Growing up in England meant never really having an interest in going to Ireland. Sure, you heard things from your mates about the ferry ride over; about spending the weekend blowing some quick quid at the pubs that had back rooms designed specifically for the most unsavoury purposes, but for whatever reason, Eames had never gone.

And then, he was too busy, too disinterested-- too whatever to want to get within spitting distance of a place that wants so badly to pry that four letter word from him.

Home.

It doesn't smell like England anymore, it smells like dark curls and the lingering scent of coffee long since consumed.

Or that's what Eames was beginning to think. It's been a while (four weeks and two days) since he's had a chance to walk into a room that has the right smell- since he's felt like he's not forgotten something important, even though he knows full and well what's weighing on his mind. He'd run to Mombasa, because it has always been familiar, soothing-- but he'd have had more luck stopping a gun shot wound with a pack of tissues.

And then, a text, a ring, an email-- an address; like waking up from a too long sleep, limbs heavy and mind hazy.

Now, driving down a mostly dirt lane, in a criminally tiny vehicle (another thing about Europe he's never been fond of), Eames wonders if he's made that up. If perhaps he's concocted memories, fondness, to soothe an ache that wouldn't be ignored. No one has ever accused him of being unconvincing.

But mostly, he wonders if he's lost...