Re: Eames/Holly: dreaming
Eames knew he was dreaming. It was like tasting someone else's coffee; even if they made it precisely the same way it felt off, some microchemical reaction meant to happen that simply ...did not. He knew from the way his shoulders sloped under the overly-broad pads of the uniform's shoulders that he was young, and he knew his mind had done just that, the projection against the wall, as hazy and smoky as a cinema in the 'thirties. He watched, fascinated.
"Who are they?" Eames had a healthy fear of nightmares now. Not that he'd been especially fond before, climbing down beneath nightmare was like taking a plane ride through an electric storm, you never knew when it would cut out and you'd plummet. But without the tether-line back to a monitor, he feared them all the more. His pant hems soaked with sea-water and his shoes slurried and squelched as he followed the boy.
He was taller. He was bigger, Eames made the rapid assessment of age of the boy, and he was fifteen so he was bigger so there and he caught up in two rough strides, the lanky speed of someone who ran often and carelessly without form or stride. "Will we be safe there?" Doubtful. The water was cold around his toes and his heels rubbed against his shoes - except now he wasn't wearing any. The dream gave up on the pretence that Eames was an adult of any real sense and the murky way the clothes were two things at once slid sideways. He was wearing jeans once more, and the kind of t-shirt that had been washed so frequently it was a nothing color.