Parce qu'on sera ensemble.
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Gentle mindfuck, maybe angst, general weirdness.
Summary: The problem with dreaming is that you never know if you're sleeping or dead.
Author’s Notes: Written for i_reversebang; based on visualcomplex's gorgeous, gorgeous piece. It inspired something I wouldn't normally write or even get the idea for, so I'm afraid the fic doesn't do her art justice... >.< But um. Yes, haha, I hope you guys nonetheless enjoy my attempt at being srs. And stuff.
Thanks to, of course, visualcomplex for letting me run wild with her prompt. I hope you're not too disappointed with the result slkfsh. >.< And as always, a million, billion thanks to my incredible betas, artenry, figletofvenice, and hilaryscribbles, who bore through my spam and all-caps freak outs with incredible tolerance. You guys are the best. T_T ♥ ♥ ♥
Title is from the French dub of Inception, because I couldn't help myself... x.x It's the last line of the train monologue: "Because we'll be together."
Arthur opens his eyes to gold.
He stands to more of it, long stalks scratching against his face, dragging along the deep green fabric of his favorite trench. It's perfectly even as far as the eye can see: a big field of tall grass, curving gently in the breeze.
Amber waves of grain, he thinks, automatic and American, even though he has no idea if it's wheat or weeds or what.
He looks around some more, but there's nothing else. Just the slightly dusky sky, caught somewhere between purple, blue, and orange in the half-set sun.
Dream? he wonders to himself, bemused, because he doesn't know this place, yet he doesn't remember hooking up to a PASIV, either. It can't be real, though. There's something about the feel of it; too vague, the colors saturated but somehow dusty, indistinct. It lacks the urban sleekness of Arthur's own creations. He's almost sure it belongs to someone else, but something about the quiet emptiness seems peaceful, benign. Even though the lack of projections and substance should be worrying, Arthur can't seem to muster up any amount of alarm.
That should probably worry him, too, but all he feels is… content.
It occurs to him, suddenly, that this could be a natural dream: The way everything feels like it makes sense; the way he knows, logically, that it doesn't.
It also occurs to him that he could be in limbo.
He reaches into his pocket then, fingers seeking out the soft plastic edge of his die, surprised-but not concerned-that he didn't think of it earlier.
"That's not going to help."
Arthur freezes.
"It won't tell you anything you don't already know," Eames tells him, wry, chiding. "Besides, how else would I be here, if you weren't dreaming?"
-
It's been three years since Eames dropped off the map, so completely that even Arthur with his formidable arsenal of resources couldn't find any leads.
At first, it was normal enough. Eames knew what he was doing, he could take care of himself; and while Arthur's the best, well… There are tricks even he doesn't know, and if anyone could skitter along in his blind spot, it's Eames.
He doesn't realize how long it's been until a year later, when he mentions Eames's name, and the architect stares at him blankly and asks, "Who?"
-
That night, he digs up Eames's last known cell number and is unsurprised when a soothing, mechanical voice informs him that the number you've reached is out of service; please hang up and try again. He hacks into Eames's inbox, which Eames will probably give him hell for later, except it's his own damn fault.
There are 3246 unread messages.
Arthur takes a deep breath. At least the server is still running wherever Eames left it. That has to mean something.
He backtracks through them steadily, thousands of job offers, some desperate, some wheedling, some with the edge of challenge. Nothing of interest. Nothing unexpected.
The oldest one he finds is dated June of last year, an offhanded query from Arthur himself about the Kaganovich job in San Francisco. Reading his own words brings a sharp realization of just how much time has passed; even longer, he thinks, considering the cumulative years he's spent in dreamtime.
He goes to check the Sent messages next and finds, instead, an unobtrusive (1) next to Drafts.
The email is addressed to him, but there is no subject. All it says is:
Arthur,
If you're reading this, I'm probably dead. Don't
His mind roars to life with all the implications that leaves ("Look at all your little mechanical engines go," Eames had said, the last time in Melbourne) until there's nothing but a white buzz in his ears. The unfinished email is dated Thursday, May 24, and the words are like a kick, a sudden awful awakening, as he remembers how annoyed he'd been, when Eames hadn't bothered to respond to him about Kaganovich; how he'd snidely thought that it was just like Eames to not be around when he was needed and then immediately shuffled the whole thing to the back of his mind in lieu of searching for another forger.
But really, Eames had already been in trouble by then. He just hadn't…
Arthur closes his eyes and wills the message to say more when he opens them again, but of course, it doesn't change.
Shit, Eames, he thinks. Fuck you.
-
"Mr. Eames," says Arthur. "It's been awhile." He turns slowly, but Eames stays in his peripheral vision until Arthur is suddenly looking him in the face for the first time in two years, seven months, and twenty-nine days.
Eames looks the same, but… off, somehow. Slightly different. A little narrower, maybe, a little thinner, the jut of his cheekbones sharper than Arthur remembers. The sweep of his hair is less harsh, the blue of his eyes more piercing. There's a cut across the left side of his generous mouth, two spots of blood standing out starkly against the pressed starch white of his shirt. His slate grey trousers are impeccably tailored, breaking at just the right length against fresh brown loafers.
He looks good, Arthur thinks with a pang. His clothes are more Arthur's style than his own, and this is how Arthur knows that he is nothing but a projection.
Eames smiles at him, apparently unbothered by his injury. "So it has," he says, voice the same deep, amused rumble, just this side of gravelly. "I see you've been a busy boy, but that shouldn't be surprising, should it."
He sounds cheerful enough, looking completely unperturbed to be standing in an empty field in the middle of nowhere.
But why should he be bothered, Arthur reminds himself. He's not real.
-
Marina stares at him in consternation. "Honey, it's Eames," she says patiently, taking a deep puff of her cigarette. "He's always getting into shit."
Ho Chi Minh City is suffocatingly humid this time of year. Arthur's plain cotton shirt is stifling against his skin, his normally starched collar wilting in the heat. Marina's dressed in a cheap polyester shirt, the kind ubiquitous across hot Asian cities, and the bright pink embroidery of her bra is visible through the thin fabric. Her red curls are pinned up at the top of her head, leaving the long line of her throat bare.
Arthur takes a sip of his iced coffee and winces at the unexpected sweetness. He usually takes his caffeine black.
"Are you saying he had to cut and run?" he asks, swirling the ice around in an attempt to dilute the milk faster.
Marina raises a pointed eyebrow at him. "You saying you've never done the same? 'Cause I seem to remember a time when you had Hanson brother hair and you wore graphic tees instead of suits. I'm pretty sure your name wasn't Arthur then."
"But I reestablished contact," he says, deliberately ignoring the jibe about his teenage sartorial choices. He does glower at her, though, because some things can stand to be forgotten forever. "I never waited more than three months to get back in the game."
Marina snorts. "Well, goddamn, kid, maybe he decided to look into early retirement." She shrugs broad, Irish warrior queen shoulders. "Who knows? He wasn't ever all that predictable."
Arthur rubs his thumb against his glass, leaving bare streaks in the condensation. He considers her and how much he can trust her with. Marina may be one of his oldest contacts, old enough that he'd consider her a friend, but some cards are better left close to the chest.
"I can't find him," he admits finally, reluctantly. "Even if he had to drop everything, there's always…" He trails off, uncomfortable with how much he's giving away.
Marina gives him a long, considering look, grey eyes sharp and calculating. She's digesting this new knowledge, he knows, filing it away for some later date. But they go back far enough that she won't use it against him. Maybe.
Either way, she's known Eames as long as he has; if anyone else could understand, it would have to be her.
She takes a last drag and grinds the cigarette out in the ash tray. "I'll look into it," she says, "let you know what I find."
Ironically, this is when Arthur first feels his heart sink; when he first realizes the possibility that there might not be anything left.
-
Arthur is a pragmatist. He's never been afraid of death or dying. It happens to everyone; he knows this. Half the time, he's the one doing the killing. One day, it will be his turn, and he knows that, too.
But despite his general apathy, it still surprises him when it's someone he knows, someone he likes, someone else. Even though they all work in the same field and face all the same dangers, Arthur has always been unshakably convinced that he would get it first, when the inevitable came. It makes sense, right? He plays point: first leading the charge, last leaving the field. It's his job to place himself in danger, and some part of him has always known he would die young. He doesn't think about turning eighty; he thinks about his friends turning eighty and moving on, living without him. Growing old and grey-haired with each other, meeting at the local pub and reminiscing, saving a toast for Arthur, good man, he went down fighting the good fight.
In all his plans, he never wrote them out first.
When Mal died, his world had felt askew for weeks. They were little more than passing acquaintances, but he knew the Cobbs well enough to send sincere condolences. She and Dom were good people, straightlaced and legitimate but still interesting. They had great ideas and unique perspectives, were pioneers who constantly revolutionized the field by pushing deeper, harder than anybody else. They were also an inseparable pair, meant to last, and he has trouble thinking about him without her until something with her face starts tearing up Dom's dreams.
With Eames, it feels… It feels blank, like nothing; like an idea Arthur can't fully wrap his mind around, a concept he can't begin to understand.
What does it mean for Eames to not exist?
Arthur doesn't know.
-
"Where are we?" he asks, because he wants an answer, even though technically, he's talking to himself. "Is this limbo?"
Eames shrugs. "Maybe," he says, running a hand through the tall waving grass. "Could be the Elysian Fields for all I know. The Egyptians said they were full of reeds, you know."
"Is that what this is?" Arthur says, sliding a finger along a thinner blade. "Am I dead then?"
"Or maybe you're dreaming." Eames grins. "Maybe you're dreaming that you're dead. Either way, it's still your subconscious, and it's still pretty empty." He smirks at Arthur sideways, sly and challenging. "Never figured you for an airhead."
The amused arch of his eyebrow is familiar, and the playful curl at the edge of his mouth speaks more of fondness than mockery. When the light catches on the high planes of his face, it throws into relief the creases in his forehead, deep from years of skepticism and laughter. The tilt of his chin, the straight line of his nose... All Arthur can think is that he looks so like Eames, so like himself, except he's not. Not really.
-
There were times, when Mal first began showing up in Cobb's dreams, that Arthur would catch him staring after her figure with a distant, confused yearning, like he didn't know how to tear himself away. He worried, then, that Cobb would lose himself at last, let go of his ragged hold on reality to join the wife he so obviously missed and mourned.
"You need to hold yourself together," he'd told Cobb, sternly, because he'd thought that Cobb was giving in to weakness, surrendering to his own sentimental desire to see her again and make amends. He hadn't understood that the image of her could be as sharp as any knife to the chest; how the sight of her profile, twenty feet away, could freeze his blood and drain away the will to move from every limb, yet a glimpse of her smile could be an inexorable magnet, drawing strength from all the things left unsaid. He'd never felt the helpless, twisted comfort to be had in the septic honesty of admission, in savoring the thoughts as they turn slowly in his mind: You are gone now, and I helped it happen. You are dead, and I helped dig your grave.
He thinks he knows better, now.
-
Yusuf has no clue.
"He left for Colombia and never came back," he says, voice crackling over the line. Arthur can almost see him shrug. "I figured it was one of those jobs, take it and leave it, no contact. You know how it goes."
And the problem is, Arthur does know. He does know, because he's had to pull a few of them himself before, and there are times when he's had to change everything at the drop of a dime and fade out of people's lives without any warning.
This could all be so normal. Maybe Eames is fine. Maybe he is worrying for nothing.
Maybe Eames is dead.
"And you haven't heard from him since?" he presses.
"Well, I mean, we're not exactly bosom brothers, are we," Yusuf says, practical and matter-of-fact. "I didn't really expect to." There is rustling on his end, the sound of a ringing bell. "Besides," he continues, sounding mildly curious, "why are you so concerned? It's Eames. He knows what he's doing."
-
And that's just it, isn't it; the old refrain.
Handy, capable Eames, why would he possibly need help? A more slippery bastard never lived. If anything could survive a nuclear winter, it'd be a cockroach and Eames.
-
"It's kind of funny," Arthur muses, settling down into the grass. "We used to be so scared of this place, and now that I'm here, it's nothing but a field of grass."
Eames smiles a little. "Are you saying that grass can't be dangerous?"
Arthur gives him a skeptical look.
He plucks a stalk from the ground and waves it in Arthur's face with a flourish. "En garde, monsieur!" Eames cries in the most clichéd of Hollywood French accents. "Choose your weapon, and defend your honor, or forever live as a cabbage-eating pillock!"
Part of him wants to sit still and make scathing remarks about someone whose worst insult is "cabbage-eating pillock," but part of him wants to enjoy the levity, so he does. Arthur grabs his own wheat-grass-stalk-thing and twirls it back at Eames.
"Have at thee," he snarls back, feeling like a third grade reenactment of MacBeth.
They fight as they never have before, with less than optimum efficiency. The stalks are thick but brittle, and the weight of the feathery ends leaves their lunges short. Soon, they are reduced to smacking each other in the face.
"Take that, you blaggard," Eames hisses as he deals Arthur a particularly vicious strike across the cheek.
It stings more than he thought it would. He can feel the welt start rising immediately, blood beading along the edge, and it's a surprise, because he hadn't thought about what injury would feel like in limbo.
"Huh," he says, staring at the smear of red on the back of his hand, remembering suddenly that this is not real. What's around him is not real.
He frowns.
"Are you all right?" Eames asks, dropping his stalk and reaching for him with concern.
Arthur blinks at him owlishly. "I'm not going to die," he says, and Eames stops, hand frozen halfway between them. "Although I should, shouldn't I. Because this is a dream. And I need to wake up."
Eames stares at him quietly, hand dropping back down again. "If you want to," he says neutrally, suddenly inscrutable.
Arthur tenses, remembering the first time Mal got violent, when Dom had told her gently that he had to leave her behind. He waits for the same ugly resentment to surface, the same sense of brewing insanity, watches the corner of Eames's mouth for the tell-tale hint of a downturn, except it doesn't come. Eames just raises an eyebrow when he doesn't move, simple and placid. "Well?"
"…But all I have is grass," Arthur says, feeling stupid and kind of relieved, even though an angry Eames would've meant a quick death and a solution to everything.
"That does make things a little difficult," he says instead, mild and agreeable. "A grass to the face is less than lethal."
There are creative ways of dying, Arthur knows, but for some reason, he can't seem to come up with any. He's forgetting again, that it's limbo, but even as he struggles to hold onto the thought, it slips away from him, just like thoughts of dying feel a little absurd while he's standing in a wide open field with birds flying far overhead.
"I don't think I feel like dying yet," Arthur admits, surprised at himself.
Eames smiles at him, bright and brilliant. "Then don't."
-
Cobb joked once that Arthur's entire existence is a ridiculous exercise in self-denial. It's true, in a way. It's not that he isn't curious or that he doesn't want to try new things; it's just that he learned early on what it meant to be surrounded by dreamers. People who make a living by doing the impossible are shit at thinking about reality; and the more talented they are, the crazier they get. No one ever knows when to stop, because everyone wants excitement, want to be the first to do something. No one ever thinks about the nooks and crannies of everyday life like food, like funding, like going under the radar and staying there. Like how to keep a group of unconscious bodies and a very expensive piece of equipment safe, away from prying eyes. Like how to keep things simple so that everyone actually wakes up to claim their paychecks.
So he's made it his job to remember these details, because it's necessary, it's vital. Arthur is practical, careful, will reign in the risks and draw a line in the sand. He's gotten good at denying himself answers and living without them. There's not much to regret about being alive and sane, so he refuses to let himself dwell on the things he'll never know.
Oddly, this is probably why he works so well with Eames.
Eames comes from an old school criminal background. He likes dreaming well enough, but for him, it's a tool, a means to an end. His ultimate goal is always the take, whether it's material or informational, and he's smart. He thinks of solutions and angles that Arthur hasn't considered, makes Arthur's life hard while doing half of his job for him.
But Eames's competence is also why Arthur hates working with him, because the jobs they do together may end up being a flawless breeze, but the planning stages-the weeks and months spent living out of each other's pockets beforehand-are hellish with competitive arguments and senseless one-upmanship. On their first job, it had devolved into a fist fight, and afterwards, Arthur had been horrified with his own lack of professionalism and resolved to never let it happen again.
Eames had just grinned at him, blood in his teeth, and laughed.
"Oh, but my dear stick in the mud," he said, head lolling back against the concrete, "that was the best conversation we've ever had."
-
The next day, he'd ceded to Arthur's point, in public, and Arthur had been rendered speechless.
(But only for ten minutes).
-
The thing with Eames is, it's complicated.
They're not quite friends but not enemies, either. They have a long history of anger and fighting and hatred, but their victories are never more spectacular than when they work together. As infuriating as Eames can be, Arthur would rather work with him than without, because no one else preempts him the way Eames does; no one else catches his mistakes as well.
And then there are moments: after a job when Arthur is rolling up the lines and Eames is making sure the mark stays dosed and they look at each other across the room, eyes glittering with the contained exhilaration of yet another smooth success, and Eames's smile is rakish and feral; on hot, sluggish afternoons when everyone rolls up their sleeves and work moves at a leisurely pace because it's too damn nice outside to focus indoors and Eames wanders over to read the intel over his shoulder, leaning so that his chest is pressed against Arthur's back, cheek a hairsbreadth away, and the heat trapped between them becomes almost unbearable; on long nights when Eames presses strong fingers into Arthur's muscles without being asked and Arthur can't help the groans that come out of his mouth, even after Eames laughs into his ear, low and suggestive.
His first instinct is to say that Eames is joking or indulging his own incorrigible need to flirt, but something about the way he treats Arthur-with a slow, lingering pulse of expectation and less of the quip and charm he bestows so generously on the rest of the world-makes him think that maybe there's some basic sincerity buried underneath it all.
-
"Darling," Eames purred once, in Cancun. "What would I do without you?"
"Keel over and stop existing," Arthur had replied gamely, poker face straight and solemn. The memory of the words feels awful now, but at the time, Eames had just laughed and run his thumb over Arthur's cheek, quick and familiar. Arthur had been startled, but Eames had moved on before surprise even had a chance to register on his face.
He can't remember what Eames said after that, but he does remember that it was simple and honest and had filled him with light and embarrassment and something that hurt.
-
Sometimes, when he is bored or drunk or when Eames does something surprising, Arthur thinks that they could work. They are already good together in so many ways; what would stop them from being good in another?
He would never say this out loud, because then he'd have to admit to thinking about it at all, but at times when it's like Eames can read his mind, he can't help but wonder.
He wonders, but as with so many other things, he doesn't ask.
-
"Do you remember London?" Eames says suddenly, as they laze unproductively under the still-setting sun. Arthur shields his eyes and gives him an enquiring look.
"The time I got shot, and you kept threatening to stuff me in an alley and leave me there?"
"But I didn't," Eames points out.
And it's true, he hadn't. He'd stuffed Arthur into his own flat instead and ranted and railed about how much of a liability Arthur was, and swear to God, if anyone tracked them back, he would kill Arthur himself with his bare hands, and who the fuck got shot while running down the fire escape.
Arthur had retorted that if his marksmanship wasn't so shoddy, those henchmen would've been dead instead of retaliating.
Except he could hear the thinness in his own voice, tight with pain, and he knows Eames could hear it, too, because in the next moment, Eames had shoved a bottle of whiskey in his hand and made him down at least half before he began the long process of cutting him up to dig the bullet out and then sewing him back together again to help him heal.
"You had better be grateful," Eames had muttered as he'd taped his handiwork up, big hands gentle despite his foul mood. "I don't spontaneously operate on just anyone, you know."
"I'll be sure to thank your tub manufacturing company for providing quality merchandise," Arthur said flippantly, and Eames had glared at him.
"Shut up," he'd grumbled, throwing the bloody towel down and storming out, slamming the door as he went.
Arthur remembers because the genuine anger had surprised him. After Eames left, he didn't come back for a long while, and Arthur had been left to pull himself up and clean up as best he could. He'd collapsed all over Eames's bed afterwards, thinking furiously that he was never going to work with such a complete asshole ever again.
Eames laughs when Arthur mentions it. "I was coming back, though!" he protests. "Except by the time I came in, you'd already done everything yourself, and I felt a complete wanker."
"You should," Arthur tells him seriously. "I can't believe you ditched a patient post-op. What kind of field medic are you, Mr. Eames."
"Shite, apparently," Eames agrees. "But I did all right in the end." He frowns down at the ground, picking at the fallen stalks. "I don't think I ever got to apologize for that, but I'm glad you decided to forgive me, anyway."
"I was holding onto it for guilt tripping purposes," Arthur replies truthfully. "But I could never understand why you were so angry to begin with."
Eames looks surprised. "Couldn't you tell? I was worried. You were always so careful with everyone else but so reckless with yourself. It was like you didn't care about being collateral damage. You'd just throw yourself into harm's way all the time, even out of dreamspace."
And Arthur remembers, suddenly, Eames yelling at him, features contorted in baffling outrage. "Do you have a death wish?" he'd snarled, "because I can oblige you." And he almost had, except then he'd changed Arthur's dressing with light fingers and taped everything up again neatly, as careful and precise as one of his forgeries.
"I think I was also just coming to realize that you mattered to me, and it was… unpleasant, because I knew how you could be." Eames sighs and kicks off his shoes, flexes his red-socked toes. "You always make things so difficult for yourself, Arthur."
Arthur blinks, taken aback. Of all the things he'd expected, this was last on the list. But it makes sense, he supposes, slotting neatly into how Eames had treated him solicitously, cajolingly in Shanghai six months after.
"I didn't know you felt that way," he says honestly, and the words are odd coming out of his mouth. He's not sure why, though; he's never had a good handle on Eames's thoughts the way Eames did on his.
Here's what Arthur remembers:
He'd followed Yusuf's words to Colombia, digging half-heartedly for a lead, anything. He'd been looking in between jobs for months. A year, now, he'd realized. It was June again.
But there was nothing discernible. It had been too long, and Eames had been too good at blending in, even in places where he didn't belong. Everyone remembered a tall, white man who spoke flawless Spanish, but none of them were Eames.
He'd gone to a café and ordered a coffee, thinking about giving up, even though it killed him in more ways than one.
And then he'd woken up in a golden field in the middle of nowhere.
-
Something bothers him about this place. The emptiness, maybe, or the peace. Arthur isn't used to feeling this kind of absolute calm. It makes him feel passive, docile… stunted, somehow.
There is something strange going on, and Arthur doesn't know why it's taken this long for him to figure out. Or remember. He's not sure.
Eames knows, he thinks, watching Eames watch him, how his expression is carefully shuttered to be open and attentive without giving anything away.
"Eames," he asks again, slowly. "Where are we?"
-
He wonders, sometimes, if Eames had died alone. If he'd suffered and taken a long time, or if he even saw it coming. If whoever put him six feet under had looked him in the eye and shot him, or maybe stabbed him, switchblade or machete or fucking katana ripping through soft, unprotected flesh. Was it over a job gone wrong, mercenary thugs shooting him down in a dirty alleyway? Or was it over something stupid, a drunken brawl and broken glass or an angry scrap at the poker table?
Other times, he wonders if Eames is still alive, just biding his time. If he's still out there under a different name, laughing at all the people he's left behind.
-
The look Eames gives him is piercing but tender. "Where do you think we are, darling?" he asks.
"I don't know," Arthur says. "Why would I ask you if I knew?"
Eames hesitates before he reaches out and tentatively touches Arthur's cheekbone. His skin is cool, rough, unexpected; it makes Arthur hold his breath. It feels heavy, he thinks, the air between them. New? Or maybe old. He can't decide.
When Arthur doesn't react, Eames grows bolder, sliding his entire palm against Arthur's jaw, and he breathes in sharply, as if it's the first time he's ever touched Arthur before.
"Does it matter?" he asks, leaning in closer until they're close enough to kiss. Arthur stares at his gold-tinted lashes, the curl of each individual strand, the lines and light purple bruises under his eyes. Arthur has never seen him like this before, because he would remember if he did.
"Shouldn't it?" he whispers back, watching as Eames breathes in against his own exhale, sharing air.
"But we're here together," Eames says and closes the distance between them at last.
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Gentle mindfuck, maybe angst, general weirdness.
Summary: The problem with dreaming is that you never know if you're sleeping or dead.
Author’s Notes: Written for i_reversebang; based on visualcomplex's gorgeous, gorgeous piece. It inspired something I wouldn't normally write or even get the idea for, so I'm afraid the fic doesn't do her art justice... >.< But um. Yes, haha, I hope you guys nonetheless enjoy my attempt at being srs. And stuff.
Thanks to, of course, visualcomplex for letting me run wild with her prompt. I hope you're not too disappointed with the result slkfsh. >.< And as always, a million, billion thanks to my incredible betas, artenry, figletofvenice, and hilaryscribbles, who bore through my spam and all-caps freak outs with incredible tolerance. You guys are the best. T_T ♥ ♥ ♥
Title is from the French dub of Inception, because I couldn't help myself... x.x It's the last line of the train monologue: "Because we'll be together."
Arthur opens his eyes to gold.
He stands to more of it, long stalks scratching against his face, dragging along the deep green fabric of his favorite trench. It's perfectly even as far as the eye can see: a big field of tall grass, curving gently in the breeze.
Amber waves of grain, he thinks, automatic and American, even though he has no idea if it's wheat or weeds or what.
He looks around some more, but there's nothing else. Just the slightly dusky sky, caught somewhere between purple, blue, and orange in the half-set sun.
Dream? he wonders to himself, bemused, because he doesn't know this place, yet he doesn't remember hooking up to a PASIV, either. It can't be real, though. There's something about the feel of it; too vague, the colors saturated but somehow dusty, indistinct. It lacks the urban sleekness of Arthur's own creations. He's almost sure it belongs to someone else, but something about the quiet emptiness seems peaceful, benign. Even though the lack of projections and substance should be worrying, Arthur can't seem to muster up any amount of alarm.
That should probably worry him, too, but all he feels is… content.
It occurs to him, suddenly, that this could be a natural dream: The way everything feels like it makes sense; the way he knows, logically, that it doesn't.
It also occurs to him that he could be in limbo.
He reaches into his pocket then, fingers seeking out the soft plastic edge of his die, surprised-but not concerned-that he didn't think of it earlier.
"That's not going to help."
Arthur freezes.
"It won't tell you anything you don't already know," Eames tells him, wry, chiding. "Besides, how else would I be here, if you weren't dreaming?"
-
It's been three years since Eames dropped off the map, so completely that even Arthur with his formidable arsenal of resources couldn't find any leads.
At first, it was normal enough. Eames knew what he was doing, he could take care of himself; and while Arthur's the best, well… There are tricks even he doesn't know, and if anyone could skitter along in his blind spot, it's Eames.
He doesn't realize how long it's been until a year later, when he mentions Eames's name, and the architect stares at him blankly and asks, "Who?"
-
That night, he digs up Eames's last known cell number and is unsurprised when a soothing, mechanical voice informs him that the number you've reached is out of service; please hang up and try again. He hacks into Eames's inbox, which Eames will probably give him hell for later, except it's his own damn fault.
There are 3246 unread messages.
Arthur takes a deep breath. At least the server is still running wherever Eames left it. That has to mean something.
He backtracks through them steadily, thousands of job offers, some desperate, some wheedling, some with the edge of challenge. Nothing of interest. Nothing unexpected.
The oldest one he finds is dated June of last year, an offhanded query from Arthur himself about the Kaganovich job in San Francisco. Reading his own words brings a sharp realization of just how much time has passed; even longer, he thinks, considering the cumulative years he's spent in dreamtime.
He goes to check the Sent messages next and finds, instead, an unobtrusive (1) next to Drafts.
The email is addressed to him, but there is no subject. All it says is:
Arthur,
If you're reading this, I'm probably dead. Don't
His mind roars to life with all the implications that leaves ("Look at all your little mechanical engines go," Eames had said, the last time in Melbourne) until there's nothing but a white buzz in his ears. The unfinished email is dated Thursday, May 24, and the words are like a kick, a sudden awful awakening, as he remembers how annoyed he'd been, when Eames hadn't bothered to respond to him about Kaganovich; how he'd snidely thought that it was just like Eames to not be around when he was needed and then immediately shuffled the whole thing to the back of his mind in lieu of searching for another forger.
But really, Eames had already been in trouble by then. He just hadn't…
Arthur closes his eyes and wills the message to say more when he opens them again, but of course, it doesn't change.
Shit, Eames, he thinks. Fuck you.
-
"Mr. Eames," says Arthur. "It's been awhile." He turns slowly, but Eames stays in his peripheral vision until Arthur is suddenly looking him in the face for the first time in two years, seven months, and twenty-nine days.
Eames looks the same, but… off, somehow. Slightly different. A little narrower, maybe, a little thinner, the jut of his cheekbones sharper than Arthur remembers. The sweep of his hair is less harsh, the blue of his eyes more piercing. There's a cut across the left side of his generous mouth, two spots of blood standing out starkly against the pressed starch white of his shirt. His slate grey trousers are impeccably tailored, breaking at just the right length against fresh brown loafers.
He looks good, Arthur thinks with a pang. His clothes are more Arthur's style than his own, and this is how Arthur knows that he is nothing but a projection.
Eames smiles at him, apparently unbothered by his injury. "So it has," he says, voice the same deep, amused rumble, just this side of gravelly. "I see you've been a busy boy, but that shouldn't be surprising, should it."
He sounds cheerful enough, looking completely unperturbed to be standing in an empty field in the middle of nowhere.
But why should he be bothered, Arthur reminds himself. He's not real.
-
Marina stares at him in consternation. "Honey, it's Eames," she says patiently, taking a deep puff of her cigarette. "He's always getting into shit."
Ho Chi Minh City is suffocatingly humid this time of year. Arthur's plain cotton shirt is stifling against his skin, his normally starched collar wilting in the heat. Marina's dressed in a cheap polyester shirt, the kind ubiquitous across hot Asian cities, and the bright pink embroidery of her bra is visible through the thin fabric. Her red curls are pinned up at the top of her head, leaving the long line of her throat bare.
Arthur takes a sip of his iced coffee and winces at the unexpected sweetness. He usually takes his caffeine black.
"Are you saying he had to cut and run?" he asks, swirling the ice around in an attempt to dilute the milk faster.
Marina raises a pointed eyebrow at him. "You saying you've never done the same? 'Cause I seem to remember a time when you had Hanson brother hair and you wore graphic tees instead of suits. I'm pretty sure your name wasn't Arthur then."
"But I reestablished contact," he says, deliberately ignoring the jibe about his teenage sartorial choices. He does glower at her, though, because some things can stand to be forgotten forever. "I never waited more than three months to get back in the game."
Marina snorts. "Well, goddamn, kid, maybe he decided to look into early retirement." She shrugs broad, Irish warrior queen shoulders. "Who knows? He wasn't ever all that predictable."
Arthur rubs his thumb against his glass, leaving bare streaks in the condensation. He considers her and how much he can trust her with. Marina may be one of his oldest contacts, old enough that he'd consider her a friend, but some cards are better left close to the chest.
"I can't find him," he admits finally, reluctantly. "Even if he had to drop everything, there's always…" He trails off, uncomfortable with how much he's giving away.
Marina gives him a long, considering look, grey eyes sharp and calculating. She's digesting this new knowledge, he knows, filing it away for some later date. But they go back far enough that she won't use it against him. Maybe.
Either way, she's known Eames as long as he has; if anyone else could understand, it would have to be her.
She takes a last drag and grinds the cigarette out in the ash tray. "I'll look into it," she says, "let you know what I find."
Ironically, this is when Arthur first feels his heart sink; when he first realizes the possibility that there might not be anything left.
-
Arthur is a pragmatist. He's never been afraid of death or dying. It happens to everyone; he knows this. Half the time, he's the one doing the killing. One day, it will be his turn, and he knows that, too.
But despite his general apathy, it still surprises him when it's someone he knows, someone he likes, someone else. Even though they all work in the same field and face all the same dangers, Arthur has always been unshakably convinced that he would get it first, when the inevitable came. It makes sense, right? He plays point: first leading the charge, last leaving the field. It's his job to place himself in danger, and some part of him has always known he would die young. He doesn't think about turning eighty; he thinks about his friends turning eighty and moving on, living without him. Growing old and grey-haired with each other, meeting at the local pub and reminiscing, saving a toast for Arthur, good man, he went down fighting the good fight.
In all his plans, he never wrote them out first.
When Mal died, his world had felt askew for weeks. They were little more than passing acquaintances, but he knew the Cobbs well enough to send sincere condolences. She and Dom were good people, straightlaced and legitimate but still interesting. They had great ideas and unique perspectives, were pioneers who constantly revolutionized the field by pushing deeper, harder than anybody else. They were also an inseparable pair, meant to last, and he has trouble thinking about him without her until something with her face starts tearing up Dom's dreams.
With Eames, it feels… It feels blank, like nothing; like an idea Arthur can't fully wrap his mind around, a concept he can't begin to understand.
What does it mean for Eames to not exist?
Arthur doesn't know.
-
"Where are we?" he asks, because he wants an answer, even though technically, he's talking to himself. "Is this limbo?"
Eames shrugs. "Maybe," he says, running a hand through the tall waving grass. "Could be the Elysian Fields for all I know. The Egyptians said they were full of reeds, you know."
"Is that what this is?" Arthur says, sliding a finger along a thinner blade. "Am I dead then?"
"Or maybe you're dreaming." Eames grins. "Maybe you're dreaming that you're dead. Either way, it's still your subconscious, and it's still pretty empty." He smirks at Arthur sideways, sly and challenging. "Never figured you for an airhead."
The amused arch of his eyebrow is familiar, and the playful curl at the edge of his mouth speaks more of fondness than mockery. When the light catches on the high planes of his face, it throws into relief the creases in his forehead, deep from years of skepticism and laughter. The tilt of his chin, the straight line of his nose... All Arthur can think is that he looks so like Eames, so like himself, except he's not. Not really.
-
There were times, when Mal first began showing up in Cobb's dreams, that Arthur would catch him staring after her figure with a distant, confused yearning, like he didn't know how to tear himself away. He worried, then, that Cobb would lose himself at last, let go of his ragged hold on reality to join the wife he so obviously missed and mourned.
"You need to hold yourself together," he'd told Cobb, sternly, because he'd thought that Cobb was giving in to weakness, surrendering to his own sentimental desire to see her again and make amends. He hadn't understood that the image of her could be as sharp as any knife to the chest; how the sight of her profile, twenty feet away, could freeze his blood and drain away the will to move from every limb, yet a glimpse of her smile could be an inexorable magnet, drawing strength from all the things left unsaid. He'd never felt the helpless, twisted comfort to be had in the septic honesty of admission, in savoring the thoughts as they turn slowly in his mind: You are gone now, and I helped it happen. You are dead, and I helped dig your grave.
He thinks he knows better, now.
-
Yusuf has no clue.
"He left for Colombia and never came back," he says, voice crackling over the line. Arthur can almost see him shrug. "I figured it was one of those jobs, take it and leave it, no contact. You know how it goes."
And the problem is, Arthur does know. He does know, because he's had to pull a few of them himself before, and there are times when he's had to change everything at the drop of a dime and fade out of people's lives without any warning.
This could all be so normal. Maybe Eames is fine. Maybe he is worrying for nothing.
Maybe Eames is dead.
"And you haven't heard from him since?" he presses.
"Well, I mean, we're not exactly bosom brothers, are we," Yusuf says, practical and matter-of-fact. "I didn't really expect to." There is rustling on his end, the sound of a ringing bell. "Besides," he continues, sounding mildly curious, "why are you so concerned? It's Eames. He knows what he's doing."
-
And that's just it, isn't it; the old refrain.
Handy, capable Eames, why would he possibly need help? A more slippery bastard never lived. If anything could survive a nuclear winter, it'd be a cockroach and Eames.
-
"It's kind of funny," Arthur muses, settling down into the grass. "We used to be so scared of this place, and now that I'm here, it's nothing but a field of grass."
Eames smiles a little. "Are you saying that grass can't be dangerous?"
Arthur gives him a skeptical look.
He plucks a stalk from the ground and waves it in Arthur's face with a flourish. "En garde, monsieur!" Eames cries in the most clichéd of Hollywood French accents. "Choose your weapon, and defend your honor, or forever live as a cabbage-eating pillock!"
Part of him wants to sit still and make scathing remarks about someone whose worst insult is "cabbage-eating pillock," but part of him wants to enjoy the levity, so he does. Arthur grabs his own wheat-grass-stalk-thing and twirls it back at Eames.
"Have at thee," he snarls back, feeling like a third grade reenactment of MacBeth.
They fight as they never have before, with less than optimum efficiency. The stalks are thick but brittle, and the weight of the feathery ends leaves their lunges short. Soon, they are reduced to smacking each other in the face.
"Take that, you blaggard," Eames hisses as he deals Arthur a particularly vicious strike across the cheek.
It stings more than he thought it would. He can feel the welt start rising immediately, blood beading along the edge, and it's a surprise, because he hadn't thought about what injury would feel like in limbo.
"Huh," he says, staring at the smear of red on the back of his hand, remembering suddenly that this is not real. What's around him is not real.
He frowns.
"Are you all right?" Eames asks, dropping his stalk and reaching for him with concern.
Arthur blinks at him owlishly. "I'm not going to die," he says, and Eames stops, hand frozen halfway between them. "Although I should, shouldn't I. Because this is a dream. And I need to wake up."
Eames stares at him quietly, hand dropping back down again. "If you want to," he says neutrally, suddenly inscrutable.
Arthur tenses, remembering the first time Mal got violent, when Dom had told her gently that he had to leave her behind. He waits for the same ugly resentment to surface, the same sense of brewing insanity, watches the corner of Eames's mouth for the tell-tale hint of a downturn, except it doesn't come. Eames just raises an eyebrow when he doesn't move, simple and placid. "Well?"
"…But all I have is grass," Arthur says, feeling stupid and kind of relieved, even though an angry Eames would've meant a quick death and a solution to everything.
"That does make things a little difficult," he says instead, mild and agreeable. "A grass to the face is less than lethal."
There are creative ways of dying, Arthur knows, but for some reason, he can't seem to come up with any. He's forgetting again, that it's limbo, but even as he struggles to hold onto the thought, it slips away from him, just like thoughts of dying feel a little absurd while he's standing in a wide open field with birds flying far overhead.
"I don't think I feel like dying yet," Arthur admits, surprised at himself.
Eames smiles at him, bright and brilliant. "Then don't."
-
Cobb joked once that Arthur's entire existence is a ridiculous exercise in self-denial. It's true, in a way. It's not that he isn't curious or that he doesn't want to try new things; it's just that he learned early on what it meant to be surrounded by dreamers. People who make a living by doing the impossible are shit at thinking about reality; and the more talented they are, the crazier they get. No one ever knows when to stop, because everyone wants excitement, want to be the first to do something. No one ever thinks about the nooks and crannies of everyday life like food, like funding, like going under the radar and staying there. Like how to keep a group of unconscious bodies and a very expensive piece of equipment safe, away from prying eyes. Like how to keep things simple so that everyone actually wakes up to claim their paychecks.
So he's made it his job to remember these details, because it's necessary, it's vital. Arthur is practical, careful, will reign in the risks and draw a line in the sand. He's gotten good at denying himself answers and living without them. There's not much to regret about being alive and sane, so he refuses to let himself dwell on the things he'll never know.
Oddly, this is probably why he works so well with Eames.
Eames comes from an old school criminal background. He likes dreaming well enough, but for him, it's a tool, a means to an end. His ultimate goal is always the take, whether it's material or informational, and he's smart. He thinks of solutions and angles that Arthur hasn't considered, makes Arthur's life hard while doing half of his job for him.
But Eames's competence is also why Arthur hates working with him, because the jobs they do together may end up being a flawless breeze, but the planning stages-the weeks and months spent living out of each other's pockets beforehand-are hellish with competitive arguments and senseless one-upmanship. On their first job, it had devolved into a fist fight, and afterwards, Arthur had been horrified with his own lack of professionalism and resolved to never let it happen again.
Eames had just grinned at him, blood in his teeth, and laughed.
"Oh, but my dear stick in the mud," he said, head lolling back against the concrete, "that was the best conversation we've ever had."
-
The next day, he'd ceded to Arthur's point, in public, and Arthur had been rendered speechless.
(But only for ten minutes).
-
The thing with Eames is, it's complicated.
They're not quite friends but not enemies, either. They have a long history of anger and fighting and hatred, but their victories are never more spectacular than when they work together. As infuriating as Eames can be, Arthur would rather work with him than without, because no one else preempts him the way Eames does; no one else catches his mistakes as well.
And then there are moments: after a job when Arthur is rolling up the lines and Eames is making sure the mark stays dosed and they look at each other across the room, eyes glittering with the contained exhilaration of yet another smooth success, and Eames's smile is rakish and feral; on hot, sluggish afternoons when everyone rolls up their sleeves and work moves at a leisurely pace because it's too damn nice outside to focus indoors and Eames wanders over to read the intel over his shoulder, leaning so that his chest is pressed against Arthur's back, cheek a hairsbreadth away, and the heat trapped between them becomes almost unbearable; on long nights when Eames presses strong fingers into Arthur's muscles without being asked and Arthur can't help the groans that come out of his mouth, even after Eames laughs into his ear, low and suggestive.
His first instinct is to say that Eames is joking or indulging his own incorrigible need to flirt, but something about the way he treats Arthur-with a slow, lingering pulse of expectation and less of the quip and charm he bestows so generously on the rest of the world-makes him think that maybe there's some basic sincerity buried underneath it all.
-
"Darling," Eames purred once, in Cancun. "What would I do without you?"
"Keel over and stop existing," Arthur had replied gamely, poker face straight and solemn. The memory of the words feels awful now, but at the time, Eames had just laughed and run his thumb over Arthur's cheek, quick and familiar. Arthur had been startled, but Eames had moved on before surprise even had a chance to register on his face.
He can't remember what Eames said after that, but he does remember that it was simple and honest and had filled him with light and embarrassment and something that hurt.
-
Sometimes, when he is bored or drunk or when Eames does something surprising, Arthur thinks that they could work. They are already good together in so many ways; what would stop them from being good in another?
He would never say this out loud, because then he'd have to admit to thinking about it at all, but at times when it's like Eames can read his mind, he can't help but wonder.
He wonders, but as with so many other things, he doesn't ask.
-
"Do you remember London?" Eames says suddenly, as they laze unproductively under the still-setting sun. Arthur shields his eyes and gives him an enquiring look.
"The time I got shot, and you kept threatening to stuff me in an alley and leave me there?"
"But I didn't," Eames points out.
And it's true, he hadn't. He'd stuffed Arthur into his own flat instead and ranted and railed about how much of a liability Arthur was, and swear to God, if anyone tracked them back, he would kill Arthur himself with his bare hands, and who the fuck got shot while running down the fire escape.
Arthur had retorted that if his marksmanship wasn't so shoddy, those henchmen would've been dead instead of retaliating.
Except he could hear the thinness in his own voice, tight with pain, and he knows Eames could hear it, too, because in the next moment, Eames had shoved a bottle of whiskey in his hand and made him down at least half before he began the long process of cutting him up to dig the bullet out and then sewing him back together again to help him heal.
"You had better be grateful," Eames had muttered as he'd taped his handiwork up, big hands gentle despite his foul mood. "I don't spontaneously operate on just anyone, you know."
"I'll be sure to thank your tub manufacturing company for providing quality merchandise," Arthur said flippantly, and Eames had glared at him.
"Shut up," he'd grumbled, throwing the bloody towel down and storming out, slamming the door as he went.
Arthur remembers because the genuine anger had surprised him. After Eames left, he didn't come back for a long while, and Arthur had been left to pull himself up and clean up as best he could. He'd collapsed all over Eames's bed afterwards, thinking furiously that he was never going to work with such a complete asshole ever again.
Eames laughs when Arthur mentions it. "I was coming back, though!" he protests. "Except by the time I came in, you'd already done everything yourself, and I felt a complete wanker."
"You should," Arthur tells him seriously. "I can't believe you ditched a patient post-op. What kind of field medic are you, Mr. Eames."
"Shite, apparently," Eames agrees. "But I did all right in the end." He frowns down at the ground, picking at the fallen stalks. "I don't think I ever got to apologize for that, but I'm glad you decided to forgive me, anyway."
"I was holding onto it for guilt tripping purposes," Arthur replies truthfully. "But I could never understand why you were so angry to begin with."
Eames looks surprised. "Couldn't you tell? I was worried. You were always so careful with everyone else but so reckless with yourself. It was like you didn't care about being collateral damage. You'd just throw yourself into harm's way all the time, even out of dreamspace."
And Arthur remembers, suddenly, Eames yelling at him, features contorted in baffling outrage. "Do you have a death wish?" he'd snarled, "because I can oblige you." And he almost had, except then he'd changed Arthur's dressing with light fingers and taped everything up again neatly, as careful and precise as one of his forgeries.
"I think I was also just coming to realize that you mattered to me, and it was… unpleasant, because I knew how you could be." Eames sighs and kicks off his shoes, flexes his red-socked toes. "You always make things so difficult for yourself, Arthur."
Arthur blinks, taken aback. Of all the things he'd expected, this was last on the list. But it makes sense, he supposes, slotting neatly into how Eames had treated him solicitously, cajolingly in Shanghai six months after.
"I didn't know you felt that way," he says honestly, and the words are odd coming out of his mouth. He's not sure why, though; he's never had a good handle on Eames's thoughts the way Eames did on his.
Here's what Arthur remembers:
He'd followed Yusuf's words to Colombia, digging half-heartedly for a lead, anything. He'd been looking in between jobs for months. A year, now, he'd realized. It was June again.
But there was nothing discernible. It had been too long, and Eames had been too good at blending in, even in places where he didn't belong. Everyone remembered a tall, white man who spoke flawless Spanish, but none of them were Eames.
He'd gone to a café and ordered a coffee, thinking about giving up, even though it killed him in more ways than one.
And then he'd woken up in a golden field in the middle of nowhere.
-
Something bothers him about this place. The emptiness, maybe, or the peace. Arthur isn't used to feeling this kind of absolute calm. It makes him feel passive, docile… stunted, somehow.
There is something strange going on, and Arthur doesn't know why it's taken this long for him to figure out. Or remember. He's not sure.
Eames knows, he thinks, watching Eames watch him, how his expression is carefully shuttered to be open and attentive without giving anything away.
"Eames," he asks again, slowly. "Where are we?"
-
He wonders, sometimes, if Eames had died alone. If he'd suffered and taken a long time, or if he even saw it coming. If whoever put him six feet under had looked him in the eye and shot him, or maybe stabbed him, switchblade or machete or fucking katana ripping through soft, unprotected flesh. Was it over a job gone wrong, mercenary thugs shooting him down in a dirty alleyway? Or was it over something stupid, a drunken brawl and broken glass or an angry scrap at the poker table?
Other times, he wonders if Eames is still alive, just biding his time. If he's still out there under a different name, laughing at all the people he's left behind.
-
The look Eames gives him is piercing but tender. "Where do you think we are, darling?" he asks.
"I don't know," Arthur says. "Why would I ask you if I knew?"
Eames hesitates before he reaches out and tentatively touches Arthur's cheekbone. His skin is cool, rough, unexpected; it makes Arthur hold his breath. It feels heavy, he thinks, the air between them. New? Or maybe old. He can't decide.
When Arthur doesn't react, Eames grows bolder, sliding his entire palm against Arthur's jaw, and he breathes in sharply, as if it's the first time he's ever touched Arthur before.
"Does it matter?" he asks, leaning in closer until they're close enough to kiss. Arthur stares at his gold-tinted lashes, the curl of each individual strand, the lines and light purple bruises under his eyes. Arthur has never seen him like this before, because he would remember if he did.
"Shouldn't it?" he whispers back, watching as Eames breathes in against his own exhale, sharing air.
"But we're here together," Eames says and closes the distance between them at last.