Re: Dreaming: Billy & Eames
The boy fidgeted. Pain in dreams was a memory. If you'd never been shot and you dreamed it nevertheless, all you had was fragments of imagination to piece together and make it feel. Eames had been shot. His memory supplied all the pleasant details, when he dreamed of pain. But even a dream couldn't provide all the shock and impact, the bite through the blood of adrenaline that true pain supplied.
The androgynous man didn't think of the man who drugged young boys as immediate threat to himself. He looked thin and insubstantial and pretty as glass but he'd looked softer, warmer, less of a threat than he did now and even then, there had been little present danger to slide cold fingers down Eames's own spine, threaten his own skin. The dream clutched and the clock ticked, and the boy produced a key out of a book and Eames's mouth drew at the corners.
"Is that for the door or something else, darling?" The door seemed substantial, and the androgyn's gaze flicked between it and the key, both eyebrows raised delicately a fraction. "He hasn't taken anything from me." There was an underlying sense that to attempt to do so would be ...unwise.