vi. l'amoureux

[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. ]

      We look damn good.

Heh-- speak for yourself.

      We look good, yeah?

Yeah, I guess we do.

We always look good, though.

[Francis called her in to “assist” on a project. By which the addled set designer certainly meant “clean up her mess.” To which, under the condition that she would be paid for the favour in kind, Meredith agreed to come in.  

The circumstances weren’t particularly clear. Over the phone the other prattled on concerning the stress of this particular job. Strange tricks and a prick who ran the show. Close to tears he said he should go on leave the same as a co-worker named Miranda, or Melinda. She didn’t much care, really, and was only slightly amused by the story of how the device that showed the model of the theatre had been thrown over the balcony out of frustration.  

But here she was with the demolished projector on the table beside her. Amidst a sprawl of pens, pencil, paint samples, graph paper with detailed notes and measurements, and a slew of other necessary materials she worked on building the physical one.

At his entry, she held up single finger telling him to wait while she finished a calculation.] 

…No, not at all.  

Who are you now? 

Who am I.

J. Daniel Atlas, one-fourth of the Four Horsemen. Better question-- if you're not Mary's replacement, who are you?

[ And the million dollar question, of course: why is she repairing that projector he tossed out the window when he was having one of his anxiety attacks and proving a point to--what was his name? Frank? Fred?-- about how he could be replaced with a two-legged coyote with malaria and nobody would notice a significant dip in the quality of the work being done? Atlas just doesn't know. ]

"You’d let former member of the FBI come to your show? You never cease to amaze me, boy." He answers upon lowering the coffee, the cup now hovering above his waist. A finger taps once—twice—against the material. 

"How about you come back to my place? My shift just finished and it’s a hell of a lot nicer there than this dank shop." Jutting a thumb over his shoulder, his brows raise, the rare smile still playing on his lips. 

"The drive’s short. And don’t worry, I have air conditioning." 

"Agent Rhodes has a reserved seat at every show we have until the public gets tired of us," Danny quivers, as if on the verge of some odd staccato laughter, before scrubbing a hand across his grinning mouth once--hm, twice, "So... I think we could afford to have you there, even if you did used to be a Fed. And I'd love to."

Except, Danny, you do (technically, in the loosest sense of the word) have some sort of responsibility to let your "partners" know when quick coffee runs turn into home visits. 

"Let me just... text Reeves, first. Tell her not to leave the lantern burning in the window."

                     ❝there are two trees growing next to each other: an oak tree and a birch tree. the oak tree gives the birch tree a ninety-nine picarat puzzle, and the birch tree tries to solve it. after trying for hours and hours and not making any headway, the birch tree turns to the oak tree and says, i’m stumped!❞

                     ❝…get it?❞

"Windy city, huh? I haven’t been there in years." He rolls his shoulders back, stiff from a day’s work. And they were bound to be after all the motor he fixed. Hands slipping into his pockets, as if to escape the blaring sun, are removed once the addictive beverage is offered. 

"Thanks. I really needed one." A calloused hand took the drink, its warmth radiating into his flesh, but he does not mind. One sip has his throat and belly in heaven, the searing liquid heating and soothing his insides in a gulp. 

"Damn, that’s good brew." 

Danny almost says, I used to live there-- an innocuous statement, and very true; it lingers on the tip of his tongue for about a second before it's discarded. You don't tell the truth about yourself, right Atlas?

"Next time we do a show there, I'll send you a ticket," Is what he says instead, a self-satisfied smile curling his mouth as he watches Graham's throat work around a swallow. "I'm glad you like it, since I only know one coffee place here. Can I come in, if you aren't too busy? It's a swamp out here."

A self-conscious gesture is made to his clothes: the long soft sweater sleeves and high shirt collar were a mistake in this weather, though an unavoidable one. Atlas never wears clothing that covers less than this, no matter the heat.

❤ - Any tumblr senpais?

❣ - An unpopular opinion I have.

⋆ - A ship I have with my character.

❧ - A ship I have with your character.

✗ - A ship I can’t stand !!

☒ - A fact about the mun.

☑ - A fact about the character.

✾ - Why I chose my character.

◎ - Relationship status.

❂ - Post a picture of myself.

☄ - My opinion of you.

Holi, the Hindu festival of colour. (x)

Graham is responsible for clean-up that night, closing down shop and preparing it for open in the morrow. Tools are placed in their proper position and tables are scrubbed with an old rag. He stinks of oil and grease, but hardly gives a damn as a shower awaits him in his beach front home. 

A knock summons a sigh at the back of his throat. Tossing the rag onto the nearest surface, he runs his grimy hands against the rough material of his jumpsuit before reaching to open the door. The words ‘we’re closed’ hang off the tip of his tongue until he recognizes the face. 

"Atlas. Long time. How’ve you been?" There is a faint painting of a smile on his worn down face. 

"In Chicago," And then Seattle, Ontario, Reno-- the list of shows goes on, and he hasn't been in Florida in a while, he realizes. A couple months, at least.

"We just got back into town, and you're the only local I know here, so-" he grins, quick and off-kilter, half of an (ostensibly) self-conscious shrug twitched out in a subtle movement. It's a little performative, slightly insincere, but then what isn't with Atlas? He tries. "I brought you a coffee. Promise it's not our dressing-room sludge, too."