Fic: Oh Maybe (I Don't Need You to Save Me)
Title: Oh Maybe (I Don't Need You to Save Me)
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4081
Summary: For an inception_kink prompt. Arthur and Eames are angels cast out of heaven, and cursed to find each other in several mortal lifetimes. Sometimes it's just for a few minutes and sometimes they get years together but always it ends tragically. Eames is the only one who remembers each life they've lived; Arthur never does. They're destined to repeat the cycle until they get it right.
The first thing he remembers is Arthur's wedding day.
Arthur's only nineteen years old, fresh out of the military, close-cropped hair and perfect posture and he shakes hands with a firm, dry grip. Eames is meeting him for the first time, but he remembers Arthur's wedding.
He searches the other man's face for any sign of recognition. None comes. He wants to say do I know you from somewhere? but it's pointless, because he already knows the answer.
Arthur's wedding.
if anyone knows of any reason why these two should not be married -
"So if we take into account the irregularities in the dreamscape..." Arthur is gesturing at a whiteboard. How did they get here? Does no one else feel like space and time are converging on each other, collapsing, like a soda can someone stepped on?
-speak now or forever hold
"...I think it's quite obvious that..."
i have to can't you see i have to do this we can't we can't do this dear god eames i'm so sorry
"Mr. Eames?"
He is clutching the arms of his chair. "Yes?" he says, his mouth gone dry.
"Listen," says Arthur. "You're not paying attention."
#
It begins to come back to him, of course, in dreams.
#
"Listen," says Arthur. "You're not paying attention."
Eames stops picking at his sandal for long enough to say: "I am listening."
"All right, then," Arthur says, looking even more irritated than usual. He shoves the tablet and stylus across the table. "Write the alphabet."
Eames gapes. "The whole thing?"
"Yes, sir," Arthur says. "The whole thing. Just think of how pleased your father will be."
Grasping the stylus awkwardly in his hand, Eames makes a face. "You know me," he says. "Anything to make him proud."
Eames is trying hard. He really is. But the shapes never make sense to him, the subtle differences, how one little line or dash going here means something different and if you turn it backwards, it means nothing at all. And he's pretty sure he knows Arthur from somewhere. It bothers him, a suspicion always kicking around in the corners of his mind.
Arthur is not a patient teacher. Their sessions are fraught with tension and irritation, and Eames leaves each time feeling like a cat whose fur has been rubbed the wrong way. If he stops to think about it, really stops to think, he is not actually sure why.
One day he's had absolutely enough and he says, before he has a chance to think about it:
"You know, I could have you killed in your sleep."
He means it as sort of a joke (does he?) but Arthur the scribe recoils, because he hears the harshness in Eames' voice that Eames didn't mean to let slip. Arthur looks at him, not cowed the way most people would be by a royal threat. His eyes are hard, and after a moment he stands and walks away.
Eames sleeps fitfully and wakes to a world that is burning.
It's the Spartans. A surprise attack. No soldiers can be spared so Eames himself digs through piles of bodies, looking for Arthur. He finds him, gathers the scribe into his arms, and weeps for no reason he can understand.
The flames come quickly and leave nothing behind.
#
Eames wakes up in a desert.
"Why do I feel like I've been here before?" he says, to no one in particular.
Someone laughs. Eames turns; catches, for a moment, something blindingly bright, white shrouded, then he sees it's a man. But not a man. He looks a little bit like Willem Dafoe, a little bit like Max von Sydow, and a little bit like no one who has ever existed. And He laughs.
"You always say that," He says. "Every time."
"Wait." Eames squints. "You're...you're real? Bugger."
He laughs again. "I'm not who you think," He says. "Then again, you're not who you think, either."
#
Eames stands by the window, clutching two little velvet boxes so hard the corners are hurting him. He hears Arthur come into the room but pretends not to, doesn't acknowledge him until he presses some money into Eames' hand, saying -
"For Mr. Thurber. And the pianist."
Mr. Thurber. The clergyman. The clergyman who will be performing the wedding.
Arthur's wedding.
Eames feels cold inside. He tucks the money into his breast-pocket and Arthur pats it, casually, pretending like he's never touched the skin underneath. He's looking terribly smart in a blue frock-coat and gray trousers, distant and unreachable.
"Thank you," says Arthur at last. "Iris and I appreciate your blessing."
"I said I'd stand with you," Eames replies, eyes still trained on the window. "I never gave you my blessing."
Arthur sighs, a tight, frustrated sound, and pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Eames sees all of this out of the tiniest corner of his eye, recognizing the motions, knowing Arthur so well.
It's not until much later, when Eames unfolds the money to distribute it, that he sees the note. It is written in Arthur's gorgeous, uneven, scrawling hand.
Surely there was a time I might have trod
The sunlit heights, and from life's dissonance
Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God:
Is that time dead? lo! with a little rod
I did but touch the honey of romance -
And must I lose a soul's inheritance?
- Oscar Wilde
For weeks afterward, when he closes his eyes, all he sees is the image of Arthur, hand in hand with his new bride, walking away from him.
#
"The wedding," says Eames, in the desert again. He goes here every night.
"The wedding," He repeats. He is always there, but it never occurs to Eames that He is waiting for him.
"Was I supposed to stop it?"
"'Supposed to.'" He seems amused by this turn of phrase. "What makes you think I have all the answers?"
"I don't know," says Eames. "Everything they taught me in church. Ever."
"I told you," He says. "I'm not who you think."
"Then who are you?"
"I am the beginning and the end," He says. "But what comes inbetween, that, you've got to make for yourself."
#
Five years have passed now, in this life.
Eames hates that he even thinks of it that way. This life. As if there are others. As if those dreams are real.
oh but they are -
Drinks. Arthur is hunched over his scotch on the rocks, and he wants to tell him everything. Arthur, I have these dreams about you. He would look at him like he'd lost his god damn mind, and maybe he has.
Arthur no, listen. Not every night, but sometimes. I have these dreams that go on for years. Always about you. Then something goes wrong and one of us dies and I don't know. I don't know. I wake up in a desert and I talk to God, at least I'm pretty sure it's God, He's got to be a god at any rate, and then I wake up for real except I'm not sure it's real, Arthur, are you? Are you sure this is real?
Remember Zhuangzi, Arthur? Remember the butterfly?
He has this conversation every night, alone, in loud whispers, pacing his hotel room or his flat in whatever city, whatever town. He gestures broadly and his heart hammers in his chest. But when Arthur is sitting three feet away, very solid and very real, drinking his scotch on the rocks, the words are too ridiculous even to think about speaking.
#
Eames sees him walking by, pretty and careless swagger, bell-bottoms dragging on the ground, and calls out to him.
"Hey, kid," he says. "Hey. What's your name?"
He shrugs as if he's not sure; pauses a little. "Arthur."
"Listen, Arthur. I'm running for City Council. I want to change some things around here." He's holding out a pamphlet but the kid's not hearing any of it.
"Okay," he says. "Well, good luck with that."
"Wait," he says. "Don't you want to help make a difference?" He thinks about saying for people like us but he doesn't, because you have to be careful saying things like that, even in this neighborhood.
Arthur gives him a searching look, then turn to walk away.
"Hey," Eames says. "Wait."
But Arthur is gone.
#
The desert seems even drier than usual, if that's possible. Eames is here and He is here and He is drawing pictures in the sand with a stick, and Eames is pretty sure he read about Him doing this exact thing at some point.
"Are you messing with me?"
He smiles at the ground, still drawing. "I have to be something you recognize. Otherwise..."
"Otherwise I will look upon the true face of God and surely perish?"
"Something like that."
"Can I ask you something?"
"Always."
"Why isn't Arthur having these dreams? Why is it just me?"
That gets His attention. Looking up, He says, "maybe I flipped a coin."
"No," says Eames. "You didn't."
"All right," He says. "Suppose I didn't."
#
Most nights, Eames falls asleep fighting off that nagging feeling that he's forgotten something.
He checks and re-checks locks, switches, faucets, alarm clocks, and everything under the sun. He starts making lists. Eventually he decides it's just a phase, and tries to ignore the increasingly persistent yammering in his brain.
remember remember remember remember remember REMEMBER REMEMBER
"Remember, remember, the fifth of November," Arthur says one day as he coils up the PASIV and packs it away. Eames stares.
"You kept saying 'remember,'" Arthur says, looking amused. "You were talking in your sleep."
"Oh," says Eames.
He thinks he's gone mad.
#
"How do you tell the difference between a dream and reality, Eames?"
The sun is punishingly bright, even more so than usual. Eames digs his toes into the sand.
"Try to remember how you got there," he says. "Totems only work in other people's dreams."
"Yes," He says. "So how did you get here?"
"I fell asleep," he says. "I go to sleep somewhere else and I wake up here. Isn't that the definition of a dream?"
"Not exactly," He says. "But, of course, you know that."
Eames clicks his tongue. "So this is real?"
"It's as real as anything else," He replies. "Which, admittedly, isn't saying much."
"I just wish you'd give me some kind of sign. A clear direction."
"So many people think that. But how boring would it be, if life was just following a series of clearly-marked road signs to a destination?"
"I feel like I'm trapped in a hamster wheel," says Eames.
The imagery makes Him smile. "You're not trapped," He says. "You were never trapped."
#
The thought occurs to Eames that he might shoot himself in the head.
It wouldn't be like other suicides. This would be different. He doesn't intend to die, maybe to just...kick himself into another reality where things make more sense. If all of these lives are real, if all of his dreams have happened, or will happen, or are happening, surely he'll just...exist somewhere else? He distinctly recalls dying in many of his dreams and he's still here, isn't he? Still conscious of himself?
The first thing he does is turn off his phone.
It is this, and only this, that makes Arthur burst into his room at two-forty-five in the morning while he's still sitting, slumped on the love seat, staring at the loaded gun in his hand.
It doesn't even occur to Eames to ask him how he got into a locked room in one of Paris' most expensive hotels. He just sits there silent while Arthur rushes up to him.
"Jesus Christ, Eames," he says.
Eames doesn't say anything, just lets Arthur take the gun and sit there with him until the sun comes up.
#
"Give me one good reason," says Arthur, "why I shouldn't put you in twenty-four hour care."
He's deadly serious. He would be, after Mal.
"Maybe you should," says Eames. "But first, will you do something for me?"
Arthur leans forward. He doesn't even need to say it; the answer, of course, is yes.
The answer is always yes.
"Extract me," Eames says. "Find out what secrets I know. Because I'll be fucked if I can tell anymore."
#
The application of dream-share technology for the recovery of repressed memories is not a new concept. It's been studied, but never successfully done. No matter how close, how maddeningly close, some of the world's best extractors have come, there is always a blank where the most crucial secrets lie.
Then again, no one's ever tried it three levels deep.
It is a testament to the time and trust between them that Arthur doesn't ask him why. He doesn't ask what he might find. He just uncoils the PASIV, hooks them both up, and dives in.
#
"Paris," says Eames, recognizing the architecture at once.
Arthur smiles.
"There," Eames says, pointing to a bank across the street. "In the third hallway of vaults, second from the top, fifteenth row."
A willing mark makes extracting a breeze.
In the vault they find nothing but a single photograph.
"I can explain this," says Eames.
#
"I think you may have overestimated your ability to explain this," says Arthur. To his credit he's maintained his poker face, the professional, through and through. He doesn't even raise an eyebrow when Eames mentions his conversations with God.
"I know I'm an atheist," Eames says, "but apparently He doesn't."
Arthur frowns at the photograph. "That doesn't explain the wings."
Eames sighs, exasperated. "Well, I'm working on that, aren't I?"
They go deeper.
#
"Mombasa," says Eames.
They jostle their way through a hot, open-air market. Eames is less sure of the location of his secrets this time, but he follows his nose until they reach a broken-down cemetery.
"It's here," he says. "We...might have to dig a bit."
He wanders through the tilted and decayed headstones until he finally stops at one; it is small, unassuming, and blank. They both kneel and dig into the coarse earth with their fingers.
"What strange hiding places you do pick," says Arthur.
"You have to admit," says Eames. "If this were a real extraction, they'd never think to look here."
It's sundown by the time they reach the coffin. Eames rolls his impossibly sore shoulders, wrinkling his nose as he touches his sweat-soaked shirt.
Arthur has a crowbar.
He works on the box for a while, cracking it open bit by bit. Finally, they are able to swing the lid open.
Eames flinches back from the badly dessicated corpse, baring its teeth in a grim rictus. But Arthur reaches forward without hesitating and pries a little scroll from between its fingers. As he unrolls it, Eames comes to look over his shoulder.
The Book of Eldad and Akiva
"It reads like the Bible," says Arthur, unnecessarily.
"Doesn't it just," says Eames.
#
1 Before the creation of man God created the angels and the heavenly host;
2 And among them were the seraphim and the cherubim;
3 And all the other servants of the LORD.
4 And God looked upon them and saw that they were good, but God wished to create a new thing.
5 And so He found the two brightest stars in the heavens and He breathed His life into them, saying;
6 "You shall be like the others yet unlike the others, for you will know desire.
7 The desire to seek new things beyond that which you already know.
8 My Host has no will but Mine. You alone will have a choice, and wish to have a choice.
9 Thus saith the LORD."
10 And he named them Eldad and Akiva.
11 And the members of the Host were always paired, the One with the Other, for it is not good to be alone.
12 So it was that these two new angels were made, and made always to be together.
13 But their desires made them angry with God, for each wished to go his own way.
14 And having now made man in His own image, God understood what he had created.
15 He said unto them: "My sons, you are angels with wills of man. You cannot therefore remain.
16 I will send you to stand upon Earth, to live as men.
17 You must seek to understand yourselves and choose your own fate.
18 I cannot guide you anymore. Thus saith the LORD."
#
"Eldad and Akiva?" Arthur says after a long silence. "Those are the worst angel names ever."
"Sorry," says Eames. "My subconscious doesn't know much Hebrew, and I know even less."
"Akiva means a few things," says Arthur, uncoiling the PASIV. "It can mean a protector, or a follower."
"Same thing," says Eames.
"Maybe." Arthur slides the needle under his own skin, then taps Eames' wrist for a vein. "Eldad just means 'loved by God,' in most translations."
"And in others?"
"Well." Arthur reaches towards the button. "It can mean...a wanderer. A wanderer in the desert."
#
"How appropriate," says Eames.
The sun is blindingly bright, the wind whipping sand at their ankles. They are dressed for the occasion, shrouded and goggled and covered from head to toe, but it doesn't make the heat any less punishing.
"What direction?" Arthur wants to know.
Eames points.
He's picked it at random, but there's no reason for Arthur to know that.
They walk.
#
When night falls it turns bitterly cold, and they huddle together, shivering. They've reached an oasis and Eames looks up through a canopy of trees, at the stars, wondering.
Arthur has given them two weeks. They are stuck here until then, waiting for the timer to wake them. Eames hadn't ever given it serious consideration until this moment, and he suddenly feels trapped; begins to panic.
"Arthur," he says.
"Yes," says Arthur, managing to sound dignified even when he's shaking like a leaf.
"We're trapped," he says. "We can't leave here if things go south."
"What are you expecting to go south, Mr. Eames?" Arthur is clenching his teeth, trying to stop them from chattering.
"I don't know," he admits.
"Forget it," says Arthur. "It doesn't matter. We have to fix you. We have to find the source of this...delusion."
"Delusion?" Eames repeats.
"Eames," says Arthur. "Please."
"I don't think it's fair..."
"Your perception of reality has been skewed. It happens to the best of us."
"It happened to Mal, you mean." He doesn't realized how horrible this is until he says it.
"Yes," Arthur agrees, sounding calm.
"I'm not like that," says Eames.
Arthur exhales. "Neither was she."
#
"I talk to God in a place like this," says Eames.
It's been three days. Arthur is eating a fig he picked a ways back; he's been thoughtful in his placement of oases.
"You mentioned," he says. "I was hoping it might trigger something."
"He looks like Jesus," Eames goes on. "Hollywood Jesus."
"You mentioned that, too."
Eames lets his eyes drift over the endless sea of sand.
"Do you really think," says Arthur, "that you're better than Mal?"
Eames closes his eyes briefly. He knew that comment would come back to haunt him. "No," he insists. "I just..."
"Don't rely on the strength of your own mind," says Arthur. "People go mad. People who wilfully play with their minds go mad even more. It doesn't matter how smart you are; you can still lose your grip."
"Are you saying I'm smart?"
Arthur looks at him. "Don't push it, Eames."
#
A door stand by itself, in the middle of the sand.
"A door," says Eames.
"A door," Arthur agrees.
There is a pause.
"So," says Arthur. "Open it."
#
Arthur looks like he doesn't know what he expected, walking through a door in the middle of nowhere, standing by itself. He looks around, then looks around again.
"It's the same," he says, because it does appear to be.
"No," says Eames. "It's not."
They are not alone.
"Oh," says Arthur, seeing Him for the first time. "You must be Hollywood Jesus."
Eames cringes, but He just smiles.
"Come and rest," He says, beckoning to them. "I'll wash your feet."
He is as good as His word. When they reach His tent He removes their shoes and dips their feet in perfumed water, setting to his task with silent dedication. Arthur looks like he's trying not to smile.
"You can laugh," He says at last. "I won't take it personally. I know I look silly, this is only a disguise."
Arthur turns to Eames sharply. "Your projections can forge, too?"
"He's not -" Eames tries to explain, but he stops himself when he realizes he sounds utterly insane.
"I can be any god you like," He says. "Or none of them."
Arthur smirks a little. "Can you be an angry god?"
And He looks serious, all of a sudden, more serious and more frightening than Eames has ever seen Him.
"Don't say that," He says, "unless you mean it."
Arthur cowers, actually cowers a little, and Eames is delighted and afraid.
"I'm sorry," says Arthur. "I didn't..."
"I know," He says, and suddenly He is kind again.
Arthur leans forward. "Can you tell me...what's the meaning of the story we found? The story of the two angels?"
He smiles at Arthur, his teeth radiant, Hollywood-bright. "Why should I?"
Arthur frowns. "Because..."
"It's your story," He says.
And just like that -
#
Just like that.
Eames gasps awake, but for a while his limbs feel too heavy to move. He lies there in the darkness of the hotel room, the low rumble of the central air unit thrumming its way into his brain.
Arthur is upright first, rubbing his eyes, stretching his neck.
"Well," he says. "That was..."
He doesn't finish his sentence, and Eames opens his mouth to speak but it's too thick and dry. He stays supine until Arthur returns with a glass of water, then hoists himself up on his elbows to drink.
"Thank you," he says.
Arthur smiles, but there's weariness and concern lurking behind it.
"It's all right," Eames says. "You don't need to worry about me anymore."
"Somehow," says Arthur, his smile warming, "I doubt that."
#
"I have to admit it's romantic," says Arthur, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. "The notion that we're two lost souls living a thousand lifetimes together until we can find a way to tolerate each other."
"Terribly romantic," Eames agrees, smiling. "Arthur -" He grabs the other man by the shoulders in a mock display of passion. "- I tolerate you so much."
The warmth of Arthur's skin is seeping through his leather jacket much, much more than it has any right to be doing. Eames releases him abruptly and Arthur makes a show of stumbling back a little, smiling, his eyes never breaking contact with Eames' own.
"You still think I'm crazy," Eames says.
"Oh, definitely." Arthur straightens the strap of his messenger bag. "But you're probably not a danger to yourself or others. I mean, any more than usual."
Eames smiles back but it feels bitter, and it must show, because Arthur's mouth twists as well.
"All right," he says. "Let's settle this once and for all." He clears his throat and looks up at the sky. "God," he says, "if this is all true - if we're really fallen half-angels - please, for the love of all that is - well, You, I suppose - send us a -"
FLASH
"- sign."
There is a roil of thunder, loud and growing impossibly louder, just as the sky cracks open to drench them in a terrific downpour. They are both soaked within seconds.
"This proves nothing," Arthur shouts over the sound of the rain.
Eames just grins.
"All right." Arthur swipes his hand across his face.
"All right," Eames agrees.
"But you owe me a new jacket," Arthur says. "This one's fucked."
"I fail to see how that's my fault."
"You would, wouldn't you."
Arthur folds his arms across his chest as if to huddle away from the rain, but he's not going anywhere. He's not leaving. The realization hits Eames like a sucker punch, and he has to quietly reel for a moment before he rests a hand on Arthur's shoulder and steers him towards shelter.
Arthur's not going to walk away this time.
Now Eames, as a point of fact, does not actually have wings. But for a moment - for a moment -
He almost feels -
#
#
Author's Note: Much like Eames, I don't know any Hebrew, so the angel names were obtained via Google and might not actually make sense if you do. I deeply apologize, both for this, and for the Judeo-Christian bias of this fic. They say write what you know, probably because they're lazy, and so am I. Figures all that Sunday school would eventually pay off in spades. Oh! And speaking of Jesus, I should mention that the phrase "I'm not who you think. You're not who you think either" was nicked from the blogger Black Hockey Jesus, who I'm pretty sure is a mad genius.
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4081
Summary: For an inception_kink prompt. Arthur and Eames are angels cast out of heaven, and cursed to find each other in several mortal lifetimes. Sometimes it's just for a few minutes and sometimes they get years together but always it ends tragically. Eames is the only one who remembers each life they've lived; Arthur never does. They're destined to repeat the cycle until they get it right.
The first thing he remembers is Arthur's wedding day.
Arthur's only nineteen years old, fresh out of the military, close-cropped hair and perfect posture and he shakes hands with a firm, dry grip. Eames is meeting him for the first time, but he remembers Arthur's wedding.
He searches the other man's face for any sign of recognition. None comes. He wants to say do I know you from somewhere? but it's pointless, because he already knows the answer.
Arthur's wedding.
if anyone knows of any reason why these two should not be married -
"So if we take into account the irregularities in the dreamscape..." Arthur is gesturing at a whiteboard. How did they get here? Does no one else feel like space and time are converging on each other, collapsing, like a soda can someone stepped on?
-speak now or forever hold
"...I think it's quite obvious that..."
i have to can't you see i have to do this we can't we can't do this dear god eames i'm so sorry
"Mr. Eames?"
He is clutching the arms of his chair. "Yes?" he says, his mouth gone dry.
"Listen," says Arthur. "You're not paying attention."
#
It begins to come back to him, of course, in dreams.
#
"Listen," says Arthur. "You're not paying attention."
Eames stops picking at his sandal for long enough to say: "I am listening."
"All right, then," Arthur says, looking even more irritated than usual. He shoves the tablet and stylus across the table. "Write the alphabet."
Eames gapes. "The whole thing?"
"Yes, sir," Arthur says. "The whole thing. Just think of how pleased your father will be."
Grasping the stylus awkwardly in his hand, Eames makes a face. "You know me," he says. "Anything to make him proud."
Eames is trying hard. He really is. But the shapes never make sense to him, the subtle differences, how one little line or dash going here means something different and if you turn it backwards, it means nothing at all. And he's pretty sure he knows Arthur from somewhere. It bothers him, a suspicion always kicking around in the corners of his mind.
Arthur is not a patient teacher. Their sessions are fraught with tension and irritation, and Eames leaves each time feeling like a cat whose fur has been rubbed the wrong way. If he stops to think about it, really stops to think, he is not actually sure why.
One day he's had absolutely enough and he says, before he has a chance to think about it:
"You know, I could have you killed in your sleep."
He means it as sort of a joke (does he?) but Arthur the scribe recoils, because he hears the harshness in Eames' voice that Eames didn't mean to let slip. Arthur looks at him, not cowed the way most people would be by a royal threat. His eyes are hard, and after a moment he stands and walks away.
Eames sleeps fitfully and wakes to a world that is burning.
It's the Spartans. A surprise attack. No soldiers can be spared so Eames himself digs through piles of bodies, looking for Arthur. He finds him, gathers the scribe into his arms, and weeps for no reason he can understand.
The flames come quickly and leave nothing behind.
#
Eames wakes up in a desert.
"Why do I feel like I've been here before?" he says, to no one in particular.
Someone laughs. Eames turns; catches, for a moment, something blindingly bright, white shrouded, then he sees it's a man. But not a man. He looks a little bit like Willem Dafoe, a little bit like Max von Sydow, and a little bit like no one who has ever existed. And He laughs.
"You always say that," He says. "Every time."
"Wait." Eames squints. "You're...you're real? Bugger."
He laughs again. "I'm not who you think," He says. "Then again, you're not who you think, either."
#
Eames stands by the window, clutching two little velvet boxes so hard the corners are hurting him. He hears Arthur come into the room but pretends not to, doesn't acknowledge him until he presses some money into Eames' hand, saying -
"For Mr. Thurber. And the pianist."
Mr. Thurber. The clergyman. The clergyman who will be performing the wedding.
Arthur's wedding.
Eames feels cold inside. He tucks the money into his breast-pocket and Arthur pats it, casually, pretending like he's never touched the skin underneath. He's looking terribly smart in a blue frock-coat and gray trousers, distant and unreachable.
"Thank you," says Arthur at last. "Iris and I appreciate your blessing."
"I said I'd stand with you," Eames replies, eyes still trained on the window. "I never gave you my blessing."
Arthur sighs, a tight, frustrated sound, and pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Eames sees all of this out of the tiniest corner of his eye, recognizing the motions, knowing Arthur so well.
It's not until much later, when Eames unfolds the money to distribute it, that he sees the note. It is written in Arthur's gorgeous, uneven, scrawling hand.
Surely there was a time I might have trod
The sunlit heights, and from life's dissonance
Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God:
Is that time dead? lo! with a little rod
I did but touch the honey of romance -
And must I lose a soul's inheritance?
- Oscar Wilde
For weeks afterward, when he closes his eyes, all he sees is the image of Arthur, hand in hand with his new bride, walking away from him.
#
"The wedding," says Eames, in the desert again. He goes here every night.
"The wedding," He repeats. He is always there, but it never occurs to Eames that He is waiting for him.
"Was I supposed to stop it?"
"'Supposed to.'" He seems amused by this turn of phrase. "What makes you think I have all the answers?"
"I don't know," says Eames. "Everything they taught me in church. Ever."
"I told you," He says. "I'm not who you think."
"Then who are you?"
"I am the beginning and the end," He says. "But what comes inbetween, that, you've got to make for yourself."
#
Five years have passed now, in this life.
Eames hates that he even thinks of it that way. This life. As if there are others. As if those dreams are real.
oh but they are -
Drinks. Arthur is hunched over his scotch on the rocks, and he wants to tell him everything. Arthur, I have these dreams about you. He would look at him like he'd lost his god damn mind, and maybe he has.
Arthur no, listen. Not every night, but sometimes. I have these dreams that go on for years. Always about you. Then something goes wrong and one of us dies and I don't know. I don't know. I wake up in a desert and I talk to God, at least I'm pretty sure it's God, He's got to be a god at any rate, and then I wake up for real except I'm not sure it's real, Arthur, are you? Are you sure this is real?
Remember Zhuangzi, Arthur? Remember the butterfly?
He has this conversation every night, alone, in loud whispers, pacing his hotel room or his flat in whatever city, whatever town. He gestures broadly and his heart hammers in his chest. But when Arthur is sitting three feet away, very solid and very real, drinking his scotch on the rocks, the words are too ridiculous even to think about speaking.
#
Eames sees him walking by, pretty and careless swagger, bell-bottoms dragging on the ground, and calls out to him.
"Hey, kid," he says. "Hey. What's your name?"
He shrugs as if he's not sure; pauses a little. "Arthur."
"Listen, Arthur. I'm running for City Council. I want to change some things around here." He's holding out a pamphlet but the kid's not hearing any of it.
"Okay," he says. "Well, good luck with that."
"Wait," he says. "Don't you want to help make a difference?" He thinks about saying for people like us but he doesn't, because you have to be careful saying things like that, even in this neighborhood.
Arthur gives him a searching look, then turn to walk away.
"Hey," Eames says. "Wait."
But Arthur is gone.
#
The desert seems even drier than usual, if that's possible. Eames is here and He is here and He is drawing pictures in the sand with a stick, and Eames is pretty sure he read about Him doing this exact thing at some point.
"Are you messing with me?"
He smiles at the ground, still drawing. "I have to be something you recognize. Otherwise..."
"Otherwise I will look upon the true face of God and surely perish?"
"Something like that."
"Can I ask you something?"
"Always."
"Why isn't Arthur having these dreams? Why is it just me?"
That gets His attention. Looking up, He says, "maybe I flipped a coin."
"No," says Eames. "You didn't."
"All right," He says. "Suppose I didn't."
#
Most nights, Eames falls asleep fighting off that nagging feeling that he's forgotten something.
He checks and re-checks locks, switches, faucets, alarm clocks, and everything under the sun. He starts making lists. Eventually he decides it's just a phase, and tries to ignore the increasingly persistent yammering in his brain.
remember remember remember remember remember REMEMBER REMEMBER
"Remember, remember, the fifth of November," Arthur says one day as he coils up the PASIV and packs it away. Eames stares.
"You kept saying 'remember,'" Arthur says, looking amused. "You were talking in your sleep."
"Oh," says Eames.
He thinks he's gone mad.
#
"How do you tell the difference between a dream and reality, Eames?"
The sun is punishingly bright, even more so than usual. Eames digs his toes into the sand.
"Try to remember how you got there," he says. "Totems only work in other people's dreams."
"Yes," He says. "So how did you get here?"
"I fell asleep," he says. "I go to sleep somewhere else and I wake up here. Isn't that the definition of a dream?"
"Not exactly," He says. "But, of course, you know that."
Eames clicks his tongue. "So this is real?"
"It's as real as anything else," He replies. "Which, admittedly, isn't saying much."
"I just wish you'd give me some kind of sign. A clear direction."
"So many people think that. But how boring would it be, if life was just following a series of clearly-marked road signs to a destination?"
"I feel like I'm trapped in a hamster wheel," says Eames.
The imagery makes Him smile. "You're not trapped," He says. "You were never trapped."
#
The thought occurs to Eames that he might shoot himself in the head.
It wouldn't be like other suicides. This would be different. He doesn't intend to die, maybe to just...kick himself into another reality where things make more sense. If all of these lives are real, if all of his dreams have happened, or will happen, or are happening, surely he'll just...exist somewhere else? He distinctly recalls dying in many of his dreams and he's still here, isn't he? Still conscious of himself?
The first thing he does is turn off his phone.
It is this, and only this, that makes Arthur burst into his room at two-forty-five in the morning while he's still sitting, slumped on the love seat, staring at the loaded gun in his hand.
It doesn't even occur to Eames to ask him how he got into a locked room in one of Paris' most expensive hotels. He just sits there silent while Arthur rushes up to him.
"Jesus Christ, Eames," he says.
Eames doesn't say anything, just lets Arthur take the gun and sit there with him until the sun comes up.
#
"Give me one good reason," says Arthur, "why I shouldn't put you in twenty-four hour care."
He's deadly serious. He would be, after Mal.
"Maybe you should," says Eames. "But first, will you do something for me?"
Arthur leans forward. He doesn't even need to say it; the answer, of course, is yes.
The answer is always yes.
"Extract me," Eames says. "Find out what secrets I know. Because I'll be fucked if I can tell anymore."
#
The application of dream-share technology for the recovery of repressed memories is not a new concept. It's been studied, but never successfully done. No matter how close, how maddeningly close, some of the world's best extractors have come, there is always a blank where the most crucial secrets lie.
Then again, no one's ever tried it three levels deep.
It is a testament to the time and trust between them that Arthur doesn't ask him why. He doesn't ask what he might find. He just uncoils the PASIV, hooks them both up, and dives in.
#
"Paris," says Eames, recognizing the architecture at once.
Arthur smiles.
"There," Eames says, pointing to a bank across the street. "In the third hallway of vaults, second from the top, fifteenth row."
A willing mark makes extracting a breeze.
In the vault they find nothing but a single photograph.
"I can explain this," says Eames.
#
"I think you may have overestimated your ability to explain this," says Arthur. To his credit he's maintained his poker face, the professional, through and through. He doesn't even raise an eyebrow when Eames mentions his conversations with God.
"I know I'm an atheist," Eames says, "but apparently He doesn't."
Arthur frowns at the photograph. "That doesn't explain the wings."
Eames sighs, exasperated. "Well, I'm working on that, aren't I?"
They go deeper.
#
"Mombasa," says Eames.
They jostle their way through a hot, open-air market. Eames is less sure of the location of his secrets this time, but he follows his nose until they reach a broken-down cemetery.
"It's here," he says. "We...might have to dig a bit."
He wanders through the tilted and decayed headstones until he finally stops at one; it is small, unassuming, and blank. They both kneel and dig into the coarse earth with their fingers.
"What strange hiding places you do pick," says Arthur.
"You have to admit," says Eames. "If this were a real extraction, they'd never think to look here."
It's sundown by the time they reach the coffin. Eames rolls his impossibly sore shoulders, wrinkling his nose as he touches his sweat-soaked shirt.
Arthur has a crowbar.
He works on the box for a while, cracking it open bit by bit. Finally, they are able to swing the lid open.
Eames flinches back from the badly dessicated corpse, baring its teeth in a grim rictus. But Arthur reaches forward without hesitating and pries a little scroll from between its fingers. As he unrolls it, Eames comes to look over his shoulder.
The Book of Eldad and Akiva
"It reads like the Bible," says Arthur, unnecessarily.
"Doesn't it just," says Eames.
#
1 Before the creation of man God created the angels and the heavenly host;
2 And among them were the seraphim and the cherubim;
3 And all the other servants of the LORD.
4 And God looked upon them and saw that they were good, but God wished to create a new thing.
5 And so He found the two brightest stars in the heavens and He breathed His life into them, saying;
6 "You shall be like the others yet unlike the others, for you will know desire.
7 The desire to seek new things beyond that which you already know.
8 My Host has no will but Mine. You alone will have a choice, and wish to have a choice.
9 Thus saith the LORD."
10 And he named them Eldad and Akiva.
11 And the members of the Host were always paired, the One with the Other, for it is not good to be alone.
12 So it was that these two new angels were made, and made always to be together.
13 But their desires made them angry with God, for each wished to go his own way.
14 And having now made man in His own image, God understood what he had created.
15 He said unto them: "My sons, you are angels with wills of man. You cannot therefore remain.
16 I will send you to stand upon Earth, to live as men.
17 You must seek to understand yourselves and choose your own fate.
18 I cannot guide you anymore. Thus saith the LORD."
#
"Eldad and Akiva?" Arthur says after a long silence. "Those are the worst angel names ever."
"Sorry," says Eames. "My subconscious doesn't know much Hebrew, and I know even less."
"Akiva means a few things," says Arthur, uncoiling the PASIV. "It can mean a protector, or a follower."
"Same thing," says Eames.
"Maybe." Arthur slides the needle under his own skin, then taps Eames' wrist for a vein. "Eldad just means 'loved by God,' in most translations."
"And in others?"
"Well." Arthur reaches towards the button. "It can mean...a wanderer. A wanderer in the desert."
#
"How appropriate," says Eames.
The sun is blindingly bright, the wind whipping sand at their ankles. They are dressed for the occasion, shrouded and goggled and covered from head to toe, but it doesn't make the heat any less punishing.
"What direction?" Arthur wants to know.
Eames points.
He's picked it at random, but there's no reason for Arthur to know that.
They walk.
#
When night falls it turns bitterly cold, and they huddle together, shivering. They've reached an oasis and Eames looks up through a canopy of trees, at the stars, wondering.
Arthur has given them two weeks. They are stuck here until then, waiting for the timer to wake them. Eames hadn't ever given it serious consideration until this moment, and he suddenly feels trapped; begins to panic.
"Arthur," he says.
"Yes," says Arthur, managing to sound dignified even when he's shaking like a leaf.
"We're trapped," he says. "We can't leave here if things go south."
"What are you expecting to go south, Mr. Eames?" Arthur is clenching his teeth, trying to stop them from chattering.
"I don't know," he admits.
"Forget it," says Arthur. "It doesn't matter. We have to fix you. We have to find the source of this...delusion."
"Delusion?" Eames repeats.
"Eames," says Arthur. "Please."
"I don't think it's fair..."
"Your perception of reality has been skewed. It happens to the best of us."
"It happened to Mal, you mean." He doesn't realized how horrible this is until he says it.
"Yes," Arthur agrees, sounding calm.
"I'm not like that," says Eames.
Arthur exhales. "Neither was she."
#
"I talk to God in a place like this," says Eames.
It's been three days. Arthur is eating a fig he picked a ways back; he's been thoughtful in his placement of oases.
"You mentioned," he says. "I was hoping it might trigger something."
"He looks like Jesus," Eames goes on. "Hollywood Jesus."
"You mentioned that, too."
Eames lets his eyes drift over the endless sea of sand.
"Do you really think," says Arthur, "that you're better than Mal?"
Eames closes his eyes briefly. He knew that comment would come back to haunt him. "No," he insists. "I just..."
"Don't rely on the strength of your own mind," says Arthur. "People go mad. People who wilfully play with their minds go mad even more. It doesn't matter how smart you are; you can still lose your grip."
"Are you saying I'm smart?"
Arthur looks at him. "Don't push it, Eames."
#
A door stand by itself, in the middle of the sand.
"A door," says Eames.
"A door," Arthur agrees.
There is a pause.
"So," says Arthur. "Open it."
#
Arthur looks like he doesn't know what he expected, walking through a door in the middle of nowhere, standing by itself. He looks around, then looks around again.
"It's the same," he says, because it does appear to be.
"No," says Eames. "It's not."
They are not alone.
"Oh," says Arthur, seeing Him for the first time. "You must be Hollywood Jesus."
Eames cringes, but He just smiles.
"Come and rest," He says, beckoning to them. "I'll wash your feet."
He is as good as His word. When they reach His tent He removes their shoes and dips their feet in perfumed water, setting to his task with silent dedication. Arthur looks like he's trying not to smile.
"You can laugh," He says at last. "I won't take it personally. I know I look silly, this is only a disguise."
Arthur turns to Eames sharply. "Your projections can forge, too?"
"He's not -" Eames tries to explain, but he stops himself when he realizes he sounds utterly insane.
"I can be any god you like," He says. "Or none of them."
Arthur smirks a little. "Can you be an angry god?"
And He looks serious, all of a sudden, more serious and more frightening than Eames has ever seen Him.
"Don't say that," He says, "unless you mean it."
Arthur cowers, actually cowers a little, and Eames is delighted and afraid.
"I'm sorry," says Arthur. "I didn't..."
"I know," He says, and suddenly He is kind again.
Arthur leans forward. "Can you tell me...what's the meaning of the story we found? The story of the two angels?"
He smiles at Arthur, his teeth radiant, Hollywood-bright. "Why should I?"
Arthur frowns. "Because..."
"It's your story," He says.
And just like that -
#
Just like that.
Eames gasps awake, but for a while his limbs feel too heavy to move. He lies there in the darkness of the hotel room, the low rumble of the central air unit thrumming its way into his brain.
Arthur is upright first, rubbing his eyes, stretching his neck.
"Well," he says. "That was..."
He doesn't finish his sentence, and Eames opens his mouth to speak but it's too thick and dry. He stays supine until Arthur returns with a glass of water, then hoists himself up on his elbows to drink.
"Thank you," he says.
Arthur smiles, but there's weariness and concern lurking behind it.
"It's all right," Eames says. "You don't need to worry about me anymore."
"Somehow," says Arthur, his smile warming, "I doubt that."
#
"I have to admit it's romantic," says Arthur, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. "The notion that we're two lost souls living a thousand lifetimes together until we can find a way to tolerate each other."
"Terribly romantic," Eames agrees, smiling. "Arthur -" He grabs the other man by the shoulders in a mock display of passion. "- I tolerate you so much."
The warmth of Arthur's skin is seeping through his leather jacket much, much more than it has any right to be doing. Eames releases him abruptly and Arthur makes a show of stumbling back a little, smiling, his eyes never breaking contact with Eames' own.
"You still think I'm crazy," Eames says.
"Oh, definitely." Arthur straightens the strap of his messenger bag. "But you're probably not a danger to yourself or others. I mean, any more than usual."
Eames smiles back but it feels bitter, and it must show, because Arthur's mouth twists as well.
"All right," he says. "Let's settle this once and for all." He clears his throat and looks up at the sky. "God," he says, "if this is all true - if we're really fallen half-angels - please, for the love of all that is - well, You, I suppose - send us a -"
FLASH
"- sign."
There is a roil of thunder, loud and growing impossibly louder, just as the sky cracks open to drench them in a terrific downpour. They are both soaked within seconds.
"This proves nothing," Arthur shouts over the sound of the rain.
Eames just grins.
"All right." Arthur swipes his hand across his face.
"All right," Eames agrees.
"But you owe me a new jacket," Arthur says. "This one's fucked."
"I fail to see how that's my fault."
"You would, wouldn't you."
Arthur folds his arms across his chest as if to huddle away from the rain, but he's not going anywhere. He's not leaving. The realization hits Eames like a sucker punch, and he has to quietly reel for a moment before he rests a hand on Arthur's shoulder and steers him towards shelter.
Arthur's not going to walk away this time.
Now Eames, as a point of fact, does not actually have wings. But for a moment - for a moment -
He almost feels -
#
#
Author's Note: Much like Eames, I don't know any Hebrew, so the angel names were obtained via Google and might not actually make sense if you do. I deeply apologize, both for this, and for the Judeo-Christian bias of this fic. They say write what you know, probably because they're lazy, and so am I. Figures all that Sunday school would eventually pay off in spades. Oh! And speaking of Jesus, I should mention that the phrase "I'm not who you think. You're not who you think either" was nicked from the blogger Black Hockey Jesus, who I'm pretty sure is a mad genius.