[The paper becomes snowfall, a blizzard that swirls through the dreamscape as far as Eames can see, static white clouding out the scenery of the park. Soon the carousel had been consumed in angry white clusters, trees vanishing behind pale walls of paper and at the eye of the storm stood the pair of them, silent were it not for the crinkling of the pages.]
I’m so terribly sorry, Daniel.
[It’s a voice that is more Eames than Rhodes and it’s moments like these that he feels slightly less human, slightly more monster. The morality of dream share had always been questionable to the forger, a man who balanced delicately between crippling empathy and a strong will to survive, and the look on Danny’s face tugged at the concealed, vulnerable bits of his heart. He was just a child, really, in the scheme of things; a bit lost and a tad broken and the confusion that threatened to swallow him whole was utterly heart breaking.
But it would be over soon, he knew, and the smooth, seductive words of his favorite French songstress were nearly blaring now. The world the illusionist had crafted around them was crumbling, fading into nothingness and Faux-Rhodes did nothing but watch the harsh lines of Atlas’ face with a sympathetic, fleeting gaze.
—
When Arthur’s eyes open everything becomes mechanical; a routine that’s ritualistic and rehearsed to perfection and in a matter of seconds he’s on his feet. The headphones are pushed from his large ears and hastily tucked into his messenger bag and cheeks his wrist watch to count the seconds until their mark will be awake. Eames joins him in consciousness moments later, assisting him in reeling in each compound line once the needles are freed from each dreamer’s vein. The PASIV is closed and collected and he slings his bag over his shoulder and across his chest, pausing as he catches his cohort lingering over the young magician, still asleep in his hotel room arm chair.]
Eames-
[His voice comes out in a hushed tone, a hiss of warning that he hopes is enough to tug the forger back to reality. He can see the hesitation of Eames’ movements, a distressed expression locked onto his scruffy, tan face and Arthur’s jaw flexes with frustration. Now was hardly the time for Eames to get emotional on him, especially over a job that had been so painfully easily.]
He’s going to wake up any fucking minute and I really don’t feel like explaining why we’re-
[Daniel J. Atlas began to stir then, lips bent into a sleepy frown as he let out sleepy sigh. The hair on the point man’s neck stood promptly on end and every muscle in his slender body became noticeably tense. Things are about to become disastrous, a five year old about to discover that Santa Claus is nothing more than a parent in a fat suit. His grasp on the PASIV tightens so that his knuckles drain of blood, ghostly white to match the tone of his panicked face and it takes him a moment to collect himself before the calm logic that has kept safe for so long shifts into full gear.
The fingers that curl around Eames’ bicep are strong and determined and he throws open the hotel room door without another moment lost, tugging the forger through it. He hardly dares to breathe as the pair of thieves stumble out into the hallway, silently hoping with every fiber of his being that they had managed to slip away unnoticed.]
[ A shadow perches on Danny's knees, pinning him in place, heavier than than the mere absence of light has any right to be. He feels cold, he realizes slowly; his neck is stiff, as if he'd fallen asleep in one of the chairs backstage. He blinks fog from his vision and sees the shadow move away: a blur of disorienting motion. Without thinking, he speaks, voice sleep-fogged and pitifully small as he reaches a clumsy hand toward it on instinct. ]
...Dylan?
[ The door slams shut, a shockingly loud noise that startles alertness into Danny. This is where everything comes flooding back: the man Arthur, the theater, the fact that he's just woken up from a fever-dream about Rhodes after being drugged and kidnapped and touched and moved and--
He slams the idea shut before it can fully form, with a hand on the hem of his sweater, the undisturbed waistline of his trousers. Fear and nausea lance through Atlas like a spear through the gut-- he drags himself onto shaking legs, lunges for the door without even stopping to take in whatever room he's woken up in, Rhodes' name on the tip of his tongue as he stumbles into the hallway. ]
Dylan! [ This time, it's a proper shout: none of the mocking lilt that would accompany a purr of "Agent", none of the begrudging respect that modulates his tone when he says "Rhodes". Danny's mask lies cracked in half on the grassy lawn of a dream that slips further away with every second, that leaves him wondering why he even expected Dylan to be here. He yells like a frightened child: raw, fearful, and honest-- nothing to answer him except the echo of the stairwell door; the unfamiliar paisley back that disappears behind it and leaves him in utter, total silence. ]
