because she knows when to step back and when to step in, knows that if she'd tried the former too soon he'd just shut her out, stubborn and stupid and determined to fix it on his own. that he's asking about her own experience without any prompting makes her think that maybe it's time to do the latter. ]
What about you? What have you been dreaming about?
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Clint isn't one to second guess himself. On the rare days that's happened, he's known Natasha's had his six. (Maybe.) ]
You really wanna know? [ He picks idly at the label on his beer. His hands are antsy and restless. This was a stupid idea. ] S'nightmares, Natasha. Does it matter what they're about?
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but the world is far from perfect. ]
No. [ there's a long beat as she watches him fidget, peel at the label and avoid answering her question. ] But you asked. Why ask if you didn't want to talk about it?
[ she's not going to force him if he truly doesn't want to, but she'll sit here as long as it takes for him to get what he needs to off his chest. ]
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Just uh. [ He clears his throat. Clint knows Natasha is being kind and patient when she does have to be, has kicked his ass between the odd break-up and days when he's too busy feeling shit sorry for himself. ] Y'ever feel like your life is slipping through your fingers? Like everything's just— [ He exhales, shakier than he means to, his eyes finally glancing up to meet hers. ] How do you get through it, Tasha?
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A day at a time. [ it sounds ridiculous and she knows it, like some cheesy soap opera title that they'd make fun of if the situation were at all appropriate. ] On the really bad days, an hour or half-hour at a time.
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Clint can be patient when he's looming over an area for security detail or looking down the sight of a scope. It's different when it's here, away from work. It's different when it's to do with Natasha; not because she can't take care of herself, but because it's to do with home. ]
Yeah. [ He scrubs a hand over his face. Jesus, he feels— tired. Exhausted. ] Yeah.
[ Clint tips the beer back, the column of his throat long as he knocks his head back to drain the remainder. The empty bottle gets slid along the table, stopping just at the opposite corner where the rest of the empties are stacked, the glass clinking together softly. ] How do you know when you— [ When you're ready, he wants to say. When you can trust yourself. When you stop feeling like a liability because all we are is human, 'Tasha, and we're working with fucking gods.
But he doesn't say any of that. ]
An hour at a time, huh.
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she's quiet for a long while, waiting for him to string words together, to ask what he wants to (needs to) if he can get the words out, if he doesn't choke on them first. eventually, he does, changes the subject, and she dips her head in a nod. ]
On the bad days. [ the days where she has to force herself through every task and conversation, when she second guesses every action, where she's sure everyone she's supposed to trust are actually the ones he helped her escape from. he's always been her touchstone, even if he didn't know if and it wasn't something she fully realized herself - he's been the one she knows she can trust not to betray her, the one she knows she has no reason to doubt.
he's always been that, until everything that happened, and she still doesn't doubt him but she knows he's doubting himself, and it breaks her heart to see him on the other side of this, makes her angry, makes her want to find some way to get to asgard so she can tear loki apart for this. but anger and wanting revenge won't help him through this.
she's not sure if she's the one who can, if anything she says or does is going to help him live through this, but she's willing to die trying. she owes him that much. ]
Some are easier than others.
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You'll have to be more specific.
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Is this supposed to be professional curiosity? [ His eyes don't stray far from his laptop screen. Click, delete. Click, delete. ] The job in Dubai.
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[ There he goes again, refusing to dream bigger.
She waits him out, through his question — you know the answer to that, you just don't like that you know it — and his repetitive clicking, to be rewarded with four words. It's a straightforward answer and Eames wonders where Arthur's eyes would stray if he didn't have that laptop to focus on. ] Liked it, did you?
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Click, delete. The beat of silence that follows is enough for Arthur to look up, brows creased slightly in the middle. ] Is this going somewhere?
[ As in: are you trying to talk to me about something? ]
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Dubai had been hot, the only way Dubai knows to be, and Eames remembers the fine beads of sweat that dotted his hairline, trying to compensate for the professional dress he simply would not give up, constantly getting swept back into his hair for their efforts. He hadn't seemed to like it, if not for the heat than for the language barrier that always snapped his shoulders back and set his mouth to thinning. Then again, time is money and no one enjoys having their time wasted; Arthur on the principle of it, and Eames on the practicality of it. ] Dubai would be the better answer.
[ His finger hovers over his laptop's touchpad and Eames has seen the tie he's wearing twice before. ] Does it have to?
[ What would it mean if I was? ]
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Ideally, that's how a conversation works. [ The pinch to his brow gets more prominent, though it's not as if clearing out his fucking email requires a lot of patience or finesse. His gaze drops to the screen again. ] It's fine, Eames.
[ Not synonymous with I'm sleeping, but Cobb's been exhausted for years. Arthur can follow, for a little while. There's just always one more thing. ]
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[ Knee resting snugly up in the hollow of her other knee, the toe of Eames' right foot seems to point directly at Arthur's desk. Poking fun at his poor choice of critique is easier than getting to how the hollows under his eyes say something different; a clear no, it's not fine, to anyone who has enough irreverence for his personal life to point them out. Not quite the punched purple bruises he sports when he's cast sleep off as a luxury commodity, they hold the possibility of being worse- the next step in his neatly bulleted itinerary. Destination: self-destruction.
It's a Cobb special and Arthur's a happy hour regular. ]
"Fine," [ Eames parrots, the word sorely lacking in inflection, devoid of the character that shapes her words into colorful parts of a more interesting whole. Boring has more life than fine. ] What generously ambiguous word.
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Keyword: almost. ] Then what will you do, mm?
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He glances at her over his screen. ] Or you could stop asking. [ Or change and/or clarify the question, but that seems a bit like inviting the devil into his home. ]
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Falling, probably.
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You're going to have to explain better then that.
[ She may have a vague idea what he is meaning here, but the need for clarification is always going to be there. ]
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Sleeping isn't really, [ he stops, twirling the pencil in his hands to erase away the tip of a skyscraper he's currently sketching. ] Paramount. I dunno. Isn't that what you dream about?
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[ She would, too. ]
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[ There's a half-eaten ham and cheese croissant on his plate, abandoned for a doodle on the back of a newly minted buisness card. It took him a little while to pick it up, but it's not like he had a poor teacher. Maybe Aristos still has trouble with what to ask sometimes, or what to ask for, but taking things is new in his arsenal. He'll get better at it soon enough. ] Do you still, [ He aims for nonchalant and misses by an inch, glancing up to briefly meet Eames' eye. ] —sleep?
[ Not the word he was aiming for, but close enough. ]
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She sucks her teeth as she watches the tip of his pencil, the lead feathering across the paper in short, deliberate strokes. There's a part of her that's proud, but positive reinforcement tactics have never been Eames' style. ]
Not sleeping is Arthur's department, not mine, [ she says finally with a descending sort of cadence. ] He's got plenty of pathos for it. While I— [ Eames waves vaguely through the air and settles forward, elbows on the table. ] &nmdash;haven't the taste of it.
[ Not dreaming is a different story. But Eames fails to point that out. ]
you know who i want :|
She puts on a smirk. ]
Sex, obviously.
[ Liar. ]
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Why don't I believe you, [ he says, his thumb still sweeping lightly. His tone isn't accusatory — far from it — choosing to remain neutral and mildly observant instead. ] Y'could have come up with a better story than that.
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It's stupid how much she trusts this man. If he wanted to, he could break her ankle right now and she'd be fucked, unable to fight as efficiently until it healed; she'd have to get out in order to get to Coyote and get it healed, and Dominic can't lose. But instead she has her legs propped up in his lap, lazy and utterly content not to move for a little bit -- a rare enough thing in itself. She relents anyway, sighs a bit and settles into Dominic's couch a little more. ] I try to forget them. They're not really great dreams, so there's not much use remembering them.
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It's under the guise of not paying attention or not staring at something head-on, and he's found that that's what works for them. Jaye is like the sun, bright and all-encompassing but dangerous too, and this is his way of keeping both of them in check. Run for long enough and it becomes second nature — he gets that. All the more reason to fight to keep this, whatever it is, whatever they choose to call it. ]
You alright? [ He lifts his hand from her leg to wet his thumb before turning the page of his paper, settling again at her ankle.
It's an open invitation to talk about it, if she wants. ]
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She hasn't really considered that maybe finishing her off would be losing for him. Sometimes it's hard to remember that there are different types of winning. ]
Yeah. Most of them aren't anything new -- just shit from Detroit. [ A pause. ] My brother. [ Another pause, longer this time; Jaye shifts slightly again, frowning a bit. ]
... Sometimes that shit with Belial, when I went after that cult. [ Alone, because someone had to do something and there wasn't time to call for backup; Kane had to stay with Coyote and Coyote was ready to die, so she had to go, had to search and she'd found them. She couldn't stop them, but she found them, and it had gotten Coyote back in the game. It just could have gone very differently; she's still not sure why it didn't. She would have killed her, had their positions been reversed. ]
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When she shifts, uncomfortable and with that draw in her brows, Dominic's hand circles the joint of her ankle again. (It's alright. You can stop, if you want.) The mention of Belial makes his brows shift the tiniest fraction, glancing up from the paper to Jaye's face. Truthfully, Dominic doesn't remember much about that time — too busy fighting with knuckles and luck and chance and blood to keep track of why it was happening. When it boils down to it, his own allegiance is to Nike, not the gods or the Greco-Roman pantheon. He was too busy trying to win enough battles so she could breathe to fixate on the source of the problem. ]
Y'made it out though, [ he says, which is Dominic's way of asking wanna share with the class? ] Ten fingers, ten toes.
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[ She honestly believes that, and it's written all over her; from the way she glances at his face before her eyes flicker away, the way she shifts again -- tugs her ankle free from his hand, sits on his couch like a bird ready to fly away at a moment's notice. ]
I went in alone, made Kane stay with Coyote -- he was... it was bad. Old Man Coyote, ready because if it's time, it's time. I wasn't going to let him, so I went hunting and found them through dumb luck and rumors. Took a swing at Payton as a bear, nearly got him but his cult swarmed me. They knocked me out -- as a fucking bear. Left me in the basement surrounded by empty bags of Doritos where a demon's minder found me and woke me up. Coyote was back in the game, but...
[ Her arms cross over her chest, like that will hold the memory in. ]
They should have killed me. I would have killed me, if someone had come in like that and fucked up that badly. Should've snaked him, shouldn't have given him time to shout.
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The corner of his mouth twitches but he doesn't look up. ] Are we talking business or—? [ He doesn't say 'pleasure' because he means off-hours and everybody in the room already knows that 'business vs pleasure' isn't how Arthur's dichotomies roll. ]
and now to take this in a totally weird direction!!!
Or. [ Her forehead rests lightly on the side of the doorframe, hands cradling a mug of cocoa. That small twitch is enough for Dom to smile. ] We're talking about 'or', Arthur.
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But, staring at his cuboidal jelly lunch, Jim thinks he might just trade it all for a grill and a fucking rack of ribs. He can't eat this shit. ] Barbecue...