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slash emu

Ficlet: Ashore

Posted on 2011.12.01 at 15:42
Title: Ashore
Characters: Arthur, Eames, faint Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG
Word Count: 400
Summary: Four loosely connected drabbles on the theme of finding your way back home.
Notes: A tiny result of several [profile] mini_nanowrimo prompts.


The day Arthur was almost caught he fought his way through a blizzard and wondered what the hell the architect had had to drink. He wanted this day to be over with, wanted this job to be over with.

He was wet and cold and lost but could recall in detail how he had gotten here. It made him twitchy until he ran into a brick wall.

One door said “Dreams,” one door “Reality,” and Arthur shot himself in the head because he didn’t need a piece of wood to tell him where he was and didn’t want to be.


Arthur sat down on the edge of the pier and let his feet dangle. It was something he never found time to do anymore in the real world, and only ever very rarely in the occasional dream.

There was no one beside him, nor would anyone come join him, but that was okay. It was enough to be here and feel the breeze from the water calm him. It was enough to finally let his guard down a fraction after months on the run. It was enough, and he would be sharing a drink with Eames in a week’s time.


Arthur stared down at the hand-written note. It was Eames’ handwriting alright, or at least the one variant of countless styles Arthur had come to associate most with the man. Who could begin to guess how ink would look in Eames’ natural hand?

The whole of the thin cardboard was decorated by an intricate charcoal design. Someone who didn’t know to give it a second, more careful glance might mistake the extravagancy for ‘girlyness’. It was just so, so… Eames.. And it brought the message across more than the actual words did: “Forgive me for not being there on time.”


“Thought I’d find you here,” a voice behind him said. There was nothing after that, no announcement, no question, no footsteps. Not even the faintest rustling of clothes.

Arthur picked up a pencil and made a note. What he had seen of this town seemed sleepy enough that one might be lured into thinking strangers would be ignored, but the assumption was wrong. If Cobol agents followed him here he would know. He had counted on it, but it was gratifying – safer – to have proof.

He let go of the pencil and listened. The silent presence was waiting. He smiled.



_profiterole_ at 2011-12-01 21:04 (UTC) (Link)
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