[ Arthur leaves two voicemails (all on some variation of Hey, it's Arthur. Call me back.) and three text messages (WHERE ARE YOU? and CHECK YOUR VOICEMAIL. and I'LL BE COMING ROUND IN FIVE.) He doesn't hold it against Dom, the lack of response, but there is a tightness in Arthur's chest that becomes too pressing to ignore. It's panic that spreads along cartilage and bone and blood and hums low in his chest, please stay, please don't go, please don't fall deep into somewhere I can't follow.
(Don't leave me too.)
It's late in the afternoon when Arthur comes by, juggling a paper bag of groceries in one arm and house keys in the other. He hasn't had to use them in a situation beyond babysitting James and Phillipa for a few hours, but as it stands, waiting feels too cruel.
When he pushes the door open, the house seems empty and Arthur's not sure what to make of it. ]
Hello? [ He calls, quietly shutting the door behind him. ] Dom?
[ The house doesn't seem empty as much as it simply feels empty, Dom's presence alone not enough to make it quite the home it's been despite that nothing has changed within the walls themselves. Her belongings have been set aside but not packed away, not thrown out -- they're constant reminders of what Cobb doesn't forget for a second anyway, what weighs as heavily on his mind as the idea did on Mal's, and he knows he should, but won't, not now. Not yet.
She's gone and the world hasn't crashed down like he feels as though it should have or stopped turning; he holds what he can together for James and for Phillipa, but the guilt is thick enough to be almost touchable even when shoved to the side like it has to be to keep it from eating him alive. He's not been far from his phone and he's aware of that Arthur has called, seen the text messages pile up in his inbox and told himself he'll respond eventually but not done so. Not now, not yet -- shutting Arthur out is easier, and unfair and selfish as well and Dom knows this too, but that does little to stop him and he's thankful, somehow, for that hand on his shoulder that isn't what he truly needs but still couldn't do without.
It shows subtly, because he doesn't want to rely on Arthur as much as he does, doesn't think he has the right to or can allow himself to, but he looks, bluntly put, terrible when he emerges from the living room after a long moment of silence. Sleep doesn't come easy for him these days; hasn't in some time now, and he's been running on close to nothing for the past few days and he needs to eat and maybe, he thinks, he needs a drink. ]
You brought groceries.
[ No apology for the missed calls, but it's not that he doesn't think Arthur deserves one and he knows that Arthur knows this and doesn't expect it. It's there, somewhere, the I'm sorry and thank you but being grateful means accepting whatever's being offered or given and that's something he can only do silently, so nothing more is said. ]
Yeah. [ His voice is quiet, as if speaking any louder would disturb whatever absence that has settled over this house. (It's not a house, Arthur, it's a tomb, Eames had said once, and Arthur had felt a rage he wasn't quite sure what to do with at the time.) He understands what he meant now, maybe. Something is not dead in this house; something is still dying, decaying and clawing and suffocating, something that has a familiar shape to her eyes and a lilting accent to her voice.
Arthur's eyes quickly take in the man in-front of him. There is a dullness in his eyes and a hollow in his hands and Arthur wonders if this means Cobb has been dreaming, not sleeping. There are worse things than dreaming — the dead do not dream, after all.
Hefting the paper bag in his hands, Arthur tips his chin in a shall we gesture as he makes his way to the kitchen. He sets it on the counter and unpacks slowly but methodically, and Arthur doesn't meet Cobb's eyes when he asks: ]
[ She's not the one who makes the first contact. Not really, at least. She asks Miles to slip him her graduation announcement, her number scribbled at the bottom. Whether he calls or not is up to him; he's with his children now, and she can understand it if Cobb doesn't want to think about the job that got him there. If nothing else, she can understand why he might not want to think about her -- she involved herself in his life more than most people would, and without permission at that.
Still, the number is there, and her phone is always on. ]
[ something isn't right and she can't quite put her finger on just what it is. sure she knows there is always some after effects from the jumps, but this time, well, something isn't right - she feels like shit tbh.
so checking in with the others was at the top of her list. ]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
(Don't leave me too.)
It's late in the afternoon when Arthur comes by, juggling a paper bag of groceries in one arm and house keys in the other. He hasn't had to use them in a situation beyond babysitting James and Phillipa for a few hours, but as it stands, waiting feels too cruel.
When he pushes the door open, the house seems empty and Arthur's not sure what to make of it. ]
Hello? [ He calls, quietly shutting the door behind him. ] Dom?
no subject
She's gone and the world hasn't crashed down like he feels as though it should have or stopped turning; he holds what he can together for James and for Phillipa, but the guilt is thick enough to be almost touchable even when shoved to the side like it has to be to keep it from eating him alive. He's not been far from his phone and he's aware of that Arthur has called, seen the text messages pile up in his inbox and told himself he'll respond eventually but not done so. Not now, not yet -- shutting Arthur out is easier, and unfair and selfish as well and Dom knows this too, but that does little to stop him and he's thankful, somehow, for that hand on his shoulder that isn't what he truly needs but still couldn't do without.
It shows subtly, because he doesn't want to rely on Arthur as much as he does, doesn't think he has the right to or can allow himself to, but he looks, bluntly put, terrible when he emerges from the living room after a long moment of silence. Sleep doesn't come easy for him these days; hasn't in some time now, and he's been running on close to nothing for the past few days and he needs to eat and maybe, he thinks, he needs a drink. ]
You brought groceries.
[ No apology for the missed calls, but it's not that he doesn't think Arthur deserves one and he knows that Arthur knows this and doesn't expect it. It's there, somewhere, the I'm sorry and thank you but being grateful means accepting whatever's being offered or given and that's something he can only do silently, so nothing more is said. ]
no subject
Arthur's eyes quickly take in the man in-front of him. There is a dullness in his eyes and a hollow in his hands and Arthur wonders if this means Cobb has been dreaming, not sleeping. There are worse things than dreaming — the dead do not dream, after all.
Hefting the paper bag in his hands, Arthur tips his chin in a shall we gesture as he makes his way to the kitchen. He sets it on the counter and unpacks slowly but methodically, and Arthur doesn't meet Cobb's eyes when he asks: ]
Have you been sleeping?
( text )
I hear youre looking for me You could always simply call ?
[ It would give Eames a good giggle whenever Cobb managed to call the wrong person, of course. ]
( text )
You could make yourself more easily accessible.
( text )
no subject
Still, the number is there, and her phone is always on. ]
hope this is okay;;
Clinging to the thought of her husband joining her, fulfilling his promise to her.
But right now? Whatever this place was...dream, reality, she was no longer sure, allowed her to stand across from him now. ] Dom.
(text)
so checking in with the others was at the top of her list. ]
how you feeling?
(text)
I'm getting my hearing back.
Is that a routine question?
(text)
that's not normal. least not that i have heard about.
anything else off?