glitch - 10/11

[tabi_essentially]

It felt more like the water hit him. It enveloped him, turning his muscles to lead, locking up all his joints. His vision went black and one thought kept repeating in his head: Save your teammate.

Arthur kicked and flailed for a moment before remembering his training. This was not the first time he'd dived into icy water. Part of his training had been to swim into the ocean in February.

He got his shit together and dived under, searching with his hands in the dark. A few feet down and he had touched the river bed; it wasn't as deep as as he'd thought. He came up for a lungful of air. It burned his chest and throat with cold. Then he went back under, casting around for an arm, a leg, a scrap of clothing.

The moment before he needed to come up again, he grabbed hold of an arm, and pulled.

It felt stuck. Arthur surged against the resistance, adrenaline burning in his veins, pushing him forward. The arm came free, and Arthur kicked backwards, surfacing.

The arm felt too light. He couldn't see clearly at first and he felt along the sleeve, lips trying to form the word "Eames" but too numb to do so. When his hand reached the shoulder, there was no body attached to it.

His brain wanted to stop there because he couldn't figure out where the rest of Eames had gone. Then he thought of the bridge, and how it seemed common knowledge among SomniCore goons that you went to the bridge to do executions, and you dumped the bodies, and then Arthur was flinging the rotting, severed arm away and yelling, "FUCK! FUCK!"

He went back under, seeking Eames out in the putrid, icy, corpse-infested water. He didn't know what he was touching: pieces of wood, or bone, or weeds or human hair, or snails or teeth.

Finally he grabbed a shoe, and then a leg. And then a hip and a waist and arm, and he pulled again, kicking and struggling against the weight. Please, he thought, just, please.

When he came up this time, he had Eames against his chest. He paddled backwards until his feet sank into marsh mud, and then he kept going.

The sudden gravity of being out of the water knocked him flat on his back. Eames fell on top of him, unresponsive. Arthur rolled them both over, picked him up again, and kept going until his legs gave out.

He collapsed onto marsh grass as two headlights swung in his direction, blinding him. He was beyond worrying about the white van. If they had come to kill him, this was probably it. He turned Eames over onto his side. In the headlights, he could see the blood still oozing from the side of his head.

"Arthur," Cobb called.

Arthur tried to answer 'over here', but nothing came out.

Cobb got out of the car, leaving the headlights on (Foolish, Arthur thought, unless he thinks they're all dead,) and then he was splashing in the much and mire towards the both of them.

Cobb got to his knees in the freezing mud and pulled Eames away from him. Arthur felt too weak to resist. He couldn't see what Cobb was doing, couldn't even ask if Eames was alive. He heard some frantic slapping, some weak coughing, but everything was going black.

The lights came back on when Cobb slapped him and said, "Arthur, stay with me."

He tried to get up onto his hands and knees, but went facedown back into the mud.

"Come on, I need you to help me," Cobb said.

"Alive?" Arthur croaked.

"Not for long if we don't move. Come on. Help me, Arthur."

...Every time I've thought you've reached your limit, you reach down a little more... Eames's voice spoke, a memory. It hardly seemed possible that he'd said those words only two nights ago, at most. Eames, who had sought him out and found him before anyone else had. Who had come to claim him from the hospital as next of kin. Kin Arthur thought, his head swimmy and hazy. Eames, who had taken him home and put him to bed, who'd been an outlet for his fear and loneliness and had put up with his shameless need that night, and had stayed awake with him, curling his warm hand around Arthur's ankle, waiting out his memory. Letting him get a moment or two of sleep. Eames, who had come down into the dream with him when he'd been dying on his kitchen floor, knowing that he would catch the mind-sickness, too.

And who was currently bleeding beside him in the marsh.

Arthur got up.

Cobb was pulling Eames to his his feet, but he would have to drag him the entire way to the car, because he was completely unresponsive.

Arthur put his arm around Eames's waist and started walking.

"Thanks," Cobb said.

Arthur had no way to answer. His legs were moving, but everything else was numb.

** ** ** **

All was quiet from the bridge, but Cobb knew that at least one of the men up there was still alive. He'd seen Eames take a bullet, seen him fall into the water. Arthur, without hesitation, had jumped in after him. Cobb had not been surprised. Frightened, but unsurprised.

Eames is dead, he thought, and immediately after, Fuck, I can't watch Arthur mourn, though he knew he would have to. Arthur had watched him mourn for years.

Two of the SomniCore men had dragged Hollis back up from where Arthur had hanged him from the bridge, and Cobb had fired at them. He was sure he'd hit one, and Hollis might already have been dead. But there was still at least one guy out there, and he'd probably call for back up.

There came a moment, kneeling in the marsh, where he had to consider that Eames was likely dead and they would have to leave without him, just to spare themselves. He had to make sure, and when he found a pulse, he tried to make quick work of getting any water out of his lungs before moving on. He heard the van on the bridge pull away. Eames started coughing.

Cobb got them both to the SUV that he had left running. Arthur was clumsily trying to help, but his focus was gone and his arms were almost useless. Trying to hurry, Cobb lifted Eames himself and threw him across the middle-back seat. Then he helped Arthur in after him. He stripped off his coat, and threw it over the back of the seat.

"You all right?" He had to make sure before he started driving. He had no idea where they would go.

Arthur didn't answer; he just started removing his shirt.

"Arthur!"

"Huh? Yes. Drive east."

Cobb didn't have time to worry about Arthur struggling to stay alert, about Eames bleeding. If he didn't get them out of there, they'd all be executed anyway. He hurried to the driver's seat and got in, steering off the the back road and away from the bridge.

In the rear view mirror, Cobb saw too much movement, and then in the stark brightness of a street light, far too much of Arthur's skin. He wasn't stopping at removing his shirt, but was taking everything off.

"Hey," Cobb said. "Arthur, what the hell are you doing?"

"I'm lucid," Arthur said, though he sounded slurred and numb. "Clothes are icy. Filth. Corpses in the river."

Unable to tell if Arthur was hallucinating or not, Cobb turned around to get a closer look at him.

"Eyes on the road," Arthur snapped. "The river was a dumping ground for bodies. And these clothes are soaked." He disappeared behind the seat as he began stripping Eames, struggling with his drenched clothes.

Cobb thought of Arthur yelling "Fuck, Fuck!" in the water. He'd thought it was because of the cold, or that he had panicked when he hadn't found Eames. His stomach did a flip, when he understood the real reason.

"How is he?" he asked Arthur, trying to keep him engaged and on alert.

"Bleeding," Arthur muttered. "Not shivering. Blue."

"My coat's behind you," Cobb said. He already had the heat up as high as it would go, but he knew it wouldn't be enough for a long period of time.

Arthur yanked the coat down and stretched out full length over Eames, covering them both.

The phone in the pocket of the coat rang. Arthur was the one to pick it up.

"A soul awake," Arthur said, after checking the number. "Yeah, me, Scout. Not too good. On the LIE. Can you? Sorry about that. Make it up to you. Yes. Perfect. Twenty minutes. I'll try." He ended the call and collapsed back down.

"You're getting someone to help you?" Cobb asked.

"Yeah. Um. Go the next ten exits and turn south."

"I need you to keep talking, Arthur."

"That's a myth," Arthur said. "That thing about staying awake. I don't have a concussion, anyway. Eames... Eames."

Cobb couldn't tell if he was trying to say something, or if he was just trying to wake Eames up.

"I'm so tired," Arthur said. His voice was muffled, as he he had dropped his head onto Eames's shoulder.

"Just a little further," Cobb said. He wished it was true.

Ten exits down the road, he turned the SUV south, as Arthur had instructed. Arthur roused a bit at the motion and checked Eames again.

"How is he?" Cobb asked.

"Alive."

"Good. So what do we do now?"

"Pull into the rest area and wait."

The rest area was deserted, dark. What kind of interstate had no highway lights? The sky was clear and cold; Orion stood out in the southeast among clusters of stars as far as Cobb could see. He'd stayed in the desert with Mal once, before the kids had come along. The stars tonight reminded him of how they had looked then. He tried not to think about it as he listened to Arthur moving around behind him.

He heard Eames murmur something quiet.

"Right here," Arthur said. And, "You're all right."

"What happened?" Eames asked. "Did I get shot?"

"A little," Arthur answered.

Arthur spoke quietly, with such gentleness as Cobb had never heard in his voice before. Sometimes, in some ways, Arthur reminded him of Mal. When he spoke French, his accent mimicked hers. They had been precise in the same way, sharp in the same way, and they had shared a similar chilliness and distance – which he had always thought went completely through Arthur, the way it had never done with Mal. She'd loved Cobb so completely. The center of her had been warm. He had never suspected the same of Arthur.

He realized then, perhaps belatedly, that he'd never really thought about who Arthur was outside of his work before. He guessed it was because Arthur never really talked much about anything other than his work, at least not in many years. He wanted to turn around, to say, 'I'm sorry if I ever failed you,' but that wasn't even the truth.

It was Mal whom he had failed. It was just that Arthur had never actually blamed him for that. Arthur was, as Mal had always said, a fine man. One who could hang a villain off of a bridge without glancing back at him, but a fine man nonetheless.

After about ten minutes, a car pulled up behind them. The driver left it running, and left the lights on. Arthur pulled himself up in the middle-back seat and looked out the back.

"Wait here," Cobb said. He got out of the car, and fuck it was cold out here.

The girl was holding onto a cell phone which was open and on. One finger hovered over a key that Cobb was sure was the last "1" of "911."

"A soul awake?" Cobb said, holding his hands up. "Arthur is in the car. We don't need anything from you other than what he asked. He's sorry he had to call you out all this way. I'll just stand here if you want to get something out of your car."

She hesitated, staring at him.

"I swear I won't move, okay?"

"Let me see Arthur," she said.

"I'm right here," Arthur's voice called out from the window that he had just opened. His hand followed it, briefly, waving.

"Come on out," she said.

"I"m naked," he said.

The girl looked at Cobb, suspicious. "Why is he naked?" she asked.

"He jumped into a river to rescue his partner. Their clothes were wet, so he took them off."

She looked at once exasperated, impressed, and incredulous. She flailed her hand, the one not holding the phone. "I bathed you," she called back to him. "It's nothing I haven't seen."

"Jesus Christ," Arthur said. "I'm not coming out, I'll freeze to death. Come to the window?"

She relaxed a little, but didn't put the phone down. Smart girl, Cobb thought. "Let me get the stuff you asked for." She pointed to Cobb. "I don't know you so... so you stay there."

Cobb held both hands higher. "I will."

She backed away, to her car. Opened the door and pulled out a cardboard box with one hand, keeping her eyes on him. Then she took the box over to the window where Arthur was peering out, on the other side of the car.

"I had to make sure it was really you," she said. "Open the door, let me in."

Arthur relented, and she climbed in beside him. Cobb went around the front of the car to the passenger's side, carefully avoiding crossing behind her and frightening her, and not making any moves that would suggest he was about to drive away. She still looked over the seat at him, her eyes wide and cautious.

"Dom Cobb," Arthur said. "He's a professor, we work together."

"Your memories came back," she said. But before Arthur answered, she caught sight of Eames and said, "Oh my god, your husband."

Cobb refrained from repeating the word with an air of surprise. If that was their con, then it was none of his business. Eames seemed to have dropped off into unconsciousness again.

"He got clipped," Arthur said. "He fell into the water."

"He needs a hospital," she said.

"Emma, listen to me," Arthur said. "The hospital that they were shipping me off to? They're behind this."

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it?" He turned his head towards Cobb and showed her the burn mark on the side of his head. "Do you know what that is?"

"Of course I..." She reached out and lightly touched the mark. "Oh, shit. What are they? What is this all about?"

"It's a program that used to be a military project. Then the government got hold of it, then a megacorporation, and then it went underground and became illegal, but the megacorp popped back up. I can't explain it all and honestly, I'm exhausted and freezing and my partner needs help. I'm sorry, I wish I could do better."

"You have to go to the authorities to stop them," she insisted. Righteous, and piteously naïve. "There has to be someone you can go to."

"I am the man people usually go to," Arthur said. Which wasn't strictly true, Cobb thought, but was true enough for now. "And I failed, this time. I lost my team, I got caught, I almost got killed and I almost got my partner killed because he came looking for me."

She stared at him in silence for a moment, unsure of what to say. Then she turned her attention back to Eames.

"The wound doesn't look too bad," she said, "but I'm worried about the cold and about infection. I nabbed some antibiotics for you just in case. I'm glad I did. I can try to clean this up..."

"I can do that," Arthur said. "I don't want you hanging around too long. The people who did this might know where we are. I need you to hurry up and get back home, or away from here at least. Okay?"

She nodded, her eyes wide. Then she clambered over Arthur and back outside of the car. Before she turned to leave, Arthur grabbed her shoulder and pulled her back to him. He pressed his lips against her forehead, holding her there for a few seconds. Then he whispered "thanks" and let her go.

"Sure," she said, dazed, backing away, but with a small smile. "Sure, Scout. No problem. Umm. Fix your... fix your coat."

Arthur glanced down to his lap, where the coat he'd draped over himself had slid down. "Oh!," he said. He smiled enough to show dimples, and in the dim light of the car, Cobb even saw him blush. "Sorry."

"Take care of yourself," she said. "Well, all of you. Take care of yourselves."

Cobb slid over into the driver's seat, and Arthur gave her a last nod of thanks and got back into the car. Again he stretched himself out over Eames.

"Who?" Eames said.

"A friend," Arthur told him.

"Where to?" Cobb asked.

"Keep going east until I tell you to stop. I have a place where we can crash."

Cobb waited until the girl's car had pulled out of sight, going west, before leaving the rest area and heading east.

** ** ** **

First came the muzzy light from behind his closed eyes. Shortly after that, the sound of drapes being pulled closed and a whispered apology.

Arthur, he thought, as the light faded.

His voice, the smell of his shampoo, but different from the last time. He wanted to call out to him, and almost tried to. But it was so dark, so warm where he was, he just wanted to float away on it.

If it was Arthur and not a dream, then he would come to bed in just a moment or so. Any minute now, he would feel the other side of the bed dip, Arthur getting between the covers and fidgeting until he got comfortable, until his mind shut down enough to sleep.

But none of that happened. Instead there came the sound of a door shutting quietly, and then silence once again.

Or near silence, anyway. Eames could swear he heard the ocean. It was a cold sound, but warmth enveloped him, seemed to seep into his bones, coming from the inside.

The next time the light came, it flicked on. He felt someone staring. Then darkness behind his eyelids again, and the sound of the closing door.

Now he was getting frustrated, and he also had to use the bathroom. Eames forced himself awake. He tried to sit up in a foreign bed, in a foreign room, but nausea and pain swatted him back down like an insect. He took a few deep breaths and waited for the throb in his head to pass. The room wasn't entirely dark and he took a look around. It was a spacious room, with a high ceiling and a wooden ceiling fan, which was off. Lush curtains were drawn over what he assumed to be floor to ceiling windows, or double doors.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and put his feet down on a hardwood floor. When he tried to move forward, he almost toppled an IV stand.

This was certainly no hospital. And he could barely remember what had come before this. The van, the bridge, Arthur's glowing eyes (had he imagined that?) and Arthur's silhouette, dodging bullets. Maybe he'd dreamed all of it. He didn't know. And he had no idea where he was now, or what might be around the next corner.

But the need to pee was urgent, so he took the IV stand and made his way to a door to his right. It proved to be a bathroom, lit by a seashell shaped nightlight. He knew better than to turn on the room light; knew it would burn the hell out of his eyes and make his head want to explode.

He went to the toilet and had a pee, looking hazily around the bathroom. Marble, heated floors, beautiful tilework, high-end sink, full-length jacuzzi tub. Just where the fuck was he?

As he finished up and went to wash his hands, he looked into the mirror. It was too dark to make out the details, but he could see well enough that he'd been through some serious shit this time. His head was bandaged all the way around, and one eye was swollen nearly shut.

Eames jerked back from the mirror, remembering the bullet. There had been no question in his mind at the time that he was fucking dead. He'd been shot in the head, he'd felt himself falling off the bridge. Cold, and then panic, and then nothing. Nothing until Arthur, leaning over him.

Did I get shot? And then Arthur, in the cold, dark space. A little.

"Christ," he tried to say, but no sound came out of his throat.

Aching all over now, he made his way back to the bed. He'd planned on looking around at his surroundings, but now he'd remembered taking a head shot, and the pain was starting to catch up to him. He prioritized getting horizontal on purpose before gravity did it for him. He felt relatively safe. No one seemed to be hunting him.

He made it to the bed and fell onto his side.

When the light came back, this time it was softer, muted, more natural. Cobb was standing by the drapes, parting them just a little.

"You're up," Cobb said.

"Arthur?" Eames asked. Is he alive? he couldn't bring himself to say.

"Said he'd be back soon. That was yesterday, but Arthur's 'soon' and normal people's 'soon' are two different things. He's all right. He left you a note, actually."

Eames turned onto his back and tried to prop himself up on his elbows. When that succeeded, he went further and hoisted himself up against the headboard. His eyes began to slowly adjust to the light through the small part in the curtains. The light outside looked grey and misty. He gestured for Cobb to open the drapes.

Cobb did, revealing double French doors that led out to a small deck over a snow-covered beach. The Atlantic ocean rolled in dark, foamy waves under the deserted dunes. Rain tapped against the glass in staccato. He wondered if it would be enough to melt the snow. He wished for Arthur's presence.

"The note?" he asked, now that there was enough light to see.

Cobb dug in his pocket and brought a slip of notebook paper over to the bed. His lips hinted at a smile that did nothing to lighten the heaviness in Eames's chest.

Eames unfolded the paper and it took him three times looking at it to actually understand. It was a hand-drawn heart, in black ink, taking up all of the page. In the center of it, in big letters, it read:

"Arthur
+
C4"

"He said he had some unfinished business," Cobb said.

Eames folded the note and put it on the dark-wood table beside the bed. He didn't find Arthur's cheekiness so amusing this time.

"He went back by himself," Eames said, staring out the window.

"Well, with a case of C4 blocks, as he said. A backpack full of whatever gear he carries on things like this. And the SUV."

"I see," Eames said. "When? And why?"

"As to when, yesterday. As to why, unfinished..."

"Yes, I know that part, Cobb," Eames said. "But why? Why wouldn't he wait for me to help him?"

Cobb sat on the edge of the bed. "Because you got shot in the head, Eames," he said. "And because he has to make sure Hollis isn't going to come after him again. He wants to help his team, too, the ones he worked with last. He ties up loose ends. You know that. He hung Hollis off the bridge, but we weren't sure if he was really dead."

"He hung him?"

"After Hollis's men started shooting. Arthur had a noose around Hollis's neck for security and when the firefight started... you know. So he has to make sure. And he also had to get rid of the car, in case they were tracking it. If they were, then they'd probably show up here soon and, obviously, he can't let that happen."

Part of Eames felt comfortable with Arthur taking care of the whole thing, finishing the last leg of this tour alone. Another part of him felt keenly that Arthur's luck had stretched as far as it could go.

"You might be three and three," Cobb said.

"Huh?" Eames looked back at him, confused.

"With the life-saving thing. A few days ago you were neck in neck with two. Now it's three and three."

"Two and three," Eames said. "He clearly saved me this time, I think?"

"He jumped into the water after you, yeah. He pulled you out. But don't forget, you went into the dream with him while he was dying. You knew you were going to get infected."

"He said he was only dying for a second," Eames said, smiling slightly.

Cobb's look, however, was darker. "It wasn't a second," he said. "You went under so you didn't see what I saw. He died down there. You went in and pulled him out."

"You're lying." The idea of it didn't make Eames feel fantastic or heroic. Just vaguely ill.

"I'm not."

He leaned back against the bed and tried very hard not to think about how close it had been, for both of them this time. They had to stop all this running, soon. It was getting closer every time.

"He also went back for the machine," Cobb said, after giving Eames a moment to think. "The glitch machine, thing. Whatever it was. To get this infection out of all of our heads."

"Ah. Yes, you probably can't work with it."

Cobb shrugged. "Mine isn't as severe. His is the worst. Yours, second worst obviously. But it still connects you two in dreams, without the PASIV."

The jolt of understanding hit him then. That if Arthur didn't find a way to undo this, they would be stuck like this. Doomed to show up randomly in each other's dreams—in their private spaces, in their off time—without any control over it.

Cobb said, "Mal and I would have kept it." He was smiling sadly. "I think that's why we failed. We were obsessed with each other. I mean, it was love. And there was nothing like it. But the obsession, that was, that was a big part of it." He looked worn by grief again, sadness that was older and almost a comfortable part of him now. He looked a way that Eames never wanted to feel.

"I'm not obsessed with Arthur," he said. "Nor he with me."

"I know," Cobb said. "That's what I never understood before. Why you separate, how you can come and go so easily. You're right, you know. It works for you."

If we stay alive, Eames thought, but didn't say. Cobb was the wrong man to say that to.

"Is this Arthur's house?" Eames asked. He couldn't fathom Arthur buying a beach house on the Atlantic that looked as if it cost well over a million American dollars.

"No. He says he did some work for this family and they let him use it in the winter. And I guess he's tight with the cops around here too."

"Wow." There's so little I know about Arthur, Eames thought. He liked it that way, these little surprises.

Music blared to life, startling them both. Cobb looked confused, alarmed, glancing around the room. Then he dug his cell phone out of his pocket and stared at it.

'You may be right, I may be crazy...' Billy Joel yelled from the phone. Cobb scowled at it, and then smiled, annoyed but good-natured.

There was no need to say that it was Arthur.

"I hate when you change my ring tone," Cobb said, "especially when you do it without even being here. It's an invasion of privacy, or just a general lack of consideration. You scared the hell out of me."

Eames had to smile at that. If Arthur was out there remotely fucking around with Cobb's cell phone, he probably had some time on his hands and was fine.

"Where are you?" Cobb asked. Then, "Yeah. Yeah, okay. Umm, I have no idea Arthur, you know this place better than I do, you tell me. Okay, that doesn't give me much time. And in case you forgot, you took the one car. Oh? I see. Keys in the mudroom, right. Right. I'll be right down. Oh, Arthur? Why Billy Joel?"

Eames heard Arthur laugh over the phone and then answer something indistinguishable, something he couldn't make out of the the sound of the rain.

"Well, it's appropriate," Cobb said, glancing at Eames. "Right, be right down." Then he disconnected the call and shoved the phone back in his pocket. "I have to go pick him up."

"From where?"

"A train station that he's already at," Cobb said. "He said it would take about twenty minutes for me to get there. He would have called sooner but he was having fun hacking my phone."

"He seems all right?"

"I guess so," Cobb said. "He didn't tell me the whole thing. So you'll be all right while I go get him?"

"Yes, of course," Eames said. "I'll be fine."

"Right. Try to get some sleep."

Cobb left the house a few minutes later. It would be probably over an hour before he would return, and Eames didn't feel like getting some sleep. Instead, he took the time to ease himself out of bed and to get used to being upright without toppling over. The IV attached to him was nearly empty anyway, so he unhooked it from his arm and pressed on the wound with his thumb until he found some gauze and tape in the drawer next to the bed.

That done, he wandered the beach house, looking at things that were not Arthur's. Or perhaps some of them were; he just didn't know. The floors were wood and marble, the rooms spacious, with high ceilings. The décor went for high-end beach-comber, with seashell and lighthouse motifs.

He went down the stairs into an open great-room, with a large-screen TV dominating one brick wall. There was a stack of DVDs, but nothing that looked to Arthur's tastes – that he knew of. There were no video game systems, no games or any of the other stuff he'd seen in Arthur's apartment.

The image came to him of Arthur's ruined home in the Bronx, just before they'd dragged him out to the van. Arthur lying on his kitchen floor, surrounded by the broken glass of his coffee pot, and the shredded pieces of the life he'd tried to build. They'd taken the hard drive out of his computer and then had destroyed those stupid video game systems that he was so fond of, looking for other, hidden drives. And maybe they found something, too. Or maybe they had just found saved games that Arthur had spent some time on. He didn't know.

Thinking of those stupid games, of the painting on the floor, and of Arthur's guitar smashed to pieces in the corner, Eames was suddenly angry. Hatefully angry at these bad, malicious people who kept tearing down the things that Arthur had tried to make permanent. This was, of course, why Eames never tried for permanence himself. But Arthur, bless him, had made a small effort, in a little, private apartment in New York. And they'd taken that from him. Those stupid, pointless game systems that Arthur liked – for some reason, that's what got to him the most. He hoped that Arthur had destroyed all of those people.

Eames kept walking around the empty house, checking the pantry for tea. There was some, and it was the good kind, so he put the water on. He gazed out the back windows on the ground floor while he waited for the kettle to whistle.

Perhaps this house was luxurious in the summer, when Arthur was not here, with the sun streaming in through open windows and the surf beating the white sand. But in the dead of winter, as rain melted the mounds of snow and pattered against the windows, with its darkwood floors lit only by misty, grey light, Eames found it beautiful. Some things looked lovelier in the middle of the darkness.

** ** ** **


NEXT PART - the end!

Comments

[30hh.livejournal.com]

*hands*

I was just making a last check before sleep, and this was here, and I was happy before I read it and now am more so, because it's so good.

The severed arm in the river is your own special creepy touch, it's just right, as is Arthur pushing himself because Eames told him he could. Good to see Emma again, too. The note, the note, my god, yes, and Eames is all, and. I like, in short.

[sho-no-tabi.livejournal.com]

So glad you like! :D Excellent.

Oh man, I don't know wtf is with me, there's always a corpse limb or a dead thing or a zombie. IDEK, seriously. O_O

But yes, thank you! ^_^