This is an attempt at a limbo fic: lacking the reason for falling into limbo and overall information that would be vital to a longer story. This is just a piece where we follow a character's experiences. Please enjoy.

Thank you to narglesandwrackspurts for the beta.

Follow Me

The world is whipping past: disappearing behind a hundred miles an hour and two thousand pounds of European engineering. There's a man in the passenger seat, slouched in the seat lazy and relaxed. His elbow's resting on the door and his chin is in the palm of his hand. His head is cocked ever so slightly and you can feel his eyes resting on you.

The road is straight, no curve in sight: so you dare a glance. His hair is windswept from when the windows had been open earlier. The light brown locks are tossed in disarray, but the look suits him, you decide. He smiles, revealing crooked teeth and his dim blue eyes glitter in amusement. The sun shining in from the window washes over his skin and it's giving the world the subtle blue tinge that occurs when everything is too bright.

"Eyes on the road darling," his words are soft and inflected with a low accent. His voice settles around you comfortingly and you easily follow the command. Even if the road is straight, you could still crash. The idea of crashing and dying is unappealing and leaves a thick taste in your mouth, so you let it go. Instead you let your eyes trace the faded white lines on the road and slowly increase the pressure on the gas.

You accelerate: to a hundred and ten, a hundred and twenty, a hundred and thirty and finally you're at a hundred and fifty. The world spins by faster, threateningly, but it doesn't bother you. There's nothing ahead that you need to slow down for and nothing behind that you need to turn around for. The man at your side has his free hand on a map and if anything comes up he'll let you know. He'll tell you when to stop, when to turn, when to slow. The only thing he won't tell you is that if you drive faster you'll arrive sooner. You already know this; you just don't know where you're driving to.

The miles tick away swiftly, vanishing within the cement path that you're following. The road is lined on both sides by flat grasslands: the grass dancing under the rushing wind and basking in the high sun. The heat from the sun is soaking in through the windows and it washes the sense of unease that wants to creep up on you. Every time you look at the sun, that's remained just slightly ahead of you, it tries to crawl its way up your spine, but the golden tendrils leaking through the windows chase it away.

The sunlight wraps around you and your passenger. It curls around your passenger like a second skin and you vaguely notice that he seems to be the part of this world that isn't covered by the ever so pale cobalt sheen. His lightly tanned skin is shimmering ever so slightly and you wonder if it's due to the thin layer of sweat or if it's just him.

You shoot a glance at him again, but this time he's not watching you. His eyes are closed and his head is thrown back, exposing the thick column of his neck. The sunlight splashes against his skin and it's almost as if he's absorbing it. His full lips quirk up after a moment and they rapidly grow into a large, amused smile.

The map is gone from his lap, but that doesn't bother you, because he must have memorized it by now. In its place is a red and white poker chip, which dances across his fingers in some unsung rhythm. It tells a story about years of practice and familiarity. The meagre disk of worn plastic falls still and your eyes trace back up to the ruggedly carved face of your passenger. His dusky blue eyes are open and his head is tilted gently to study you in turn. "Darling, is this the best that you can do?"

You're eyes shoot back to the road and you realize that you've slowed, that you've slowly been lifting you foot from the gas. You put pressure back on the pedal and you're once again picking up your pace. You throw another look his way and raise your eye brow in challenge. "It's hardly the best that I can do."

At this, he laughs: the noise filtering through the car and settling around you. It's warm, calming and it sends a trail of heat rushing through your system. You shift uncomfortably in your seat, which makes him laugh even louder and his grin turn lecherous. His hand traces along the inside of your thigh, butterfly soft and fleeting. You can't be sure if he actually traced the inside seem of your black slacks, but you hope he did; you hope it wasn't your wishful imagination.

It takes a few minutes, but soon you're forgetting why you were shifting in your seat and that a mere second ago, a laugh had caused it. You're eyes are once again hypnotized by the white lines leading you forward. This time you wonder where they're leading you, where he's leading you, because maybe it's somewhere different.

Its hours later: when you once again chance another look at your passenger. He's still spinning his poker chip around his fingers, the movements are jerkier than they were the first time and he's staring out the window. You know that he doesn't perceive that you're watching him. His mouth his pulled down into a slight frown, his eye brows creased.

You have a sudden urge to let go of the steering wheel, to reach out and smooth away the lines, but you only tighten your grip on the leather. You're foots slipping from the gas and that's what seems to pull him back. He blinks suddenly, eyes tracing the path outside, before moving to look at you. The expression of deep thought leaves his face and he beams. You can see that it's a little forced, but you don't say anything, because you know that it will just make him try harder.

"I thought that you said that you could do better." He tells you teasingly and you immediately pick up that he didn't call you darling. The slight pain in your chest accompanies the realization and you turn back to the road without another word. You see his frown return out of the corner of your eye, but you keep your eyes trained to the world ahead of you.

It's what makes you start to think of where you came from. You're not sure, but it must have been a strange place to have come across your passenger. You want to ask him, to beg him to tell you where you found him... or where he found you, but you keep your mouth firmly shut.

You let the light pain in your chest guide you, you let it tighten your grip on the steering wheel, you let it push down on the gas and you let it keep you from asking questions. You can tell that now the silence is strained, that it isn't like it had been earlier. He can sense it to, you can tell by the way his breathing quickens and his fist clenches around his poker chip.

You're eyes flicker skyward, where you notice that grey clouds are forming. It's going to rain, that much you can tell. The sun isn't shining as brightly and the pale blue glow is gone. The sudden change sends a shiver down your spine and you wish that everything would return to normal.

"Sorry darling," your passenger whispers suddenly. You release your breath, which you didn't realize that you've been holding for the past while. His hand is on your thigh and he gives a light squeeze before pulling away. You relax, your grip slackening and you let up on the gas.

Darling. The word rolls through your head like a bullet. Darling. You don't know why you need to hear him say it, or why it eases everything inside of you. Darling. You begin to wonder who he is to you; who you are to him, but you let the question wander around in your mind instead of out through your mouth.

The weather outside clears up, but you can tell that the wind has picked up by the way the grass is bending. You don't feel the resistance of the wind against the car and that's fine by you.

You can tell that he's noticed the wind by the way his breath hitches and he's suddenly grinning. He turns to face you as the road disappears behind you. He reaches out a hand, running calloused fingers over your exposed neck. They trace a path upwards, until they're finally cupping your jaw in a tender grasp. You lean into the touch, eyes on the road and a foreign name slipping from your lips. "Eames."

A choked sound escapes the passenger as he runs his thumb over your bottom lip. It's that noise and touch that thrust you into the forgotten memories. No, not forgotten, just misplaced. You suddenly recall the feather soft touches, the burning hot passion and lingering desire. You remember whirl wind nights and clichéd candle lit dinners. You recall blurred conversations and running jobs.

You're missing something though: something extremely important. You remove one of your hands from the steering wheel and lift it to curl around his hand on your face. You squeeze it and shudder slightly. The sun is no longer comforting, it has turned burningly hot. Its taunting as it hangs in the sky. The relief that came from saying your passenger's name is something that you want again, so you say it again. "Eames."

"Darling Arthur," he replies in a thick voice. It's as if that's what you've been waiting for, because everything comes rushing back. The biggest thought running through your head is 'that's it! That's it!' He leans over and presses his lips to the underside of your jaw. "That means that it's time to wake up Arthur, it's time to go home."

"Yes," you nod and tighten your grip on his hand. You can feel the resistance of the wind now, buffering against the car. You push down on the gas for the last time, pushing past a hundred and fifty and quickly hitting two hundred. You close your eyes and jerk the wheel to the side.

You feel the car jerk and then the wheels are lifting up off the ground. It didn't take much to have the car spinning through the air in a horrific arc. It hit the ground with a sickening crunch, before lifting off again. You latch onto Eames and yell over the noise.

:: ::

"Eames!" You're flying out of your seat, gasping for breath. Sunlight is filtering in through the warehouse windows and it's hot against your skin. The pain in your wrist pulls you back and you glance down at the line attaching you to the P.A.S.I.V. device. You remove the lead without thought, flinching as the needle slides from soft flesh.

"Eames," you say again and look to the side. He's sitting there, your passenger, removing his own line from the tanned skin of his wrist. He turns his gaze upwards and it says 'everything is okay'. You don't think about how everything went wrong, because that isn't what matters in that moment. All that you can focus on is a single thought and it's slipping from your mouth before you can stop it. "You followed me."

"There would never be a time that I wouldn't follow you darling," he states after a minute of silence. His expression is blank, as if he's expecting the worse.

You're out of your seat before you can help yourself, hands curling in the neck of his shirt. Your grip is tight and you feel the breath shudder from your lungs as you lean forward and rest your forehead against his. His hand wraps around your wrist and squeezes and you don't have to say a word.

It's in the unspoken way that you melt into his arms and hold on tightly. It's in the way you breathe his name and hope he understands. And it's in the way that he kisses you that you know he hears your resounding 'I'd follow you too' loud and clear.