Fic: (Non) Compos Mentis Hora Smoni, 1/2 [Inception]
Title: (Non) Compos Mentis Hora Smoni: (Not) in Control of One's Mind at the Hour of Sleep, 1/2
Character/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, Mal/Cobb, Ariadne, James, Phillipa, Saito, Yusuf
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Mr. Nolan owns it all
Warnings: mentions of mental illness
Summary: Arthur goes crazy very much in the same way he does everything else - efficiently, determinedly, and with a quiet steadfastness. Eames has always been a little crazy, and he doesn't need the wristband or straightjacket to prove it. The different faces he wears are enough.
Author's Notes: Written for the square "captivity" for hc_bingo and for the prompt on inception_kink : "Psych ward AU. Arthur and Eames meet in a mental institution because both have gone slightly crazy after too many jobs blurring the line between dream and reality."
To those in the dangerous game of subconscious security, he is a legend. The tall, sleekly dressed shadow of lithe frame and sharp, controlled movements who stands faithfully at his extractor's side, a jack of all trades, an assassin in the dark. No information is safe when he wants it, and they say that firewalls and security locks regardless of top secret codes or clearances have melted away under the relentless tap of his elegant fingers across a keyboard. He's the man everyone wants on their side because going against him means certain failure; he plays the game well with practiced ease and despite his young age, he is the best in the business.
To Dominic Cobb, he started off as a commodity in high demand who quickly became a trusted friend and confidant. He's the most skilled point man anyone can ask for - discerning, intelligent, and damn good at what he does - and now, Dom never asks for anyone else. To Mallorie Cobb, he's the go-to babysitter for her children and a like a well-adored younger brother, forever ingrained into her memory as the floppy-haired, long-limbed college student she brought to his very first suit-fitting (three pieces, charcoal, and Dior with a silk blue tie - the boy has good taste).
To little Phillipa and James, he's the one whose arms always open for a quick snuggle, whose presents are squealed over and cherished, whose smiles crinkle the corners of his warm eyes. He's both the Handsome Prince come to rescue the fair Princess Phillipa and the trusty white steed awaiting his rider the brave James the Great; he's the one who scares away the monsters under the bed when Daddy is too busy to do so and they love him, because he's their Uncle Arthur.
But to the members of the staff at Penrose Psychiatric Ward for the Mentally Insane, he's just another patient checking in, another lost soul in search for waking life amongst the dreams, seeking out the lines that hold in reality from the world of make-believe.
Arthur steps inside the first floor of the ward with all the solemnity of a condemned man walking to the gallows, still dressed to the nines in his three piece suit. He surveys the new and unfamiliar surroundings with regal authority, taking in all the possible exits with a steady gaze, all the security protocols, the more or less barricaded central nurse's station with its shatterproof glass - once a point man, always a point man.
Except this is now what the world's best point man has become. Ah, see how the mighty have fallen.
Arthur lets his eyes track over the different individuals shuffling slowly about or sprawled limply over the furniture like sacks of flour, all dressed in the standard white cotton t-shirt and drawstring pants; his eye twitches faintly as the only visible sign of his discomfort. Behind him, Dom reaches out with one hand and squeezes his shoulder gently, apologetically. "It's just for a little while," he says quietly, and Arthur nods once, silent. He walks forward then, shoulders straight and jaw set, chin lifted defiantly, walking toward the nurse's station to check himself in.
Movement out of the corner of his eye catches his attention, movement from across the room and, against his will, Arthur's eyes slide over to said corner and to the man slouched in it, the man flipping what looks like a poker chip over and over his knuckles, the man who's looking straight at him.
A line appears in Arthur's brow, not one of displeasure or disgust, but of confusion. He quickly runs through his mental scrapbook of names and faces accumulated over the past few years, finding none that fit the profile of this stranger staring at him as if they've not only met before, but have History, the type that requires a capital 'H'. Arthur tears his eyes away and wraps his fingers around the pen, signing his name and committing himself to seven months of institutional living before chancing another sneak glance at his unidentified audience of one.
He's still staring, and still flipping that poker chip of his around and around in his fingers. It's weird and immediately unsettling - and Arthur hasn't the faintest idea why, because it usually takes a hell of a lot more than a pair of eyes to make him feel uncomfortable. It usually takes more than staring down the barrel of a gun, watching the numbers on a bomb tick down to one, more than all of that to get him to even bat an eye.
"Arthur?"
The point man looks up, and there's a pretty young woman standing in front of him, dressed in the standard scrubs of a nurse. "I'm Ariadne," she says, smiling. "If you'll come with me, I'll show you to your room."
Arthur follows wordlessly, and as he walks out of the main sitting area and down along the corridor, he can still feel the man's eyes burning a hole in the back of his head.
- * - * -
Arthur goes crazy on a Thursday.
He does it very much in the same way he does everything else - efficiently, determinedly, and with a quiet steadfastness that makes Dom want to simultaneously rip his hair out and bow his head to weep. There is no slippery slope, no leaps and bounds, only a series of successive little steps spiraling ever downwards that are practically invisible in the happening, but all too clearly evident in the aftermath.
One day, he seems perfectly normal (or as normal as Arthur can be, Dom always thought that the endless lists and near-machinacal precision a bit off): joining the Cobbs for dinner, reviewing the details of the upcoming job, helping Mal with the fettuccine alfredo, reading the kids a bedtime story and kissing them goodnight as Dom and Mal washed dishes in the kitchen.
And the next, this.
"Arthur, listen to me," Dom demands, his voice firm and commanding, but his hands are shaking ever so slightly as he holds his hands up in a placating manner, because if the sight of his point man standing there holding a gun pressed to his temple with a look of such calm on his face isn't the most frightening thing he's ever seen, he doesn't know what is. And, being a man who delves into the subconscious minds of others to wade through the muck of their deepest, darkest secrets, he's seen a lot of stupid and scary - but this tops them all. "Put the gun down."
"No," Arthur says quietly, and it's the eerie calm on his face, the steadiness in his tone that makes the situation all that more dangerous. His eyes aren't glassy or shifting around like marbles in a pinball machine; he's still as cool and unruffled as ever, and Dom swears quietly under his breath as Arthur's fingers tighten against the trigger.
"Will you just think about what you're about to do?!" Fear and desperation burst forth like the waters of a deluge smashing through a dam.
"I have thought about it," his point man replies flatly. "You've trained me to tell the difference between reality and fantasy, and this, Dom - " Arthur flicks a glance around his apartment, at Dom cautiously taking a slow step forward, at Mal standing frozen in the little hallway, tears welling in her eyes - "this isn't real."
"Arthur," Mal whispers, but stops when Arthur's eyes snap toward her and narrow.
"This isn't real," he tells her. "You're not real."
Dom moves to stand in front of his wife, fear trailing an icy finger up his spine. He knows that normally, Arthur would sooner cut his own head off than do anything to harm Mal, but he's seen firsthand Arthur's ruthlessness against projections in dreams, and it's the stuff of nightmares - and worse. There's no telling what's going on behind that cool gaze and in Arthur's scarily sharp but (currently) very disturbed mind.
For a moment the three of them simply stand there, gazing at each other with baited breath, unwilling to move or speak lest one wrong word or movement result in a tragic mistake. "Arthur, please." Dom reaches out pleadingly. "Please, just put the gun away, and we can talk about this." Arthur's left eye twitches and Dom backs up quickly, both in speech and action. "Okay. Okay. Arthur, if anyone happens to be a projection, then why haven't they attacked you? Or any of us?"
"You're not a projection," Arthur says with absolute certainty, but he's slowly pulling the gun away from his temple, and Dom lets out a minute sigh of relief. "Then you must be dreaming too. But-"
"Uncle Arthur!!"
"Hey, I wanna go in first!"
Dom jerks in shock as his children's voices float into the room; they had been on their way out to dinner when the extractor suggested inviting Arthur along, and clearly, James and Phillipa had gotten antsy waiting in the car. Mal's face is white as she tries to hold them back and block their view of their beloved Uncle Arthur rapidly losing his grip on sanity, but Phillipa squeezes past her and charges into the room, sweet face lit up with a jubilant smile, rushing forward with open arms.
For a moment, Dom's heart stops cold - until he sees that Arthur's on his knees and gathering Phillipa into his arms, with the gun nowhere in sight. The point man was always a quick one; that's part of what makes him so skilled. James squirms out of his mother's arms and goes to join his sister, snuggling in close with his head tucked under Arthur's chin. Mal steps up to stand beside her husband, letting out a shaky breath, but Arthur's dark eyes meet Dom's over the top of the children's heads - and Dom knows that this isn't over.
- * - * -
He memorizes the set schedule in twenty-four hours.
Ariadne raps on the door at eight in the morning, two soft little taps before she unlocks the door and sticks her head inside, wishing him a good morning with a cheery smile. Arthur, who is always up before six, simply nods politely at her and puts away the book he's been reading or blueprint he's been sketching out (being a point man is more than just gathering intel and handling guns; he can pull double duty as extractor and architect, and quite flawlessly, too, though not as well as Dom or Mal of course. Forging though, that's something he's never quite gotten the hang of), heading down to the cafeteria.
Medication comes with breakfast (which is usually some odd-looking gloop of some kind or cereal and fruit. Arthur downs a cup of coffee - black and scalding hot - and then goes back for another.) and after that, most everyone moves off to group therapy to share their feelings and draw pictures, or some variation thereof - Arthur's not too sure; he's what the staff call a 'special case', and is thus excluded from any such required activities. Instead, Ariadne shows him to the office of his personal therapist, a stern-looking Japanese man whose soft yet commanding tone and thin silver spectacles seem more suited for the boardroom of some corporate empire than to the small broom closet of an office with its dusty furnishings and framed diplomas from Harvard and Johns Hopkins University.
He never really remembers how the talks go, probably due to extreme boredom or fogginess from the medication (although when asked, Ariadne had told him the pills were to help him focus on reality). However, Dr. Saito always seems pleased at the end of the sessions, jotting down something or other in a file folder before telling Arthur in that same quiet but powerful voice that they'll meet again tomorrow.
Lunch rolls around without much fanfare, and after that, they're let out into the exercise yard for some fresh air. All they really need is a barbed wire fence and some sniping guards on tall towers to complete the vibe of a high-security prison, and Arthur tries not to draw more comparisons as he jogs laps around the rather roomy yard. Many patients drift off to their own rooms following such excitement, and thus the afternoon is whittled away until dinnertime and another round of medication.
Once a week, he goes to the office of a Doctor al Dwarian ("Please, call me Yusuf") for a physical.
The lights go out at ten o'clock sharp; the doors lock, and Arthur lays on his back, die clenched tightly in one fist, staring at the ceiling until sleep comes (it usually doesn't).
It's perhaps the most boring existence Arthur could possibly imagine (and he's got a very good imagination, thank you very much), and if not for the one small godsend of being allowed to work on jobs still, he has no doubt he would indeed go insane.
"Got another one for you," Ariadne smiles as she slips him another dossier from Dom, and Arthur thanks her with a small close-lipped smile, settling down at a table in the corner of the sitting room and getting to work. The psych ward provides him with an individualized laptop, with restrictions already set in place by Dr. Saito (although it's not like Arthur can't hack through them anyway. He doesn't do that though, because he's here to get better; he promised Dom and Mal he would. For the sake of the kids.), and Arthur keeps busy throughout the long hours, researching mark after mark and typing his findings up neatly to save on a USB drive that gets sent back to Dom. Apparently, the powers that be concluded that allowing Arthur exposure to the actual process of the blending and separation of dreams from reality is supposed to help him differentiate between the two for his own benefit. Arthur's simply grateful he has something to do.
(It's a bit strange, though. Dom doesn't insult Arthur's intelligence or his...situation by giving him throwaway open and shut cases; they're normal jobs all right, jobs that need to be planned, kinks worked out, equations that don't work and need to be fixed, intricacies laid out to every last detail under Arthur's keen eye. But there's something odd about them, something Arthur can't put a name to. It's...it's almost as if his mind is reviewing the information instead of thinking it up afresh, as if he's digging it up from somewhere hidden deep inside his own psyche and and simply putting the ideas to paper. And Arthur knows he's good, but he's not that good. It's the same, with every single file, every mark, with every little fact he catches himself thinking: I've seen this before - although obviously, he hasn't. He usually works through the large stacks of file folders one-handed, his die clenched tightly in his other fist.)
There is one other distraction from his work though, although it's more of an annoyance than anything else: the man Arthur caught staring at him the day he first checked in sadly turns out to be a very real person indeed, and not just a figment of the point man's imagination. It doesn't take long for Arthur to discover that the man is the psych ward's resident charmer, flirting with all the pretty nurses in a suave, very British accent (although Arthur notices that he's not crude when he does so, and he never takes it further than a wink, a roguish smirk, and, once, a twirl across the sitting area floor with a giggling Ariadne in his arms).
Arthur still doesn't know his name. He still stares at Arthur like it's nobody's business. And it's driving Arthur absolutely nuts (poor choice of words, but he really doesn't care) because he's a point man; it's not just a profession or a title, it's who he is. Arthur needs to be the man who knows every single aspect of every situation he's presented with, all the footnotes and fine print read and re-read until he can rehearse the plan through his mind frontwards, backwards, or sideways. This unnamed stranger with his flirty ways and cocky mannerisms and startlingly familiar gaze whips any semblance of control straight from Arthur's hands without trying - by simply being, and Arthur can't stand it.
He tries researching of course, but short of hacking into the psych ward's records and without any sort of facial recognition software, there's not much he can do. One day (day thirteen), after yet another breakfast filled with strong black coffee and an unblinking blue-grey gaze from across the room, he decides to bite the bullet and simply ask.
Ariadne is humming to herself as she hands him the laptop from behind the counter at the nurse's station and when she turns her back to retrieve the power chord, he clears his throat. "Ariadne?"
The nurse turns around, her lips puckered in a surprised 'o'. "So," she laughs then, a twinkle in her eye, "it speaks. I was beginning to give up the hope of ever hearing you actually talk."
Arthur allows himself a self-depricating chuckle, before nodding to the corner of the room, where the man is flirting with another nurse, but his eyes keep sliding back toward where Arthur stands. "Who is that?"
"Hmm? Oh, that's Eames." Ariadne signs off on a slip of paper and then sets the pen aside, leaning over the counter and glancing at the newly named man. "He's been here for a while, I think."
"Eames what?"
The petite nurse shrugs. "Just Eames."
Just Eames. No first name. Huh. Arthur's eyebrows draw toward each other as he begins to mentally go through a catalogue of British surnames, trying to figure out if there's anything else he can deduce about-
"He's like you, you know." Ariadne is watching him closely, her head tilted to one side.
"Like me?" Arthur doesn't know what the young woman is insinuating, but there is no way he's a brash, incorrigible flirt who stares at people like he's mentally undressing them or contemplating them for dessert.
"He's here because of that whole...dream business...thing." She says it carefully, quietly, like the mere motion of dream sharing might set him off into a rage, falling down to the floor and twitching uncontrollably while frothing at the mouth. Well, they are in a suitable environment for such a happenstance (in fact, he just saw an episode of such yesterday) so Arthur guesses he can't really blame her. "I heard he's also a thief. His file says he's got a case of severe dissociative identity disorder." Ariadne's voice drops low and she leans in conspiratorially, but there's no trace of malice or gossip in her tone, merely matter of fact. "He thinks he can become other people."
Ah, a forger then. That certainly changes things. Arthur raises an eyebrow at the other. "You're not supposed to be telling me this, are you?"
Ariadne shrugs, a nonchalant lift and fall of her shoulders. "You've been watching him watch you for the past two weeks, Arthur. It's about time you stop making eyes at each other and introduce yourselves."
Arthur blinks. Raises an eyebrow quizzically. Processes the words through his head, and then frowns. "Has anyone ever told you you're very forthright?"
She laughs, and it's a warm sound that is sure to latch hooks into some boy's heart one day, latch on and never let go. "All the time. Are you admitting to making eyes at him?" she asks with a mischievous sparkle in her eye.
This time, the frown becomes an outright glare. "Thank you, Ariadne," he replies stiffly, and strides away, Ariadne's giggles following him down the hall.
- * - * -
Eames has always been a little touched in the head, and he doesn't need the wristband or straightjacket to prove it. The different faces he wears are enough.
Anyone who willingly distorts his own reflection, knowingly adapts the mannerisms of other living and distinct individuals, and does so as a profession is either a spy (and they're not all mentally sound either), an actor (Hollywood is basically a shrink's playground; so many daddy issues and delusions of grandeur), or a thief (enough said). Eames is all three.
He's the best forger that money can buy, and he knows he's going crazy when he starts seeing his own reflection as different forgeries, flickering like a black and white TV screen, going fuzzy at the edges and utterly incapable of becoming anything real. He knows, because years and years ago, he watched his mother slip away into the depths of insanity, watched her slip through his fingers no matter how earnestly or carefully he tried to put the pieces of her fragile mind back together for her - and it all started the morning she woke up, looked in the mirror, and started to scream that her face was no longer hers.
He celebrates with a night of drinking enough booze to satisfy a bunch of frat boys partying it up the night before graduation, chasing the liquor with five bottles of a cocktail of pills: oxycontin, amphetamines, ecstasy, the works. An indeterminable amount of time later, he wakes up with an IV in his wrist, gagging on the tube down his throat, and with a pump in his stomach.
When the nurse goes in to remove the tube, he thanks her in a barely audible rasp and smiles despite the way his dry lips crack and start to bleed. As she goes to check the IV in his arm, he grabs her wrist in a grip that crushes the bones and, with that same bloody smile, whispers as if divulging the greatest secret of the cosmos: "This isn't real. I'm dreaming."
After five days, he's relocated to Penrose Psychiatric Ward.
- * - * -
In just a very short amount of time, Arthur learns a lot about Eames. One, his name. Two, is that he smells a bit like sandalwood and spice, something old and mysterious, warm and comforting. Three, is that his eyes are the oddest shade of grayish-blue, like that one point on the horizon where storm clouds meet the raging sea, hiding the deepest of secrets and stories untold. They're quite mesmerizing up close, and Arthur is indeed getting a very up close look at said eyes, because the fourth thing he learns about Eames is that the man has absolutely no knowledge of the concept of personal space.
The forger smirks at him, hands braced on the wall on either side of Arthur's head, effectively trapping him between a rock and a hard place - namely, between the wall and a broad chest framed by strong shoulders. "So."
Arthur stares back coolly, resisting the urge to fidget. "So," he repeats, and tries to look for an escape route. Normally, he would be able to break out of such a position with great ease, but he's not too keen on being thrown into solitary due to an episode of sudden violence (although personally, he is of the opinion that such an episode is and would be fully justified). "Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Eames?"
The smirk widens. Eames chuckles low in his throat and Arthur absolutely does not feel a shiver creep up his spine; he doesn't. "Perhaps. It seems you know who I am, darling, but sadly, I know very little about you." He crowds in even closer and Arthur briefly wonders if there's really a God above who hates him this much, to have given Eames the opportunity to trap him in an abandoned hallway, with no one else around. As if the staring isn't enough!
"Are you Cobb's infamous point man, then? What is it they call you - the best in the game, the legendary Prince of Paradox?"
Arthur blinks. How does... He regains his composure quickly though. "Not at the moment," he replies curtly. His voice is cold.
"Hmm." Eames's smirk has softened into a smile though, and it's warm and sincere, as if he's trying to melt the ice of Arthur's sullen glare. "Honesty. That's admirable."
Arthur is a man of great patience. He has to be, to work with a man like Dominic Cobb - who, despite being a great extractor, is not exactly business associate of the month material - but his patience is not infinite. More than that, something about this immediately infuriating man standing in front of him, boxing him into a corner that he can't reason or talk or slip his way out of, makes that string already drawn taut in Arthur's mind just snap. "And you would know all about honesty, wouldn't you?" He challenges, tone sharp and words barbed, aimed to wound deep.
Eames pulls back slightly, but there is no evident hurt contorting his features; instead he looks thoughtful, a bit reminiscent, even. Arthur doesn't know what to make of it, and he freezes when the forger lifts a hand and brushes calloused fingers along his jaw in an oddly gentle manner. "Oh, I do think I like you very much, Arthur," he says, and his tone is fond, familiar.
Arthur knocks the hand away and puts an acceptable amount of distance between Eames and himself, glaring although he can literally feel the flush creeping up the back of his neck. "Touch me again, Mr. Eames," he warns, "and I'll break your fingers."
- - - - -
The pet names start the very next morning.
Apparently, Eames doesn't take Arthur's threat of broken fingers as a message to stay away; rather interpreting it as a green light to bypass the gazing from afar, simply stare openly no matter what distance away, and commence all other manners of sexual harassment (and to Arthur, who barely ever tolerates physical contact unless it's a hug from Mal, a hand on the shoulder from Dom, or getting barreled to the ground by the James and Phillipa, there's a lot that can be considered harassment). If it's not a warm hand resting fleetingly on the small on his back here, it's a literal wink and a nudge there; he's bound to get his hair ruffled at least once a day, and once, Arthur's positive Eames tried to start a game of footsie under the cafeteria table at dinner.
He grits his teeth and tries to ignore it, but this is Eames, Eames who is a powerhouse, a whirlwind of energy and presence. He's a force of nature that's impossible to ignore, because attempting to do so would be like trying to ignore an exploding star two inches away from your face. The forger takes to sitting at Arthur's table whenever he's trying to work, whistling softly as he shuffles through a worn deck of cards or settling in with a battered copy of A Tale of Two Cities, occasionally making an offhanded comment about the job, the mark, the best forgery to make.
Ariadne thinks it's cute and does nothing to help him, giggling girlishly behind her fingers, eyes round with mirth. Dr. Saito murmurs "hmm" contemplatively and scratches down some notes, but reacts little to the news otherwise. Dr. "really Arthur, just call me Yusuf" al Dwarian has the strangest reaction of all when Ariadne happily spreads the gossip - he claps his hands like a child on Christmas morning and, beaming, offers Arthur his hearty congratulations. Arthur blinks and stares blankly before heaving an enormous sigh and resigning himself to Eames's relentless teasing and tactile personality.
Except it's not really all that terrible, once Arthur thinks about it, when he allows himself to think about it. There's no lechery behind the glimmer of playfulness in Eames's eyes when the forger greets him in the morning with a jovial arm around the shoulders and a cup of black coffee, no hidden agenda as far as Arthur can tell in the way the other man stares at him now when he's tapping relentlessly at the keyboard, his lips uplifted slightly in affection, and Arthur would be lying if he claimed not to have enjoyed that one time when he suddenly felt Eames's thumbs digging skillfully into the knots in his tense shoulders after a particularly challenging job. It's rather lonely around the place anyway, and although spunky, intelligent Ariadne is good company, there's still a line even she dare not cross when it comes to relationships with patients.
With Eames there are no lines to toe, no boundaries to stay within; the forger gleefully scribbles outside the pages and he bleeds color onto everything he touches, breathes life into everyone he encounters. Arthur, who has always seen the world in black and white (he knows he's a criminal and what he does for a living is illegal; he knows that there is good and then there is bad; he knows that the grey area people speak of is a bunch of hypocritical bullshit made up to cover their own mistakes) is not necessarily rude as much as he is polite but distant. He likes making lists and following them down to the letter, likes knowing the rules and limitations of what he can or cannot do, likes being in control of himself at all times.
Arthur's a black and white photograph, all sharp contrasts and hard angles, neat and orderly and looking exactly how he wants to, captivating in his accuracy and likeness of perfection; Eames is the blank canvas splattered liberally with acrylic paint from every which direction, messy and showy and all things but boring. He's a forger, a con man, a thief who paints pictures with his words and spins spiderweb snares with his charm. But he lies so prettily, so sweetly that even Arthur - straight laced, self-controlled Arthur with nary a hair out of place (even though they disallow his hair gel in the institution, citing the risk of other patients possibly finding and deciding to, for whatever reason, eat it) -finds himself being drawn in.
It's easy and familiar, his banter with Eames, sort of like reciting lines from a play half-forgotten, whimsical play and the more he engages, the more Arthur finds himself reciprocating the attention and friendliness originally so despised.
"Darling, hand me a napkin."
"I have a name, Eames. Try using it sometime."
"Of course, how thoughtless of me. But how did you know, Arthur, that I was speaking to you? I could have been asking Ariadne here to pass me that napkin."
"...Damn it."
Slippery slope? Check. Snowball effect? Most definitely. Together, they make for a wild, uncoordinated pitch into the deep black of the unknown and while it's one hell of a ride, it's also scary as fuck.
"Oh Arthur, I've had the most awful day. Console me."
"Specificity, Eames. I can't console you until you tell me what happened."
"Can't, or won't?"
"Maybe a bit of both."
"You're a cruel, cruel man, Arthur."
Sometimes they talk shop, discussing old jobs, triumphs and failures, how many times they've died, how many times they've had to kill. Eames spins tales of the many faces he's worn, dark-skinned beauties of exotic cultures and pale, shapely creatures of too little sun and all sinew and grace. Arthur talks of little James who once almost plugged himself into a dreaming state, of sweet Phillipa who's looking more and more like Mal (or at least she was, the last time Arthur saw), of Dom who acts as surrogate father and business associate rolled into one, of Mal who's simply lovely. And the most disconcerting part if it is, Arthur doesn't even realize the moment he trips, or when he starts to fall.
- - - - -
"You know," Eames begins lazily, propping his socked feet up on Arthur's lap, and Arthur interrupts him.
"Feet down." The forger mischievously nudges Arthur in the ribs gently, and, without even bothering to remove his eyes from the screen, the point man swats at the offending foot. "Feet. Down."
"Of course," Eames chuckles and does as ordered, still flipping that damn poker chip over his knuckles and watching Arthur work. "Would you mind making me a sandwich too, pet?"
"Not likely, since you have the unsavory habit of talking even while you eat." Arthur replies distractedly, squinting at a statistic that doesn't make sense. He senses Eames shifting, then sitting forward in his chair, leaning across the table.
"You know," he starts again, and there's a hesitance in his tone that Arthur's never heard before, a tentative note that sounds strange and foreign coming from the cocky charmer's mouth, and it makes him look up to meet Eames's less-than-confident gaze.The forger waits a beat and then slowly reaches out and lays his hand on Arthur's wrist, a warm and solid weight, fingers brushing against the pulse thrumming beneath the skin in what could be considered a caress. "If I didn't know better Arthur, I would think you're starting to warm up to me."
Arthur freezes, Eames's eyes boring into his.
"Then it's a damn good thing you do know better," is all he says as he stands abruptly, jerking his arm away and nearly knocking over the chair in his haste to turn swiftly on his heel and all but march out of the room, leaving the other man behind.
When he's finally brave enough to venture out from the security of his room two hours later, Eames is nowhere to be found.
- * - * -
He's hurt Eames. Arthur knows it. And the guilt eats at him like rats gnawing away inside his stomach.
He doesn't let it show though, of course. When he sees Eames sitting at what he's come of think of as their table at mealtimes, Arthur turns his head away and walks to the other side of the small cafeteria. He no longer drinks coffee in the mornings in order to avoid seeing and interacting with the forger; he's taken to working on jobs in a secluded corner of the main sitting area, at a table pushed against and facing the wall. Whenever he gets the faintest whiff of sandalwood and spice, he turns and flees with all the dignity he can muster, metaphorical tail tucked between his legs.
But he misses it. The pet names, the warm looks, the warmth of touching another person - the lack of which turns his manner curt and his temper short, diverting his attention away from Dom's jobs and Arthur can't stand it. Just five more months, he tells himself, and then he lies awake in bed all night, staring at the ceiling and seeing Eames's hesitant gaze, hears his voice: Oh, I do think I like you very much, Arthur.
It's manageable, he thinks, until one day, he snaps at Ariadne with the acrid tongue of a poisonous serpent. And although Arthur is more of the silent, watchful type, his barbs can corrode even the thickest of skins. There's an apology lodged in this throat even before the words finish flying from his lips, but thankfully, Ariadne's made of sterner steel that he gives her credit for. She doesn't cry, doesn't even bat an eye, simply puts down the clipboard she's holding and steps in close, sticking an index finger into his face. "Okay mister, I've just about had enough. What is wrong with you?"
He glances away. "Nothing."
At that moment, Eames choses to appear in the sitting area, old battered copy of yet another book in hand (Catcher in the Rye today) wearing the most dejected look Arthur has ever seen. It reminds him of the time the stray mangy cat Phillipa 'adopted' off the streets wandered out into the road and got itself squashed into roadkill, or perhaps of the look on James's face when he discovered that "Santa" looked a great deal like Daddy (it was Dom's own fault for being so damn loud when putting the presents under the tree). Only about ten times more miserable.
He's halfway to one of the lounge chairs when he suddenly looks up and catches Arthur's eye from across the room. The point man averts his gaze quickly, and Eames flinches, then turns around and shuffles right back the way he came, shoulders even more slumped than before.
"Arthur," Ariadne hisses the moment the forger disappears from view. Her hands are on her hips; there's a scowl on her face and her eyes are narrowed into slits - all in all, she looks angrier than a wet cat. "What did you do?"
"To whom?"
"Eames!" She throws her hands up in the air. "What happened between you and Eames?"
Arthur scowls. "There is no 'me and Eames', Ariadne."
"Bullshit." Her voice is the sharp click of a key in the lock. "That's ridiculous. Everyone can tell there is - or at least there was definitely something going on between you guys, and obviously, you've done something to mess it up."
"How do you know it's something I did?" Arthur gets out from in between gritted teeth, eyes staring determinedly at the file on the table. Stein, Harold. Suspected of dealing arms to insurgents in Somalia. Considering using the Mr. Charles routine. Arthur, tell me what you think reads Dom's chicken scratch marching downhill across the page.
The folder disappears from under his gaze and he looks up at Ariadne. "Because Eames doesn't hurt people like that, Arthur. He's a good person." She stares at him, her eyes suddenly sad and tired. "And he cares about you. More than you know."
Arthur feels the guilt again, gawing away with razor-sharp teeth, but pushes it away with a vengeance. "What is or is not going on between Mr. Eames and myself is, quite frankly, none of your business," he replies, and swiftly snags the folder out of the nurse's loose grasp. "If you don't mind, Miss Brooks, I'd like to get back to work."
He turns on his heel and walks away, spine stiff and shoulders squared, and so misses Ariadne's pursed lips and quiet retort of then I'll make it my business.
- - - - -
"Arthur?"
He looks up, groaning inwardly. "Ariadne, I already told you that-"
She waves her hand impatiently. "No, never mind that. I just need some help getting a stack of towels from the top of the linen closet, that's all." She motions at the height disparity between herself and the point man. "Help a girl out?"
"Why not." Arthur knows he owes Ariadne for receiving the brunt of his temper the other day, and it's the least he can do to make up for it. He pushes away from the desk, getting fluidly to his feet and heading down the hallway adjacent to the bathrooms (he'd memorized the entire building's layout even before checking in), hearing Ariadne pad along quietly behind him. "Ariadne, about the other day...I really didn't mean to-"
He stops. The door to the little storage closet is open, and he sees the curve of broad shoulders and a strong back under the standard cotton shirt, sees the muscles stretching taut as the man reaches upwards for a stack of towels on the uppermost shelf- "Eames?"
The forger turns around, eyes going wide in surprise, and Arthur barely has time to comprehend what the hell is going on when a small pair of hands land on his shoulder blades, shoving hard, and he tumbles into the closet, the door slamming shut behind him.
For a moment, there's nothing but silence in the darkness. Then, "Well, this is interesting."
"Shut up," Arthur snaps, righting himself stiffly and pulling away from Eames's arms, which he'd unfortunately fallen right into when Ariadne pushed him with quite considerable strength. One hand scrabbles behind his back for the door handle - which doesn't exist, wonderful - and the other reaches up to the chain attached to the closet's single light bulb. He pulls sharply and it flickers on, buzzing noisily in the small space.
Eames is standing close, so close that there's barely a hand's width of space between the two men and Arthur sucks in a deep breath, inhaling sandalwood and spice. He's suddenly and irrationally terrified. "Ariadne," he calls out, and his voice cracks. "Ariadne, this isn't funny." He beats on the door with one clenched fist. "Ariadne! OPEN THE DOOR!"
"No." Ariadne's voice is muffled, but even so, she sounds extremely pleased with herself. "You two are going to fix whatever went wrong with you guys because no one can stand your attitude anymore, Arthur, or you moping around like you're considering hurling yourself off a cliff, Eames." There's the sound of what Arthur assumes is a chair settling against the door, and then Ariadne speaks again. "So go ahead, kiss and make up or whatever, but I'm not letting you guys out until the issue is resolved."
Arthur lets his head fall against the wood with a 'clunk', relishing the dull ache because he has no idea how this can possibly be any worse. His breath is coming in angry, hard pants as he turns around to escape Eames's probing stare, searching for an escape route. The door's made of a grade of wood halfway between flimsy and like steel, but there's no way he has the space to gather enough momentum to-
"Arthur?" Arthur can feel the other's breath tickling the back of his neck, and he stiffens.
"Shut up." It comes out sharp, sharper than he meant for it to. "Oh God, please, just shut up."
A large hand falls upon his back, rubbing between his shoulder blades in small, soothing circles. "Are you claustrophobic?"
He jerks away, nearly bashing his forehead into the door due to lack of space. "No!" He hisses, breath evening out the slightest bit. "Stop touching me!"
Eames draws away, and when he speaks next, his voice is quiet, resigned, almost. "If that's what you want."
Goddamn it, he's not in the mood for wordplay right now. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Arthur grinds out, talking more to the door than he is the man behind him. "I want to get out of this damn closet!" His voice raises. "Ariadne!"
"You want to get away from me, you mean."
At that, Arthur stops. He whirls around to see Eames pressed against the sheets and towels, face half hidden in shadow. "I never said that." The air hums with anticipation, tense and heavy. "Stop putting words in my mouth, Eames."
"Oh, but no one ever puts words in your mouth, Arthur," Eames snaps, snaps, accent sharpening in anger. "You say exactly what you bloody want whenever you want, and you mean every damn word." He steps forward, advancing threateningly, like a predator closing in upon his prey. "Heaven forbid someone else speak for you or say the words you're too afraid to speak for yourself."
Arthur's no shrinking violet or helpless quarry though, and he doesn't back down. "And what would you know about anything?"
Eames laughs drily, sardonic and bitter. "I may not know much but at least I know well enough to recognize what I bloody well want." His eyes flash, and it makes Arthur think of a tempest cyclone, rising upon the wings of the storm, drowning forever and ever in the unfathomable depths.
Out of all the ways to die, drowning is definitely the one Arthur hates the most.
He's in Eames's space (not that they have enough for the both of them to begin with) before he can stop himself, words flying thick and fast. "I'm a point man. I do what's good for the job. I'm dependable and trustworthy, and the best in the whole damn business." His fingers are fisting in Eames's shirt, pulling him even closer until he's hissing the words straight in the forger's face, as if such an action will make them get through that thick skull any easier. "I have my extractor's back and I protect Mal and the kids because I love them like my own family. They're the reason I'm here."
He's definitely breathing. Last he checked, stuffy linen closet or no there's still air. But Arthur isn't breathing oxygen, he's inhaling Eames, exhaling the same breath, filled with so much rage at this man for making him lose control like this, and yet yearning for something more, an emotion so fragile and precious he dares not say it aloud or even to himself. "I have never," Arthur whispers, his entire frame drawn tauter than an over-tuned string about to snap, "never wanted anything for myself. And then you come along - you and your stupid swagger and charm, your annoying pet names and...and..."
Eames's eyes are soft, tender; his fingers light as they press against Arthur's lips, cutting him off mid-rant. They stare at each other for a moment in the weird, twisting shadows of the closet, sharing the same breath, Arthur still holding onto the forger's shirt and Eames being all that's holding Arthur together. Slowly, slowly the forger slides his fingers from Arthur's lips and around to cup the back of his head, gently touching their foreheads together. "Oh, love," Eames whispers warmly, and Arthur's fingers fly for his totem.
- - - - -
"I am not speaking to you," Arthur tells Ariadne stiffly when she opens the door, and her face falls. As he turns sharply and strides away, the point man bites the inside of his cheek to hide his smile. Two seconds later, the young woman's squeal of surprise and joy as Eames grabs her up in an enormous bear hug and kisses her on the cheek is well worth it.
- * - * -
That night, Arthur falls asleep for the first time in months and dreams of a cave in the mountains, of snow and freezing down to the bone, of a pair of strong arms encircling him and whispering the words of a half-forgotten lullaby. He dreams of Eames in a warehouse, tied up and beaten; in an elevator, floating weightless; in a back alleyway, bleeding to death as Arthur can only scream no, no, no.
When Arthur's eyes open, he sits up with a scream lodged in his throat, reaching over to rip the the IV needle out of his wrist.
- - - - -
Ariadne taps on the door twice, a smile on her lips, still celebrating over yesterday's success. She swipes her ID and punches in the appropriate code with practiced ease, swings the door open, a teasing little word on the tip of her tongue-
-and screams.
- * - * -
A/N: Well dear readers, unfortunately, I happen to be in the mountains where there is little to no internet service at all. :(
It might take a day or two before the next part is up!
Part two here
Character/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, Mal/Cobb, Ariadne, James, Phillipa, Saito, Yusuf
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Mr. Nolan owns it all
Warnings: mentions of mental illness
Summary: Arthur goes crazy very much in the same way he does everything else - efficiently, determinedly, and with a quiet steadfastness. Eames has always been a little crazy, and he doesn't need the wristband or straightjacket to prove it. The different faces he wears are enough.
Author's Notes: Written for the square "captivity" for hc_bingo and for the prompt on inception_kink : "Psych ward AU. Arthur and Eames meet in a mental institution because both have gone slightly crazy after too many jobs blurring the line between dream and reality."
To those in the dangerous game of subconscious security, he is a legend. The tall, sleekly dressed shadow of lithe frame and sharp, controlled movements who stands faithfully at his extractor's side, a jack of all trades, an assassin in the dark. No information is safe when he wants it, and they say that firewalls and security locks regardless of top secret codes or clearances have melted away under the relentless tap of his elegant fingers across a keyboard. He's the man everyone wants on their side because going against him means certain failure; he plays the game well with practiced ease and despite his young age, he is the best in the business.
To Dominic Cobb, he started off as a commodity in high demand who quickly became a trusted friend and confidant. He's the most skilled point man anyone can ask for - discerning, intelligent, and damn good at what he does - and now, Dom never asks for anyone else. To Mallorie Cobb, he's the go-to babysitter for her children and a like a well-adored younger brother, forever ingrained into her memory as the floppy-haired, long-limbed college student she brought to his very first suit-fitting (three pieces, charcoal, and Dior with a silk blue tie - the boy has good taste).
To little Phillipa and James, he's the one whose arms always open for a quick snuggle, whose presents are squealed over and cherished, whose smiles crinkle the corners of his warm eyes. He's both the Handsome Prince come to rescue the fair Princess Phillipa and the trusty white steed awaiting his rider the brave James the Great; he's the one who scares away the monsters under the bed when Daddy is too busy to do so and they love him, because he's their Uncle Arthur.
But to the members of the staff at Penrose Psychiatric Ward for the Mentally Insane, he's just another patient checking in, another lost soul in search for waking life amongst the dreams, seeking out the lines that hold in reality from the world of make-believe.
Arthur steps inside the first floor of the ward with all the solemnity of a condemned man walking to the gallows, still dressed to the nines in his three piece suit. He surveys the new and unfamiliar surroundings with regal authority, taking in all the possible exits with a steady gaze, all the security protocols, the more or less barricaded central nurse's station with its shatterproof glass - once a point man, always a point man.
Except this is now what the world's best point man has become. Ah, see how the mighty have fallen.
Arthur lets his eyes track over the different individuals shuffling slowly about or sprawled limply over the furniture like sacks of flour, all dressed in the standard white cotton t-shirt and drawstring pants; his eye twitches faintly as the only visible sign of his discomfort. Behind him, Dom reaches out with one hand and squeezes his shoulder gently, apologetically. "It's just for a little while," he says quietly, and Arthur nods once, silent. He walks forward then, shoulders straight and jaw set, chin lifted defiantly, walking toward the nurse's station to check himself in.
Movement out of the corner of his eye catches his attention, movement from across the room and, against his will, Arthur's eyes slide over to said corner and to the man slouched in it, the man flipping what looks like a poker chip over and over his knuckles, the man who's looking straight at him.
A line appears in Arthur's brow, not one of displeasure or disgust, but of confusion. He quickly runs through his mental scrapbook of names and faces accumulated over the past few years, finding none that fit the profile of this stranger staring at him as if they've not only met before, but have History, the type that requires a capital 'H'. Arthur tears his eyes away and wraps his fingers around the pen, signing his name and committing himself to seven months of institutional living before chancing another sneak glance at his unidentified audience of one.
He's still staring, and still flipping that poker chip of his around and around in his fingers. It's weird and immediately unsettling - and Arthur hasn't the faintest idea why, because it usually takes a hell of a lot more than a pair of eyes to make him feel uncomfortable. It usually takes more than staring down the barrel of a gun, watching the numbers on a bomb tick down to one, more than all of that to get him to even bat an eye.
"Arthur?"
The point man looks up, and there's a pretty young woman standing in front of him, dressed in the standard scrubs of a nurse. "I'm Ariadne," she says, smiling. "If you'll come with me, I'll show you to your room."
Arthur follows wordlessly, and as he walks out of the main sitting area and down along the corridor, he can still feel the man's eyes burning a hole in the back of his head.
- * - * -
Arthur goes crazy on a Thursday.
He does it very much in the same way he does everything else - efficiently, determinedly, and with a quiet steadfastness that makes Dom want to simultaneously rip his hair out and bow his head to weep. There is no slippery slope, no leaps and bounds, only a series of successive little steps spiraling ever downwards that are practically invisible in the happening, but all too clearly evident in the aftermath.
One day, he seems perfectly normal (or as normal as Arthur can be, Dom always thought that the endless lists and near-machinacal precision a bit off): joining the Cobbs for dinner, reviewing the details of the upcoming job, helping Mal with the fettuccine alfredo, reading the kids a bedtime story and kissing them goodnight as Dom and Mal washed dishes in the kitchen.
And the next, this.
"Arthur, listen to me," Dom demands, his voice firm and commanding, but his hands are shaking ever so slightly as he holds his hands up in a placating manner, because if the sight of his point man standing there holding a gun pressed to his temple with a look of such calm on his face isn't the most frightening thing he's ever seen, he doesn't know what is. And, being a man who delves into the subconscious minds of others to wade through the muck of their deepest, darkest secrets, he's seen a lot of stupid and scary - but this tops them all. "Put the gun down."
"No," Arthur says quietly, and it's the eerie calm on his face, the steadiness in his tone that makes the situation all that more dangerous. His eyes aren't glassy or shifting around like marbles in a pinball machine; he's still as cool and unruffled as ever, and Dom swears quietly under his breath as Arthur's fingers tighten against the trigger.
"Will you just think about what you're about to do?!" Fear and desperation burst forth like the waters of a deluge smashing through a dam.
"I have thought about it," his point man replies flatly. "You've trained me to tell the difference between reality and fantasy, and this, Dom - " Arthur flicks a glance around his apartment, at Dom cautiously taking a slow step forward, at Mal standing frozen in the little hallway, tears welling in her eyes - "this isn't real."
"Arthur," Mal whispers, but stops when Arthur's eyes snap toward her and narrow.
"This isn't real," he tells her. "You're not real."
Dom moves to stand in front of his wife, fear trailing an icy finger up his spine. He knows that normally, Arthur would sooner cut his own head off than do anything to harm Mal, but he's seen firsthand Arthur's ruthlessness against projections in dreams, and it's the stuff of nightmares - and worse. There's no telling what's going on behind that cool gaze and in Arthur's scarily sharp but (currently) very disturbed mind.
For a moment the three of them simply stand there, gazing at each other with baited breath, unwilling to move or speak lest one wrong word or movement result in a tragic mistake. "Arthur, please." Dom reaches out pleadingly. "Please, just put the gun away, and we can talk about this." Arthur's left eye twitches and Dom backs up quickly, both in speech and action. "Okay. Okay. Arthur, if anyone happens to be a projection, then why haven't they attacked you? Or any of us?"
"You're not a projection," Arthur says with absolute certainty, but he's slowly pulling the gun away from his temple, and Dom lets out a minute sigh of relief. "Then you must be dreaming too. But-"
"Uncle Arthur!!"
"Hey, I wanna go in first!"
Dom jerks in shock as his children's voices float into the room; they had been on their way out to dinner when the extractor suggested inviting Arthur along, and clearly, James and Phillipa had gotten antsy waiting in the car. Mal's face is white as she tries to hold them back and block their view of their beloved Uncle Arthur rapidly losing his grip on sanity, but Phillipa squeezes past her and charges into the room, sweet face lit up with a jubilant smile, rushing forward with open arms.
For a moment, Dom's heart stops cold - until he sees that Arthur's on his knees and gathering Phillipa into his arms, with the gun nowhere in sight. The point man was always a quick one; that's part of what makes him so skilled. James squirms out of his mother's arms and goes to join his sister, snuggling in close with his head tucked under Arthur's chin. Mal steps up to stand beside her husband, letting out a shaky breath, but Arthur's dark eyes meet Dom's over the top of the children's heads - and Dom knows that this isn't over.
- * - * -
He memorizes the set schedule in twenty-four hours.
Ariadne raps on the door at eight in the morning, two soft little taps before she unlocks the door and sticks her head inside, wishing him a good morning with a cheery smile. Arthur, who is always up before six, simply nods politely at her and puts away the book he's been reading or blueprint he's been sketching out (being a point man is more than just gathering intel and handling guns; he can pull double duty as extractor and architect, and quite flawlessly, too, though not as well as Dom or Mal of course. Forging though, that's something he's never quite gotten the hang of), heading down to the cafeteria.
Medication comes with breakfast (which is usually some odd-looking gloop of some kind or cereal and fruit. Arthur downs a cup of coffee - black and scalding hot - and then goes back for another.) and after that, most everyone moves off to group therapy to share their feelings and draw pictures, or some variation thereof - Arthur's not too sure; he's what the staff call a 'special case', and is thus excluded from any such required activities. Instead, Ariadne shows him to the office of his personal therapist, a stern-looking Japanese man whose soft yet commanding tone and thin silver spectacles seem more suited for the boardroom of some corporate empire than to the small broom closet of an office with its dusty furnishings and framed diplomas from Harvard and Johns Hopkins University.
He never really remembers how the talks go, probably due to extreme boredom or fogginess from the medication (although when asked, Ariadne had told him the pills were to help him focus on reality). However, Dr. Saito always seems pleased at the end of the sessions, jotting down something or other in a file folder before telling Arthur in that same quiet but powerful voice that they'll meet again tomorrow.
Lunch rolls around without much fanfare, and after that, they're let out into the exercise yard for some fresh air. All they really need is a barbed wire fence and some sniping guards on tall towers to complete the vibe of a high-security prison, and Arthur tries not to draw more comparisons as he jogs laps around the rather roomy yard. Many patients drift off to their own rooms following such excitement, and thus the afternoon is whittled away until dinnertime and another round of medication.
Once a week, he goes to the office of a Doctor al Dwarian ("Please, call me Yusuf") for a physical.
The lights go out at ten o'clock sharp; the doors lock, and Arthur lays on his back, die clenched tightly in one fist, staring at the ceiling until sleep comes (it usually doesn't).
It's perhaps the most boring existence Arthur could possibly imagine (and he's got a very good imagination, thank you very much), and if not for the one small godsend of being allowed to work on jobs still, he has no doubt he would indeed go insane.
"Got another one for you," Ariadne smiles as she slips him another dossier from Dom, and Arthur thanks her with a small close-lipped smile, settling down at a table in the corner of the sitting room and getting to work. The psych ward provides him with an individualized laptop, with restrictions already set in place by Dr. Saito (although it's not like Arthur can't hack through them anyway. He doesn't do that though, because he's here to get better; he promised Dom and Mal he would. For the sake of the kids.), and Arthur keeps busy throughout the long hours, researching mark after mark and typing his findings up neatly to save on a USB drive that gets sent back to Dom. Apparently, the powers that be concluded that allowing Arthur exposure to the actual process of the blending and separation of dreams from reality is supposed to help him differentiate between the two for his own benefit. Arthur's simply grateful he has something to do.
(It's a bit strange, though. Dom doesn't insult Arthur's intelligence or his...situation by giving him throwaway open and shut cases; they're normal jobs all right, jobs that need to be planned, kinks worked out, equations that don't work and need to be fixed, intricacies laid out to every last detail under Arthur's keen eye. But there's something odd about them, something Arthur can't put a name to. It's...it's almost as if his mind is reviewing the information instead of thinking it up afresh, as if he's digging it up from somewhere hidden deep inside his own psyche and and simply putting the ideas to paper. And Arthur knows he's good, but he's not that good. It's the same, with every single file, every mark, with every little fact he catches himself thinking: I've seen this before - although obviously, he hasn't. He usually works through the large stacks of file folders one-handed, his die clenched tightly in his other fist.)
There is one other distraction from his work though, although it's more of an annoyance than anything else: the man Arthur caught staring at him the day he first checked in sadly turns out to be a very real person indeed, and not just a figment of the point man's imagination. It doesn't take long for Arthur to discover that the man is the psych ward's resident charmer, flirting with all the pretty nurses in a suave, very British accent (although Arthur notices that he's not crude when he does so, and he never takes it further than a wink, a roguish smirk, and, once, a twirl across the sitting area floor with a giggling Ariadne in his arms).
Arthur still doesn't know his name. He still stares at Arthur like it's nobody's business. And it's driving Arthur absolutely nuts (poor choice of words, but he really doesn't care) because he's a point man; it's not just a profession or a title, it's who he is. Arthur needs to be the man who knows every single aspect of every situation he's presented with, all the footnotes and fine print read and re-read until he can rehearse the plan through his mind frontwards, backwards, or sideways. This unnamed stranger with his flirty ways and cocky mannerisms and startlingly familiar gaze whips any semblance of control straight from Arthur's hands without trying - by simply being, and Arthur can't stand it.
He tries researching of course, but short of hacking into the psych ward's records and without any sort of facial recognition software, there's not much he can do. One day (day thirteen), after yet another breakfast filled with strong black coffee and an unblinking blue-grey gaze from across the room, he decides to bite the bullet and simply ask.
Ariadne is humming to herself as she hands him the laptop from behind the counter at the nurse's station and when she turns her back to retrieve the power chord, he clears his throat. "Ariadne?"
The nurse turns around, her lips puckered in a surprised 'o'. "So," she laughs then, a twinkle in her eye, "it speaks. I was beginning to give up the hope of ever hearing you actually talk."
Arthur allows himself a self-depricating chuckle, before nodding to the corner of the room, where the man is flirting with another nurse, but his eyes keep sliding back toward where Arthur stands. "Who is that?"
"Hmm? Oh, that's Eames." Ariadne signs off on a slip of paper and then sets the pen aside, leaning over the counter and glancing at the newly named man. "He's been here for a while, I think."
"Eames what?"
The petite nurse shrugs. "Just Eames."
Just Eames. No first name. Huh. Arthur's eyebrows draw toward each other as he begins to mentally go through a catalogue of British surnames, trying to figure out if there's anything else he can deduce about-
"He's like you, you know." Ariadne is watching him closely, her head tilted to one side.
"Like me?" Arthur doesn't know what the young woman is insinuating, but there is no way he's a brash, incorrigible flirt who stares at people like he's mentally undressing them or contemplating them for dessert.
"He's here because of that whole...dream business...thing." She says it carefully, quietly, like the mere motion of dream sharing might set him off into a rage, falling down to the floor and twitching uncontrollably while frothing at the mouth. Well, they are in a suitable environment for such a happenstance (in fact, he just saw an episode of such yesterday) so Arthur guesses he can't really blame her. "I heard he's also a thief. His file says he's got a case of severe dissociative identity disorder." Ariadne's voice drops low and she leans in conspiratorially, but there's no trace of malice or gossip in her tone, merely matter of fact. "He thinks he can become other people."
Ah, a forger then. That certainly changes things. Arthur raises an eyebrow at the other. "You're not supposed to be telling me this, are you?"
Ariadne shrugs, a nonchalant lift and fall of her shoulders. "You've been watching him watch you for the past two weeks, Arthur. It's about time you stop making eyes at each other and introduce yourselves."
Arthur blinks. Raises an eyebrow quizzically. Processes the words through his head, and then frowns. "Has anyone ever told you you're very forthright?"
She laughs, and it's a warm sound that is sure to latch hooks into some boy's heart one day, latch on and never let go. "All the time. Are you admitting to making eyes at him?" she asks with a mischievous sparkle in her eye.
This time, the frown becomes an outright glare. "Thank you, Ariadne," he replies stiffly, and strides away, Ariadne's giggles following him down the hall.
- * - * -
Eames has always been a little touched in the head, and he doesn't need the wristband or straightjacket to prove it. The different faces he wears are enough.
Anyone who willingly distorts his own reflection, knowingly adapts the mannerisms of other living and distinct individuals, and does so as a profession is either a spy (and they're not all mentally sound either), an actor (Hollywood is basically a shrink's playground; so many daddy issues and delusions of grandeur), or a thief (enough said). Eames is all three.
He's the best forger that money can buy, and he knows he's going crazy when he starts seeing his own reflection as different forgeries, flickering like a black and white TV screen, going fuzzy at the edges and utterly incapable of becoming anything real. He knows, because years and years ago, he watched his mother slip away into the depths of insanity, watched her slip through his fingers no matter how earnestly or carefully he tried to put the pieces of her fragile mind back together for her - and it all started the morning she woke up, looked in the mirror, and started to scream that her face was no longer hers.
He celebrates with a night of drinking enough booze to satisfy a bunch of frat boys partying it up the night before graduation, chasing the liquor with five bottles of a cocktail of pills: oxycontin, amphetamines, ecstasy, the works. An indeterminable amount of time later, he wakes up with an IV in his wrist, gagging on the tube down his throat, and with a pump in his stomach.
When the nurse goes in to remove the tube, he thanks her in a barely audible rasp and smiles despite the way his dry lips crack and start to bleed. As she goes to check the IV in his arm, he grabs her wrist in a grip that crushes the bones and, with that same bloody smile, whispers as if divulging the greatest secret of the cosmos: "This isn't real. I'm dreaming."
After five days, he's relocated to Penrose Psychiatric Ward.
- * - * -
In just a very short amount of time, Arthur learns a lot about Eames. One, his name. Two, is that he smells a bit like sandalwood and spice, something old and mysterious, warm and comforting. Three, is that his eyes are the oddest shade of grayish-blue, like that one point on the horizon where storm clouds meet the raging sea, hiding the deepest of secrets and stories untold. They're quite mesmerizing up close, and Arthur is indeed getting a very up close look at said eyes, because the fourth thing he learns about Eames is that the man has absolutely no knowledge of the concept of personal space.
The forger smirks at him, hands braced on the wall on either side of Arthur's head, effectively trapping him between a rock and a hard place - namely, between the wall and a broad chest framed by strong shoulders. "So."
Arthur stares back coolly, resisting the urge to fidget. "So," he repeats, and tries to look for an escape route. Normally, he would be able to break out of such a position with great ease, but he's not too keen on being thrown into solitary due to an episode of sudden violence (although personally, he is of the opinion that such an episode is and would be fully justified). "Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Eames?"
The smirk widens. Eames chuckles low in his throat and Arthur absolutely does not feel a shiver creep up his spine; he doesn't. "Perhaps. It seems you know who I am, darling, but sadly, I know very little about you." He crowds in even closer and Arthur briefly wonders if there's really a God above who hates him this much, to have given Eames the opportunity to trap him in an abandoned hallway, with no one else around. As if the staring isn't enough!
"Are you Cobb's infamous point man, then? What is it they call you - the best in the game, the legendary Prince of Paradox?"
Arthur blinks. How does... He regains his composure quickly though. "Not at the moment," he replies curtly. His voice is cold.
"Hmm." Eames's smirk has softened into a smile though, and it's warm and sincere, as if he's trying to melt the ice of Arthur's sullen glare. "Honesty. That's admirable."
Arthur is a man of great patience. He has to be, to work with a man like Dominic Cobb - who, despite being a great extractor, is not exactly business associate of the month material - but his patience is not infinite. More than that, something about this immediately infuriating man standing in front of him, boxing him into a corner that he can't reason or talk or slip his way out of, makes that string already drawn taut in Arthur's mind just snap. "And you would know all about honesty, wouldn't you?" He challenges, tone sharp and words barbed, aimed to wound deep.
Eames pulls back slightly, but there is no evident hurt contorting his features; instead he looks thoughtful, a bit reminiscent, even. Arthur doesn't know what to make of it, and he freezes when the forger lifts a hand and brushes calloused fingers along his jaw in an oddly gentle manner. "Oh, I do think I like you very much, Arthur," he says, and his tone is fond, familiar.
Arthur knocks the hand away and puts an acceptable amount of distance between Eames and himself, glaring although he can literally feel the flush creeping up the back of his neck. "Touch me again, Mr. Eames," he warns, "and I'll break your fingers."
- - - - -
The pet names start the very next morning.
Apparently, Eames doesn't take Arthur's threat of broken fingers as a message to stay away; rather interpreting it as a green light to bypass the gazing from afar, simply stare openly no matter what distance away, and commence all other manners of sexual harassment (and to Arthur, who barely ever tolerates physical contact unless it's a hug from Mal, a hand on the shoulder from Dom, or getting barreled to the ground by the James and Phillipa, there's a lot that can be considered harassment). If it's not a warm hand resting fleetingly on the small on his back here, it's a literal wink and a nudge there; he's bound to get his hair ruffled at least once a day, and once, Arthur's positive Eames tried to start a game of footsie under the cafeteria table at dinner.
He grits his teeth and tries to ignore it, but this is Eames, Eames who is a powerhouse, a whirlwind of energy and presence. He's a force of nature that's impossible to ignore, because attempting to do so would be like trying to ignore an exploding star two inches away from your face. The forger takes to sitting at Arthur's table whenever he's trying to work, whistling softly as he shuffles through a worn deck of cards or settling in with a battered copy of A Tale of Two Cities, occasionally making an offhanded comment about the job, the mark, the best forgery to make.
Ariadne thinks it's cute and does nothing to help him, giggling girlishly behind her fingers, eyes round with mirth. Dr. Saito murmurs "hmm" contemplatively and scratches down some notes, but reacts little to the news otherwise. Dr. "really Arthur, just call me Yusuf" al Dwarian has the strangest reaction of all when Ariadne happily spreads the gossip - he claps his hands like a child on Christmas morning and, beaming, offers Arthur his hearty congratulations. Arthur blinks and stares blankly before heaving an enormous sigh and resigning himself to Eames's relentless teasing and tactile personality.
Except it's not really all that terrible, once Arthur thinks about it, when he allows himself to think about it. There's no lechery behind the glimmer of playfulness in Eames's eyes when the forger greets him in the morning with a jovial arm around the shoulders and a cup of black coffee, no hidden agenda as far as Arthur can tell in the way the other man stares at him now when he's tapping relentlessly at the keyboard, his lips uplifted slightly in affection, and Arthur would be lying if he claimed not to have enjoyed that one time when he suddenly felt Eames's thumbs digging skillfully into the knots in his tense shoulders after a particularly challenging job. It's rather lonely around the place anyway, and although spunky, intelligent Ariadne is good company, there's still a line even she dare not cross when it comes to relationships with patients.
With Eames there are no lines to toe, no boundaries to stay within; the forger gleefully scribbles outside the pages and he bleeds color onto everything he touches, breathes life into everyone he encounters. Arthur, who has always seen the world in black and white (he knows he's a criminal and what he does for a living is illegal; he knows that there is good and then there is bad; he knows that the grey area people speak of is a bunch of hypocritical bullshit made up to cover their own mistakes) is not necessarily rude as much as he is polite but distant. He likes making lists and following them down to the letter, likes knowing the rules and limitations of what he can or cannot do, likes being in control of himself at all times.
Arthur's a black and white photograph, all sharp contrasts and hard angles, neat and orderly and looking exactly how he wants to, captivating in his accuracy and likeness of perfection; Eames is the blank canvas splattered liberally with acrylic paint from every which direction, messy and showy and all things but boring. He's a forger, a con man, a thief who paints pictures with his words and spins spiderweb snares with his charm. But he lies so prettily, so sweetly that even Arthur - straight laced, self-controlled Arthur with nary a hair out of place (even though they disallow his hair gel in the institution, citing the risk of other patients possibly finding and deciding to, for whatever reason, eat it) -finds himself being drawn in.
It's easy and familiar, his banter with Eames, sort of like reciting lines from a play half-forgotten, whimsical play and the more he engages, the more Arthur finds himself reciprocating the attention and friendliness originally so despised.
"Darling, hand me a napkin."
"I have a name, Eames. Try using it sometime."
"Of course, how thoughtless of me. But how did you know, Arthur, that I was speaking to you? I could have been asking Ariadne here to pass me that napkin."
"...Damn it."
Slippery slope? Check. Snowball effect? Most definitely. Together, they make for a wild, uncoordinated pitch into the deep black of the unknown and while it's one hell of a ride, it's also scary as fuck.
"Oh Arthur, I've had the most awful day. Console me."
"Specificity, Eames. I can't console you until you tell me what happened."
"Can't, or won't?"
"Maybe a bit of both."
"You're a cruel, cruel man, Arthur."
Sometimes they talk shop, discussing old jobs, triumphs and failures, how many times they've died, how many times they've had to kill. Eames spins tales of the many faces he's worn, dark-skinned beauties of exotic cultures and pale, shapely creatures of too little sun and all sinew and grace. Arthur talks of little James who once almost plugged himself into a dreaming state, of sweet Phillipa who's looking more and more like Mal (or at least she was, the last time Arthur saw), of Dom who acts as surrogate father and business associate rolled into one, of Mal who's simply lovely. And the most disconcerting part if it is, Arthur doesn't even realize the moment he trips, or when he starts to fall.
- - - - -
"You know," Eames begins lazily, propping his socked feet up on Arthur's lap, and Arthur interrupts him.
"Feet down." The forger mischievously nudges Arthur in the ribs gently, and, without even bothering to remove his eyes from the screen, the point man swats at the offending foot. "Feet. Down."
"Of course," Eames chuckles and does as ordered, still flipping that damn poker chip over his knuckles and watching Arthur work. "Would you mind making me a sandwich too, pet?"
"Not likely, since you have the unsavory habit of talking even while you eat." Arthur replies distractedly, squinting at a statistic that doesn't make sense. He senses Eames shifting, then sitting forward in his chair, leaning across the table.
"You know," he starts again, and there's a hesitance in his tone that Arthur's never heard before, a tentative note that sounds strange and foreign coming from the cocky charmer's mouth, and it makes him look up to meet Eames's less-than-confident gaze.The forger waits a beat and then slowly reaches out and lays his hand on Arthur's wrist, a warm and solid weight, fingers brushing against the pulse thrumming beneath the skin in what could be considered a caress. "If I didn't know better Arthur, I would think you're starting to warm up to me."
Arthur freezes, Eames's eyes boring into his.
"Then it's a damn good thing you do know better," is all he says as he stands abruptly, jerking his arm away and nearly knocking over the chair in his haste to turn swiftly on his heel and all but march out of the room, leaving the other man behind.
When he's finally brave enough to venture out from the security of his room two hours later, Eames is nowhere to be found.
- * - * -
He's hurt Eames. Arthur knows it. And the guilt eats at him like rats gnawing away inside his stomach.
He doesn't let it show though, of course. When he sees Eames sitting at what he's come of think of as their table at mealtimes, Arthur turns his head away and walks to the other side of the small cafeteria. He no longer drinks coffee in the mornings in order to avoid seeing and interacting with the forger; he's taken to working on jobs in a secluded corner of the main sitting area, at a table pushed against and facing the wall. Whenever he gets the faintest whiff of sandalwood and spice, he turns and flees with all the dignity he can muster, metaphorical tail tucked between his legs.
But he misses it. The pet names, the warm looks, the warmth of touching another person - the lack of which turns his manner curt and his temper short, diverting his attention away from Dom's jobs and Arthur can't stand it. Just five more months, he tells himself, and then he lies awake in bed all night, staring at the ceiling and seeing Eames's hesitant gaze, hears his voice: Oh, I do think I like you very much, Arthur.
It's manageable, he thinks, until one day, he snaps at Ariadne with the acrid tongue of a poisonous serpent. And although Arthur is more of the silent, watchful type, his barbs can corrode even the thickest of skins. There's an apology lodged in this throat even before the words finish flying from his lips, but thankfully, Ariadne's made of sterner steel that he gives her credit for. She doesn't cry, doesn't even bat an eye, simply puts down the clipboard she's holding and steps in close, sticking an index finger into his face. "Okay mister, I've just about had enough. What is wrong with you?"
He glances away. "Nothing."
At that moment, Eames choses to appear in the sitting area, old battered copy of yet another book in hand (Catcher in the Rye today) wearing the most dejected look Arthur has ever seen. It reminds him of the time the stray mangy cat Phillipa 'adopted' off the streets wandered out into the road and got itself squashed into roadkill, or perhaps of the look on James's face when he discovered that "Santa" looked a great deal like Daddy (it was Dom's own fault for being so damn loud when putting the presents under the tree). Only about ten times more miserable.
He's halfway to one of the lounge chairs when he suddenly looks up and catches Arthur's eye from across the room. The point man averts his gaze quickly, and Eames flinches, then turns around and shuffles right back the way he came, shoulders even more slumped than before.
"Arthur," Ariadne hisses the moment the forger disappears from view. Her hands are on her hips; there's a scowl on her face and her eyes are narrowed into slits - all in all, she looks angrier than a wet cat. "What did you do?"
"To whom?"
"Eames!" She throws her hands up in the air. "What happened between you and Eames?"
Arthur scowls. "There is no 'me and Eames', Ariadne."
"Bullshit." Her voice is the sharp click of a key in the lock. "That's ridiculous. Everyone can tell there is - or at least there was definitely something going on between you guys, and obviously, you've done something to mess it up."
"How do you know it's something I did?" Arthur gets out from in between gritted teeth, eyes staring determinedly at the file on the table. Stein, Harold. Suspected of dealing arms to insurgents in Somalia. Considering using the Mr. Charles routine. Arthur, tell me what you think reads Dom's chicken scratch marching downhill across the page.
The folder disappears from under his gaze and he looks up at Ariadne. "Because Eames doesn't hurt people like that, Arthur. He's a good person." She stares at him, her eyes suddenly sad and tired. "And he cares about you. More than you know."
Arthur feels the guilt again, gawing away with razor-sharp teeth, but pushes it away with a vengeance. "What is or is not going on between Mr. Eames and myself is, quite frankly, none of your business," he replies, and swiftly snags the folder out of the nurse's loose grasp. "If you don't mind, Miss Brooks, I'd like to get back to work."
He turns on his heel and walks away, spine stiff and shoulders squared, and so misses Ariadne's pursed lips and quiet retort of then I'll make it my business.
- - - - -
"Arthur?"
He looks up, groaning inwardly. "Ariadne, I already told you that-"
She waves her hand impatiently. "No, never mind that. I just need some help getting a stack of towels from the top of the linen closet, that's all." She motions at the height disparity between herself and the point man. "Help a girl out?"
"Why not." Arthur knows he owes Ariadne for receiving the brunt of his temper the other day, and it's the least he can do to make up for it. He pushes away from the desk, getting fluidly to his feet and heading down the hallway adjacent to the bathrooms (he'd memorized the entire building's layout even before checking in), hearing Ariadne pad along quietly behind him. "Ariadne, about the other day...I really didn't mean to-"
He stops. The door to the little storage closet is open, and he sees the curve of broad shoulders and a strong back under the standard cotton shirt, sees the muscles stretching taut as the man reaches upwards for a stack of towels on the uppermost shelf- "Eames?"
The forger turns around, eyes going wide in surprise, and Arthur barely has time to comprehend what the hell is going on when a small pair of hands land on his shoulder blades, shoving hard, and he tumbles into the closet, the door slamming shut behind him.
For a moment, there's nothing but silence in the darkness. Then, "Well, this is interesting."
"Shut up," Arthur snaps, righting himself stiffly and pulling away from Eames's arms, which he'd unfortunately fallen right into when Ariadne pushed him with quite considerable strength. One hand scrabbles behind his back for the door handle - which doesn't exist, wonderful - and the other reaches up to the chain attached to the closet's single light bulb. He pulls sharply and it flickers on, buzzing noisily in the small space.
Eames is standing close, so close that there's barely a hand's width of space between the two men and Arthur sucks in a deep breath, inhaling sandalwood and spice. He's suddenly and irrationally terrified. "Ariadne," he calls out, and his voice cracks. "Ariadne, this isn't funny." He beats on the door with one clenched fist. "Ariadne! OPEN THE DOOR!"
"No." Ariadne's voice is muffled, but even so, she sounds extremely pleased with herself. "You two are going to fix whatever went wrong with you guys because no one can stand your attitude anymore, Arthur, or you moping around like you're considering hurling yourself off a cliff, Eames." There's the sound of what Arthur assumes is a chair settling against the door, and then Ariadne speaks again. "So go ahead, kiss and make up or whatever, but I'm not letting you guys out until the issue is resolved."
Arthur lets his head fall against the wood with a 'clunk', relishing the dull ache because he has no idea how this can possibly be any worse. His breath is coming in angry, hard pants as he turns around to escape Eames's probing stare, searching for an escape route. The door's made of a grade of wood halfway between flimsy and like steel, but there's no way he has the space to gather enough momentum to-
"Arthur?" Arthur can feel the other's breath tickling the back of his neck, and he stiffens.
"Shut up." It comes out sharp, sharper than he meant for it to. "Oh God, please, just shut up."
A large hand falls upon his back, rubbing between his shoulder blades in small, soothing circles. "Are you claustrophobic?"
He jerks away, nearly bashing his forehead into the door due to lack of space. "No!" He hisses, breath evening out the slightest bit. "Stop touching me!"
Eames draws away, and when he speaks next, his voice is quiet, resigned, almost. "If that's what you want."
Goddamn it, he's not in the mood for wordplay right now. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Arthur grinds out, talking more to the door than he is the man behind him. "I want to get out of this damn closet!" His voice raises. "Ariadne!"
"You want to get away from me, you mean."
At that, Arthur stops. He whirls around to see Eames pressed against the sheets and towels, face half hidden in shadow. "I never said that." The air hums with anticipation, tense and heavy. "Stop putting words in my mouth, Eames."
"Oh, but no one ever puts words in your mouth, Arthur," Eames snaps, snaps, accent sharpening in anger. "You say exactly what you bloody want whenever you want, and you mean every damn word." He steps forward, advancing threateningly, like a predator closing in upon his prey. "Heaven forbid someone else speak for you or say the words you're too afraid to speak for yourself."
Arthur's no shrinking violet or helpless quarry though, and he doesn't back down. "And what would you know about anything?"
Eames laughs drily, sardonic and bitter. "I may not know much but at least I know well enough to recognize what I bloody well want." His eyes flash, and it makes Arthur think of a tempest cyclone, rising upon the wings of the storm, drowning forever and ever in the unfathomable depths.
Out of all the ways to die, drowning is definitely the one Arthur hates the most.
He's in Eames's space (not that they have enough for the both of them to begin with) before he can stop himself, words flying thick and fast. "I'm a point man. I do what's good for the job. I'm dependable and trustworthy, and the best in the whole damn business." His fingers are fisting in Eames's shirt, pulling him even closer until he's hissing the words straight in the forger's face, as if such an action will make them get through that thick skull any easier. "I have my extractor's back and I protect Mal and the kids because I love them like my own family. They're the reason I'm here."
He's definitely breathing. Last he checked, stuffy linen closet or no there's still air. But Arthur isn't breathing oxygen, he's inhaling Eames, exhaling the same breath, filled with so much rage at this man for making him lose control like this, and yet yearning for something more, an emotion so fragile and precious he dares not say it aloud or even to himself. "I have never," Arthur whispers, his entire frame drawn tauter than an over-tuned string about to snap, "never wanted anything for myself. And then you come along - you and your stupid swagger and charm, your annoying pet names and...and..."
Eames's eyes are soft, tender; his fingers light as they press against Arthur's lips, cutting him off mid-rant. They stare at each other for a moment in the weird, twisting shadows of the closet, sharing the same breath, Arthur still holding onto the forger's shirt and Eames being all that's holding Arthur together. Slowly, slowly the forger slides his fingers from Arthur's lips and around to cup the back of his head, gently touching their foreheads together. "Oh, love," Eames whispers warmly, and Arthur's fingers fly for his totem.
- - - - -
"I am not speaking to you," Arthur tells Ariadne stiffly when she opens the door, and her face falls. As he turns sharply and strides away, the point man bites the inside of his cheek to hide his smile. Two seconds later, the young woman's squeal of surprise and joy as Eames grabs her up in an enormous bear hug and kisses her on the cheek is well worth it.
- * - * -
That night, Arthur falls asleep for the first time in months and dreams of a cave in the mountains, of snow and freezing down to the bone, of a pair of strong arms encircling him and whispering the words of a half-forgotten lullaby. He dreams of Eames in a warehouse, tied up and beaten; in an elevator, floating weightless; in a back alleyway, bleeding to death as Arthur can only scream no, no, no.
When Arthur's eyes open, he sits up with a scream lodged in his throat, reaching over to rip the the IV needle out of his wrist.
- - - - -
Ariadne taps on the door twice, a smile on her lips, still celebrating over yesterday's success. She swipes her ID and punches in the appropriate code with practiced ease, swings the door open, a teasing little word on the tip of her tongue-
-and screams.
- * - * -
A/N: Well dear readers, unfortunately, I happen to be in the mountains where there is little to no internet service at all. :(
It might take a day or two before the next part is up!
Part two here