Fic: Woo
Woo
Words: 3,300
Thanks to: letangerine for looking it over.
Written for: the i_reversebang, inspired by lauand's beautiful art.
Woo
"Am I your prisoner?" Arthur asks, words a striking contrast to the Glock he has pointed into the soft underside of Eames' jaw.
"Not at all," Eames replies, summoning a pistol of his own to jab warningly against Arthur's ribs. "Am I yours?"
Arthur's scowl deepens. "This is a joke to you."
Eames searches Arthur's face for the slightest flicker of recognition. There is none, and Eames feels a sharp, momentary pang. "No, there's nothing funny about this at all."
"If you shot, you wouldn't be able to move away fast enough to evade my return fire."
"Then it seems we've reached an impasse," Eames says, keeping his voice low and steady. "Since there's no sense in mutually assured destruction, I'll lower my weapon if you'll lower yours. I'll even throw in the answers you're undoubtedly seeking about this situation."
"I could just kill you and find my answers elsewhere," Arthur replies, but the gun against Eames' throat isn't quite as insistent, now.
"I've no doubt you could." As a gesture of good faith, Eames pulls back his gun and holds both hands in the air. "I'm probably your most convenient source, however."
Cautiously, Arthur lowers his Glock by inches and takes a step back, eyes tracking Eames' every move. "Where are we?"
"In a dream." To demonstrate, Eames tosses his gun to the side and watches it dissolve into a harmless pile of grey rose petals. "Before you shoot yourself-"
"I'm not going to shoot myself," Arthur interrupts, gun up and pointed at Eames' chest again. "You could have sedated me. I could wind up in Limbo."
Eames starts slightly at the mention of Limbo, then shakes his head. "Fascinating how the memory works," he murmurs, half to himself.
"What's that?"
"You don't remember me, do you?" At Arthur's tightened jaw, Eames continues, "But you do remember the existence of the concept of Limbo--even though it was introduced to you after I was."
"We've met before?" Arthur says, sounding somewhat suspicious.
"Indeed we have. In a cave rather similar to this one, in fact." Eames gestures at the cavern around them, a smallish room carved from the interior of a mountain. There's a threadbare rug on the floor, crates filled with food rations scattered about, and a single exit with a wooden door wedged shut. "I suppose I'm a bit sentimental that way."
"I think I'd remember meeting someone like you," Arthur says, finally lowering his gun.
"Yes, I would have thought so as well." Eames shrugs as he takes a seat on a crate, creating a velvet cushion for comfort beneath him.
"How do I know you're not here to extract from me?"
"Would I have told you we're in a dream if I were?" Eames asks. "Demonstrated it for you?"
"It could be part of a larger con to get me to trust you. Lower my defenses."
Ah, Arthur. As clever and paranoid as ever. "Then feel free to leave out anything potentially incriminating or extraction-worthy," Eames says. "All I'm trying to ascertain is how far back the amnesia goes."
Arthur's jaw juts up defiantly. "How do you know I have amnesia?"
"We were working together with an experimental Somnacin mix. Preliminary tests had shown no adverse reactions. It caught everyone by surprise when you had a severe allergic reaction during the full trial run." Eames examines the cuticles of his right hand with as much casualness as he can pull off. "You began seizing in your chair. We immediately unplugged you from the PASIV, but when you woke up, you didn't know who or where we were."
"So after I have a horrible reaction to the Somnacin, your answer is to put me under using more of it?"
"Using the standard Somnacin mix, not the experimental one," Eames says. "Don't give me that look. You didn't leave us much choice."
"Oh, I forced you to shove me unwillingly into a dream?"
"You may not recall, but you weren't in the most reasonable state of mind," Eames says. "Before I could get two words out you'd already incapacitated the chemist. I had to use a tranquilizer to keep you from killing me and charging out the door."
Eames pauses to allow Arthur to run through the likely scenarios in his mind and accept the truth for what it is. Naturally, he frowns. "You make it sound like I'm some cowboy who shoots first and asks questions later."
"Aren't you, though?"
Arthur's lips thin into a line, but he doesn't dispute the charge. "How many layers deep are we?"
"Does it matter?" Eames asks, sensing where this is going. "Topside, I've a chemist monitoring our physical bodies and the PASIV. If you try to kick yourself out too violently, you run the risk of Limbo. Even if you do successfully wake up to reality, you'll only be put back under again."
Arthur walks to the edge of the cave and brushes his fingers across the roughly hewn stone, not turning his back to Eames. "How do I know you're telling me the truth?"
"You don't." Eames smiles wryly. "Any proof I could supply in the form of shared memories or intimate knowledge would only serve to further your suspicion that I'm trying to extract from you. So I won't bother."
"If you're not going to try to convince me what you're saying is true, will you at least let me go?" Arthur walks to the door, tests it.
"You're free to leave, but I should warn you that we're in an underground cave system that extends for miles," Eames says. "If you think this room is bleak and claustrophobic, I can assure you it only becomes progressively worse. A virtual maze, this is."
"That I designed." Arthur's brow furrows. "This place feels-familiar. As if I've thought through all the details before."
"Very good," Eames says. "Perhaps you are starting to remember."
"These caves are based on some mountains that I-" Arthur shuts his eyes, face pinching in effort. "I served-I was in the military. I was stuck here. I hated it then, but it's perfect for creating a dream maze to hold projections off."
"You were quite the young firebrand," Eames says, glancing around at the low ceilings, the dim lighting. "I used to hate these caves, too. Claustrophobic. Oddly damp and chilly for being in the middle of a desert."
Arthur looks back sharply at Eames. "You don't seem claustrophobic now."
"In a dream, it isn't quite so bad," Eames says. "I can put it to one side, at least."
"Why didn't you dream us into a big field or something, then?" Arthur asks. "No small spaces there."
"And have you dash off before we could take a half-second to chat?" Eames shakes his head. "No, that wouldn't have done at all. I've no desire to chase after a man who can alter the dreamscape terrain far more quickly than I can undo changes."
"Is that a compliment?"
"Merely a statement of fact."
Arthur studies Eames, but his expression has melted from suspicion to something else-curiosity, maybe. Bemusement, certainly. "Thanks, I guess."
It's been barely an hour since Arthur awoke with amnesia and there's no evidence that the condition will be permanent. There's no call for worry or fear yet; such emotions would be completely premature. Eames takes a deep breath. This is only temporary. Arthur will be fine and this stranger wearing his face will soon be gone. "Is there anything else you'd like to know?"
"Assuming I believe you-" Arthur takes a step towards Eames, careful. "Are you going to wake me up?"
"Can't, I'm afraid," Eames says. "As you so astutely surmised, you're under sedation-the heavy kind. We couldn't risk anything else."
"Then what's the game plan here?" Arthur asks, starting to sound frustrated.
"We wait until the timer runs out," Eames says. "If it's any consolation, it shouldn't be too long. I didn't want to spend days trapped with a strange, violent man all by myself."
A tiny smile twitches at the corner of Arthur's lips. "Yeah, because you're a regular damsel in distress, huh?"
"Don't be deceived by the ruggedly handsome exterior," Eames says, leaning back with one hand to support him. "I'm quite fragile underneath it all."
"Fragile. Sure," Arthur says. "Past the guns and bulletproof vest and sarcasm, you're a delicate flower."
Eames stares up at Arthur, who is dressed more loosely, carelessly than Eames has ever seen before. Without a suit jacket or waistcoat, his white shirt seems to billow slightly, not fit to the last millimeter of Arthur's body.
In spite of this difference, everything about him is utterly familiar--down to the knowing smirk. The ache in Eames' chest returns in full force. They might be flirting, but this Arthur doesn't even know Eames' name.
Eames realizes he's let the silence go on too long when Arthur shifts his weight uncomfortably. The companionable moment fades.
"Would you like a seat?" Eames asks. "My fiefdom of crates is yours. Or you could create a chair if you wish."
"I'd prefer to stand," Arthur says, fidgety as always. He paces the edge of the room for a moment, stares at the nondescript rock walls as if they've something to reveal to him. "You said I have amnesia. How do I know that's true? I could just be experiencing normal dream disorientation."
"Do you remember how old you are?"
"Twenty-four," Arthur replies, immediate and confident.
Eames forms a mirror on the wall near Arthur's left elbow and gestures. "Take a look."
Arthur does a visible double-take when he takes in his reflection. For all that the world might see him as perpetually youthful, a man can recognize the toll of age on his own face. "I'm not-" Arthur presses fingertips delicately to the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, the freckles and sunspots that have appeared in the past decade. "Are you-"
"Darling, I couldn't guess at how well you'd age if I tried," Eames says, a shade of envy mingling with longing. "I certainly haven't held up as well."
Arthur shoots him a quick glance, then looks away again. "I'm missing a lot, then."
"Place, people, events," Eames says. "But not fact based knowledge, it seems. You could probably still play Trivial Pursuit with decent odds of winning, I wager."
"I hate that game," Arthur comments absently.
Eames laughs softly. "I know."
Arthur ponders his image in the mirror for a long minute before seeming to make up his mind. "How do I get my memories back?"
"Our chemist has heard of short-term amnesia as a side effect, though she failed to mention this possibility before we went under," Eames says dryly. "Apparently, what's restored memories previously is the patient entering a new dream with the standard Somnacin mix and waking up again. A dream reboot, so to speak."
"And if that doesn't work?"
"We try other, more extreme methods," Eames says. "I don't care to contemplate such possibilities, however, so let us continue to operate under the assumption that this will work, hm?"
"Why are you here?" Arthur asks, tone less demanding and more intrigued.
"To ensure you don't kill yourself and emerge from Limbo sans sanity," Eames says. "A team member with complete memories and no ability to use them is not particularly helpful on a job."
Arthur, thankfully, seems willing enough to accept that explanation. "What now?"
"Now we run the clock down," Eames replies, holding up a deck of cards. "Care to play?"
"Yeah. Poker," Arthur suggests as he takes a seat on a crate opposite of Eames, gun within easy reach at his side.
"Alright," Eames says, holding out the deck for Arthur to cut. Arthur's fingers slide against his not-quite-accidentally, and Eames refrains from comment or visible reaction.
"Hm," Arthur says after Eames deals. "Was this deliberate?"
Eames raises an eyebrow. "Was what deliberate?"
Arthur fans out his five cards, which contains four two's and a Queen. All of which belong to the suit of hearts.
Eames glances down at his cards; the numbers are different, but all are hearts as well. A cursory glance at the rest of the deck reveals nothing but hearts. "Not deliberate, no."
"Something on your mind?" Arthur definitely sounds amused, now.
"I simply…" Eames pauses. "I'd expected the trial run and work day to be over by now."
"Someone waiting for you at home?"
"Something like that," Eames says, putting his cards down.
"Sorry to keep you," Arthur says, and Eames looks up, startled by the sincerity of the words.
"It's fine," Eames says, and begins to shuffle the deck aimlessly for something to do. "We didn't have any particular plans."
"We won't be here for that long," Arthur says. "They're not going to dump you for being a little late getting home from work, right?"
"I suppose not. Though the person I'm seeing is a bit of a runner," Eames says. "Not overly fond of commitment."
Arthur smiles, seeming faintly puzzled. "A guy like you could find someone new in two seconds."
"I could," Eames agrees. "The trouble comes when you don't want someone new."
Arthur huffs a laugh. "Yeah, can't say I've had much experience with that. Relationships aren't really my thing-although who knows, maybe I've just forgotten them all."
Eames chuckles. "Perhaps."
"Still." Arthur straightens up, leaning forward to catch Eames' eye. "Someone willing to leave you over getting back from late probably isn't worth it, you know?"
"Darling," Eames says quietly. "You barely know me."
"Maybe not," Arthur replies, not moving away. "But you seem pretty decent so far."
"I'm quite indecent," Eames replies. "It's part of my charm."
"Indecent, huh?" Arthur's smile widens. "Care to elaborate?"
It's all terribly familiar, Eames thinks as Arthur's gaze flicks down to his mouth and then back up. Eames could kiss him right now if he wanted. He could sleep with this strange amalgam of Arthur's twenty-four year old eagerness and thirty-four year old knowledge. No history between them--likely no future, either.
Eames leans back. "Interested in trying another round of poker? You can create the deck."
Arthur sits back as well, disappointed but not offended. "Sure, okay."
Eames watches Arthur pull a new deck of cards from his pocket, long fingers graceful as they shuffle with a skill that exists only in dreams, not reality.
After Arthur deals them both five cards-a mix of spades, hearts, clubs and diamonds-he asks, "What's your name?"
"James."
"James," Arthur repeats. "Hello, James. I'm Arthur."
Eames smiles. "I'm aware."
"How long have we known each other?" Arthur asks.
"More than five years," Eames says, careful, not sure where this is leading.
"And in that time," Arthur looks up from rearranging his cards, "have we ever slept together?"
Eames can't help chuckling. Of course Arthur would have been so direct even in his relative youth; he's had people fawning over him his entire life. "Yes. Yes, we have."
"Was it good?" Arthur asks, genuinely curious.
"Yes," Eames says, casting back in his memory for the first time he and Arthur slept together. "I believe it was."
"But you're not interested in a repeat."
"I don't think that'd be the most prudent course of action, no," Eames says, avoiding Arthur's inquisitive gaze. "Considering you will eventually recover your memories."
"And you're a prudent guy."
"Correct," Eames says, relieved when the telltale notes of Non, je ne regrette rien begins to play all around them. "Now, if you could refrain from savagely attacking anyone once you wake up, it'd be much appreciated."
"I'm not sure I get you," is the last thing he hears Arthur say before he opens his eyes.
* * * * *
"Welcome back," Priyanka says as she checks the fluid levels in the PASIV. "How's your sanity?"
"No worse than before I went under," Eames replies, sitting up. He rolls out his stiff neck and glances over at Arthur, still asleep in the other chair. He's been tied up and handcuffed; it seems that Priyanka isn't quite as confident in the memory-restoration process as she initially claimed. "How's your head?"
"Throbbing, but not concussed," she says. "Your boyfriend packs quite a punch."
"Don't let him hear you call him that." Eames stands, walks over to Arthur's chair. In reality, Arthur is clad in a waistcoat and wool trousers, sleeves of his shirt rolled up to the elbows neatly. He's painfully, heart-stoppingly handsome.
"Oh, is it supposed to be a secret?"
"He doesn't think the term 'boyfriend' sounds professional," Eames says. "And yes."
"It's strange, seeing you this smitten," Priyanka says. "If you were anyone else, I'd comfort you with a lie about how it's one hundred percent guaranteed Arthur will wake up with his memories, but I respect you too much for that."
Eames smiles wryly. "I appreciate your honesty."
"And the moment of truth," she says as Arthur's eyes flutter open.
It takes Arthur a moment to adjust, blinking slowly as he takes in his surroundings. When his gaze lands on Priyanka and Eames, there's recognition in his eyes. Even fondness.
"Welcome back," Eames says, voice sounding somewhat distant and faraway to his own ears. "How old are you?"
"Too old for fucking amnesia," Arthur says, wriggling a little in his bonds. "You gonna let me out?"
"You gonna make me regret if I do?" Priyanka replies.
"Without a doubt," Arthur deadpans and she snorts indelicately.
"Last question," Eames says. "What are our names?"
"Priyanka." Arthur turns his head to look at Eames, voice softening. "Eames."
"Alright then," Priyanka says as they free Arthur. "Go home, get some sleep, and call me in the morning if you can't remember your own name."
* * * * *
Eames drives Arthur back to his flat and escorts him inside, watching for any odd behavior. But aside from Arthur having a slight headache (understandable, given the circumstances) nothing seems out of the ordinary.
"You didn't sleep with me," Arthur says as he takes off his shoes at the entryway to the flat. "Younger, amnesiac me, I should say."
"No, I didn't," Eames agrees, bending down to slip off his shoes as well.
"Why not?" Eames looks up and Arthur seems genuinely puzzled. "I would have slept with you if our positions were reversed."
"You weren't yourself," Eames says as he takes off his jacket, hangs it on the coat rack.
"That's the point," Arthur says, grinning. "I was pretty wild back then. Might have been fun."
"Are you advocating that I cheat on you?" Eames asks, unable to stop himself from taking one of Arthur's wrists and examining the tender skin left red by the handcuffs.
"Is that how you saw it?" Arthur asks as he submits to Eames' attention without protest. "Cheating on me with me?"
"Absolutely not. That would be ridiculous." Eames sweeps his thumb gently over each bruised knuckle of Arthur's hand.
"And you dreamed up that cave where we first met." Arthur steps forward to cup Eames' cheek. "Your idea of a date night?"
"It was the first thing that came to mind."
Arthur studies Eames' face for a long moment. "Are you really scared I'll run?"
Eames takes a deep breath, then another. Strange how easy it was to be honest with Arthur before, but here and now- "Sometimes."
"I didn't know." Arthur's expression is thoughtful, serious.
"That was... deliberate." Eames forces himself not to squirm under Arthur's scrutiny, not to look away. "I'm afraid I'm growing a bit attached."
"I'm not so good at this relationship stuff," Arthur says. He doesn't look away, either. "Some things have changed in a decade. Other things haven't."
"I'm no expert myself," Eames says, feeling uneasily, terribly vulnerable. "As my wooing attempt involving a cave might have indicated."
Arthur grins, easy and happy and utterly wonderful. "Lucky for you, I don't need much wooing."
fin
Poll Fic: Woo