Re: Dreaming: Billy & Eames
The androgyn did not look sympathetic. They did not look pitying. Eames was neither; this was a dream that ebbed around them and threw in a time-limit for good measure. He was neither awake, nor dead asleep and the awareness of dreaming sat softly, like ash scattered over shoulders from the ember of true lucidity. "You don't think the clock is a way out?" Eames did. It added a sense of urgency that was lacking in the salubrious setting.
The boy fidgeted with the wound on his arm and Eames, Eames didn't care why. He knew why. The exacting nature of healed skin and scar tissue was a simulacrum for a wound outside. He didn't know why he didn't wake then, but he didn't. The androgyn knelt, and his hands were painted thickly with blood, bright as roses. "Why does he put it in the water?"
The boy's hand sank down over the ridge of bone. Eames wasn't used to the sharp wing of thumb against his collarbone, and looked up at the boy from the position of semi-supplication that he neither meant nor intended. A sly smile fidgeted onto his face. "Someone must have told me." He knew, from the stretch and warp of the dream but he didn't know exactly when, exactly how.
"We've an hour." The clock. Behind the boy, and he stood, wiping his palm along the length of his pants, and leaving a damp mark that was somehow simply water behind. 'I'm going to get out. You can come with me, if you like."