Eames had dozed off where he sat, sitting up at the bars of his shared cell and angled so that he could see as much of the corridor as possible. It had taken a while since it wasn't exactly the most comfortable of positions, and he was also a lot colder than he was used to; he habitually wore boxers to sleep in, and since he'd been taken in his sleep, that was all he had on him. The jail wasn't freezing, but it wasn't exactly the warmest place he'd ever been. Leaning against the cell walls didn't help either. Not to mention that he didn't know where Arthur was, or any of his people, come to think of it. His phone was gone and his totem was missing, and he'd been more than a bit unsure of the reality of things for a while now. Still, he eventually slept and sure enough, his thoughts turned towards Arthur as he dropped off.
His next thoughts were that everything was faded and muted somehow, like the entire world was behind a filter of some sort. He wasn't immune to it, either, and stared at his hands as he tried repeatedly to bring himself into focus but he seemed to be blurring round the edges rather a lot. He wasn't impressed to find that he was still in the cell, alone this time, and even more disgusted with the dream when he realised that he couldn't open the door or call up his lock picks or anything. Slamming his hand against the bars in frustration, he frowned at the muffled sound that he heard, nothing like the clang he'd been expecting.
"Who's out there? Who owns this dream? ...Arthur?" he called out, before slumping onto the bed. It was as comfortable as the floor had been, but at least he could lie down on it.