[ It might be testament to his time in the military that he's always himself. Even in times of stress. Or maybe especially in times of stress. There's no use in having a breakdown and losing his shit over something he can't control, even if he's overwhelmed by the urge to shake Dom and ask him why and how.
If he thinks about it too hard, he still might. So he doesn't. Keeps his mind carefully blank and only thinks of the next step. Just breathe, unlock the hotel door, unpack the bags. Cobb sets a hand on his shoulder and nearly knocks his entire not-train of thought off, so he stiffens a little under the touch. But he allows it, doesn't brush him off like he would with a stranger.
Once safely in the room, he sets about unpacking. Toiletries in the bathroom, suit coat on the hangers. He's sliding his favorite jacket on one such hanger when he hears Cobb, talking about James and Philippa. Something about hearing their names tugs at his chest and he resists the urge to start yelling. ]
[ 'for now' is a loaded phrase, peppered with thing among thing among thing. 'For now,' because Cobb's going to get them back and clear his name. 'For now' because Miles might be temporary like everything else is right now. 'For now' is what he uses because he doesn't want to feel more insane than he already is.
Cobb's tired. He imagines Arthur is, too, and his hand dips into his pocket to clasp around the totem. He doesn't spin it, but it gives him some sense of comfort, even if for a fleeting moment.
Arthur unpacks, and Cobb grabs a drink. The two work in silence, comfortable enough around each other, and by the time Arthur's done being meticulous (he finds a soft comfort in that, too), Cobb has a glass of whiskey waiting for him on the table as well. ]
We lay low for a while. Give it a month or two, then look for work.
[ Planning is better than feeling numb. He glances over at his companion. ]
[ For now, because Cobb will get back to his kids. Be their primary caretaker, be their father and not just an absent one on the run. The optimistic part of Arthur wants to believe it can be done. That the evidence left behind by Mal could be overturned and Dom would be allowed to set foot stateside again. Permanently.
The more rational pat of him knows it's going to be a long haul, a slim chance. That they're going to have to keep their sanity intact amidst paranoia and the feeling of something always being at their heels. It's fine, he tells himself, he can handle this.
Nodding at Dom's brief outline, he comes over to the small coffee table, where there's a second drink fixed and set out. Ungracefully, he sets down in the stiff backed hotel chair, sleeves rolled up as he picks up the tumbler and takes a sip. ]
Only the necessary channels. I've put some threads out, soft inquiries for any teams looking to bring on an architect. There's interest, just nothing solid since we're looking a bit further out.
[ An architect. Of course--of course, because that's Arthur, always one step ahead, always planning for disaster. He's a damn good point man because of it, and he's a damn good friend, and Cobb knocks back a wholesome sip before finally letting himself sit, too, sighing as his body protests.
Christ, he needs sleep. ]
Good plan. Lay low, get work. [ Which will be illegal, from now on, he supposes. He wishes he cared more--but he's already adapting, telling himself he'll do anything, build for anyone, if it even gets him a little closer to his kids. He'll build the fucking taj mahal despite the fact that they can't draw on what they know if that's what was needed.
There are dreams, of course. Sort of dreams, he doesn't dream anymore, but he swore he did on the plane. He swore he saw Mal.
No. Not the time. Focus on something else, focus on-- ]
[ He plans for the worst and hopes for the best, despite being a cold cynic at heart. But, for as much as he dislikes being taken unawares, Arthur isn't going to say no to a positive surprise. Some good fortune breezing their way, maybe.
At Cobb's response, he nods, takes another sip, thianks about work. About all the loose strings he's got at his fingers. Any one pull will take them in their direction, propel them forward into this new life.
The second question though, he'd been dreading it. Pointedly, he drains his glass and sets it down on the table, empty tumbler making a hollow sound. ]
I'm going to bed. Get rest, tomorrow we're going to the shooting range.
[ Cobb's slanted brows raise before they knit together, accentuating the small crease in the middle of his forehead. It's confusion, but more than that, it's something else--he's unsure. He's unsure about a lot of things lately, specifically what's real or what's not--
---no. No. This is real. he can't go down the same path Mal did. He inhales, sharply, and breaks the expression with a single glance upwards. ]
[ Arthur waits it out, the confusion on Dom's face. He knows that look, the one of unsurety, of not knowing whether or not this is real. If this is true reality and happening. Sitting still in his chair, he waits, sets his hands on his knees, fingers digging in. He wishes he could just tell the man it's real and be done with it. But their jobs make it hard to do so. Hard to believe. ]
I know. I just gotta see it for myself.
[ Meticulous to the nth degree. ]
Hopefully you're better than that time we went shooting in the field.
[ A good memory, from a long time ago. He'd just gotten out of the military, taken Cobb to shoot clay and cans. Their cheeks ended up windburnt and their clothes covered in clay dust. ]
[ He remembers it well--Cobb had voiced his confusion then, too, because if he was an architect, why would he need to shoot? but maybe now it makes a little more sense.
Or maybe it's the fact that what they do now isn't legitimate that's actually caught up with his tired mind. He pinches the bridge of his nose before taking another large sip, a gulp that would probably make someone with better sense to appreciate the booze wince. ]
[ This, he thinks, will be the harder transition. Dom Cobb is nothing if not adaptable, but the switch from civilian to criminal is not an easy one. There isn't enough paranoia, nor senses sharpened by dealing with humanity on a different level.
Not to mention all the other skills he's going to have to brush up on or learn. ]
For now. Militarized projections aren't going to stand still and let you shoot them.
[ Not to mention that people in the real world hardly stay still either. If a gun is being pointed in their direction, they're likely to run. ]
[ Neither will real people--Cobb's reached that conclusion, too, and he all but slumps into his chair, hand in his pocket, curling around the surprisingly heavy and comfortably familiar weight. The drink is finished, and he exhales, leaning forward. ]
[ Cobb is intelligent. Quick thinker and quicker to pick up on things. So he knows he's come to the same conclusions in the small span of time. Maybe things won't be so bad. But he'll assume worst case scenario, just in case. It's always more heartening to be surprised than it is to be disappointed.
Snorting softly, he stands and stretches, hands immediately sliding into his pockets. ]
Yeah, yeah. You too. Any longer and raccoons will start thinking they're related to you.
[ Because they need something a little lighter to lift the tension. At that, he heads for the drawer he'd stuck his sleeping clothes in, ready to settle in for the night. Weariness thrums through him like a pulse. He knows even a good nights sleep won't shake it—emotional exhaustion is a different monster than the physical. What he hopes for though, is a dreamless sleep. Not to be woken by cold sweats and the fading memory of Mal's hand on his cheek as she so often did. It's too much to hope Dom will dream so blissfully.
(Still, if there's anything out there to grant him this one thing; let Cobb get some rest). ]
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If he thinks about it too hard, he still might. So he doesn't. Keeps his mind carefully blank and only thinks of the next step. Just breathe, unlock the hotel door, unpack the bags. Cobb sets a hand on his shoulder and nearly knocks his entire not-train of thought off, so he stiffens a little under the touch. But he allows it, doesn't brush him off like he would with a stranger.
Once safely in the room, he sets about unpacking. Toiletries in the bathroom, suit coat on the hangers. He's sliding his favorite jacket on one such hanger when he hears Cobb, talking about James and Philippa. Something about hearing their names tugs at his chest and he resists the urge to start yelling. ]
Yeah. Miles?
no subject
[ 'for now' is a loaded phrase, peppered with thing among thing among thing. 'For now,' because Cobb's going to get them back and clear his name. 'For now' because Miles might be temporary like everything else is right now. 'For now' is what he uses because he doesn't want to feel more insane than he already is.
Cobb's tired. He imagines Arthur is, too, and his hand dips into his pocket to clasp around the totem. He doesn't spin it, but it gives him some sense of comfort, even if for a fleeting moment.
Arthur unpacks, and Cobb grabs a drink. The two work in silence, comfortable enough around each other, and by the time Arthur's done being meticulous (he finds a soft comfort in that, too), Cobb has a glass of whiskey waiting for him on the table as well. ]
We lay low for a while. Give it a month or two, then look for work.
[ Planning is better than feeling numb. He glances over at his companion. ]
You tell anyone you're with me?
[ He already knows the answer. ]
no subject
The more rational pat of him knows it's going to be a long haul, a slim chance. That they're going to have to keep their sanity intact amidst paranoia and the feeling of something always being at their heels. It's fine, he tells himself, he can handle this.
Nodding at Dom's brief outline, he comes over to the small coffee table, where there's a second drink fixed and set out. Ungracefully, he sets down in the stiff backed hotel chair, sleeves rolled up as he picks up the tumbler and takes a sip. ]
Only the necessary channels. I've put some threads out, soft inquiries for any teams looking to bring on an architect. There's interest, just nothing solid since we're looking a bit further out.
no subject
Christ, he needs sleep. ]
Good plan. Lay low, get work. [ Which will be illegal, from now on, he supposes. He wishes he cared more--but he's already adapting, telling himself he'll do anything, build for anyone, if it even gets him a little closer to his kids. He'll build the fucking taj mahal despite the fact that they can't draw on what they know if that's what was needed.
There are dreams, of course. Sort of dreams, he doesn't dream anymore, but he swore he did on the plane. He swore he saw Mal.
No. Not the time. Focus on something else, focus on-- ]
Arthur.
Are you okay?
no subject
At Cobb's response, he nods, takes another sip, thianks about work. About all the loose strings he's got at his fingers. Any one pull will take them in their direction, propel them forward into this new life.
The second question though, he'd been dreading it. Pointedly, he drains his glass and sets it down on the table, empty tumbler making a hollow sound. ]
I'm going to bed. Get rest, tomorrow we're going to the shooting range.
no subject
[ Cobb's slanted brows raise before they knit together, accentuating the small crease in the middle of his forehead. It's confusion, but more than that, it's something else--he's unsure. He's unsure about a lot of things lately, specifically what's real or what's not--
---no. No. This is real. he can't go down the same path Mal did. He inhales, sharply, and breaks the expression with a single glance upwards. ]
It was required.
no subject
I know. I just gotta see it for myself.
[ Meticulous to the nth degree. ]
Hopefully you're better than that time we went shooting in the field.
[ A good memory, from a long time ago. He'd just gotten out of the military, taken Cobb to shoot clay and cans. Their cheeks ended up windburnt and their clothes covered in clay dust. ]
no subject
Or maybe it's the fact that what they do now isn't legitimate that's actually caught up with his tired mind. He pinches the bridge of his nose before taking another large sip, a gulp that would probably make someone with better sense to appreciate the booze wince. ]
Stationary targets, right?
no subject
Not to mention all the other skills he's going to have to brush up on or learn. ]
For now. Militarized projections aren't going to stand still and let you shoot them.
[ Not to mention that people in the real world hardly stay still either. If a gun is being pointed in their direction, they're likely to run. ]
no subject
[ Neither will real people--Cobb's reached that conclusion, too, and he all but slumps into his chair, hand in his pocket, curling around the surprisingly heavy and comfortably familiar weight. The drink is finished, and he exhales, leaning forward. ]
Get some sleep.
[ Who knows if he is or not. ]
no subject
Snorting softly, he stands and stretches, hands immediately sliding into his pockets. ]
Yeah, yeah. You too. Any longer and raccoons will start thinking they're related to you.
[ Because they need something a little lighter to lift the tension. At that, he heads for the drawer he'd stuck his sleeping clothes in, ready to settle in for the night. Weariness thrums through him like a pulse. He knows even a good nights sleep won't shake it—emotional exhaustion is a different monster than the physical. What he hopes for though, is a dreamless sleep. Not to be woken by cold sweats and the fading memory of Mal's hand on his cheek as she so often did. It's too much to hope Dom will dream so blissfully.
(Still, if there's anything out there to grant him this one thing; let Cobb get some rest). ]