inception fic: go up to the resting place (3/3)
part one // part two
There’s a knock on his hotel room door, their last night in Montreal. When Arthur opens it, Agnes moves past him, falls back onto his bed.
“I don’t like that you let Tavia go,” she says. “You should have asked me. I would have had an opinion.”
Arthur closes the door, stands at the foot of the bed, hands in his pockets. “If you’d wanted her to stay that badly, you should have told her.”
Agnes contemplates it, frowns. “Ugh,” she says. “No.”
Arthur laughs, and she smiles, too. He pulls a chair from its place at a desk, sits near her.
There’s a clock that ticks very loudly in the room. A hum of noise from the radiator. A full, and living soundscape.
“What did we used to talk about?” Agnes wonders.
“Our sisters,” Arthur says. “Mostly.”
“Tavia is terrible.” Agnes sucks at her teeth.
Arthur looks down at his hands, smiles. He cracks his knuckles.
Agnes sits up, glares at him. “You’re awful at this. You should agree that she’s terrible, and bring up some long ago grudge you’ve been tenderly stroking, and then I’ll help you come up with a plan to enact a profound justice.”
Arthur’s smile broadens. He meets her gaze. “It’s just been a long time,” he says. “I’m out of practice.”
“Of engaging in a conversation?” She studies him. “Well, faster, put your hands up,” she says. “We have sisters more to get to.”
“I love you, you know,” he says. It comes out of him, the product of courage.
“Arthur,” she says, poised for action. Her hair a curling mess. “Don’t startle me like that.”
****
Arthur wakes up the next morning, with only a hazy recollection of how he’d fallen asleep. One minute talking to Agnes, the next--
He drags himself out. The sun hasn’t risen yet, and there are heavy clouds anyway, signs of a storm. He walks into a coffee shop, asks for an espresso, turns to see Eames and Agnes sharing a table.
Eames nods at him, signals at the empty seat with his head.
Arthur walks over, sits. He’s very aware of the emptiness of his stomach. “What are you two talking about?”
Agnes looks wide awake. “I’m trying to drag stories of you out of Eames. He’s digustingly close-mouthed on the subject.”
Eames raises an eyebrow, takes a long sip of his coffee. “I’ve told you a little.”
“Yes, but nothing interesting enough to retell.” She leans forward, towards Eames, “I’d offer you a fair exchange -- and I have many stories of Arthur to bargain away.”
“Are you sure you want to play that game?” Arthur asks her. He taps his fingers on the table, meeting Agnes’ eyes.
Eames smiles, cool. “Arthur has never really trusted me with any of his stories. It might be best to cut our losses.”
Agnes laughs, then, that roll of mirth. She stands, shrugging, and squeezes Arthur’s shoulder, then goes to the counter, moving from one thing to the next just that easily.
“I’m surprised at your self-censorship,” Arthur says, turning his attention to Eames. “Aren’t your insights crestfallen that they aren’t on parade?”
Eames leans back in his seat, lets out a long breath. “I’m not really a morning person.”
Arthur looks closer. “You’re hungover,” he observes.
Eames looks annoyed at that. It’s a surprise. “You’ve turned me into a miser,” Eames says. “Hoarding what I can of you.”
Arthur fights the urge to snap back. “What do I say to that?”
Eames drinks the dregs from his cup, leaves it empty. He stares past Arthur. “You could offer me your condolences.”
They sit in a silence, and Arthur look around the room; Agnes must have slipped out somewhere during their conversation, no longer at the counter, speaking with the baristas.
Eames sighs heavily. “I’m terrible company right now.”
Arthur glances at him, gauging. “I’d forgotten what you were like when you aren’t groveling,” he tries.
Eames laughs. “I’ve never been made so keenly aware of the power of a tactic I thought I knew well.” He meets Arthur’s eyes, warming. “How magnetic, the withholding of approval.”
“I’m not toying with you.”
“No.” Eames licks his lips. “I do know that.” He says it quietly.
****
Cobb gets in touch again.
“Yusuf is too indiscriminate with his news of you,” is the first thing he says. “I think it’s a mistake to work with Eames on this,” is the second thing.
Arthur files away the first observation, responds to the second. “Eames is useful. He’s got a particular skill set.”
Cobb narrows his eyes. “Is that really what it is?”
“What else would it be?” Arthur asks.
“You’re going to let him off the hook.” Cobb frowns. “You’re already doing it.”
Arthur sighs. “You’re being obnoxious as fuck right now, you know that?”
“I’m impressed that he could spin you. How’d he explain it all away?”
“He didn’t.” Arthur ran both hands through his hair, raking his scalp. “I don’t know. How much more could I have expected him to bet on me? As a mark, I’m a sure thing, as someone to, to give a fuck about?” Arthur laughs. “I’m hard to know.”
Cobb stares at him for a little while, then crosses his arms over his chest. “You’re being too easy on him.”
“It’s--. Honestly, it’s hard for some reason. To be really unkind to him.” He blows out a breath, nervous, then jokes, “Is empathy that bad a look on me?”
“I’m not a fan.”
Arthur laughs again. “Well. I’ve been warned then.” He takes in Cobb’s tenseness, strangely reassured by it. “Have you ever noticed,” he asks, “that we’re never in the same state of mind at the same time? The tenser you get the, the calmer I feel, and vice versa.”
“Shut up.”
Arthur smiles, feeling almost fond. “How are you?” he asks. “Have you adjusted to life without Mal?”
Cobb sighs, unfolding his arms. He rubs one hand across his mouth. “Some days I’m glad that memory fades,” he finally says. “Others I’m not.” He says it simply.
****
Arthur has developed a tic: he tosses the heavy coin Eames had given him.
I will restore the rest of my sisters. Heads.
There is a crossroads ahead, closer than I’d thought. Heads.
I could be forgiving. Heads.
He should decide, really, what heads signifies. But he likes the game.
****
At the harbor, Arthur stands next to Agnes as three pelicans fly in, low over the water. Eames is sitting on top of a pile behind them.
Arthur doesn’t feel the same sort of anxiousness; today it feels ritual.
The birds bob in the river, and Arthur and Agnes get onto their bellies, put three jackets over their wings, watching the brambles soak up water and go dark with it.
“Once,” he says. “I had six sisters. Five with thunder in their voices, and the sixth clever and curious.”
The birds dive, and when they surface again, it’s as his sisters, their teeth chattering.
“The youngest turned us into birds: her five sisters, her brother,” Emeline says. Her brow furrows, lost in thought. “Accidentally, I know, but honestly I forget how. Did she ever tell us?”
“Just as honestly, that part of the story is boring as fuck,” Eleanor says. She shrugs. “We all ended up as birds.”
Edith wipes at the water beading on her face. “And the next part is that she found out that she had to stay silent for seven years, sewing us shirts of starwort.”
“It went pretty well until she met up with a man who wanted to marry her,” Emeline says. “A piece of sisterly advice, delivered with some disbelief that it has to be made clear at all: if a guy falls in love with you while you can’t speak, there is likely trouble to be had.”
“She was accused of being a witch. She couldn’t defend herself.” Eleanor shrugs. “She ended up on a pyre. This is a pretty exciting part, and I would tell it with more color if I wasn’t freezing.”
Edith laughs. “We flew in from the east, six swans, and she threw the shirts up into the air, watched as they settled onto our backs. We tumbled to earth, human again.”
“Except for you,” Emeline says to Arthur.
“She didn’t have time to finish. Who knows why. Seven years seems like long enough.” Eleanor is shivering. “Your shirt was missing a sleeve.”
“There you were,” Edith says. “All of us whole, and you one-winged. Our hobbled brother.”
They fall silent.
“What an interesting retelling,” Agnes says.
Arthur frowns.
Eleanor rolls her eyes. “Don’t look so put out, Arthur. The ritual doesn’t have to feel so funereal, though I know where your tastes run.” She lifts her arms to Arthur, and he pulls her up onto the pier. He nods thankfully to Eames, who brings them a towel, and wraps the terry around her.
Agnes has helped Emeline up, and Arthur puts his hands out for Edith.
She’s dragged the jacket off his shoulders, spread out the sodden cloth in front of her. She looks up at him, eyes dancing. “The fact that you went so far as to make each of us a tailored jacket is uniquely hilarious to me,” she says.
“The teasing I didn’t miss,” he replies.
“You may not have missed it, but let me tell you now.” She splashes at him. “Your self-importance has grown wild without it.”
****
“Triplets,” Eames says, very casually.
“Yes?” Arthur raises an eyebrow.
“Oh, nothing. It’s nothing.” Eames draws a thumb across his eyebrow. “It just makes one curious is all.”
“Here’s what I admire about you,” Arthur says. “That when confronted with something new or unfamiliar, one of your earlier thoughts is, ‘Maybe if I stick my dick in it.’”
“Don’t be perverse, Arthur,” Eames says, chiding. “I was only wondering about the typical things. How they all fit in one womb, for one.”
Arthur snorts.
“You’re very nearly done, aren’t you?” Eames says. “By my count, that’s five sisters.”
“One more to go.” Arthur lets a smile twitch on his mouth. He’s torn between the relief of being so close, the anxiety of still having something so unsecured.
“What will you do after?”
“I don’t know. I hadn’t really thought that far ahead.” He rubs at his throat. “Tavia was of the opinion that I’ve been misspending the precious moments of my life.”
“She loved being an owl,” Eames says. “The hooting, the mice. It was a bone-deep thrill.”
Arthur laughs. “It’s not that. It’s--. She’d told me not to make a quest of it. She’s always been concerned about my singular focus.”
“There is a very intimidating mystique surrounding it.”
“But she does make me wonder about some things.” He looks at Eames, the broadness of him. The inscrutability of his face. “Did I really waste so much of my time?”
Eames laughs, and then the laughter fades away, leaving only shades of itself in Eames’ face. He brings up a hand to Arthur’s face. The calloused pads of his fingers alighting on Arthur’s cheek. “I think you would be surprised,” he says, “at how much you’ve built without knowing.”
Then:
“What are you searching for, when you look at me like that?” Eames’ voice hushed and grave.
****
He isn’t surprised when Edith, Eleanor and Emeline decide to go a separate way, but is when Agnes tells him she won’t be accompanying him either.
“We’ll check in on each other,” she says. “I’m sure you’ll hear stories of my exploits.”
“I’m sad you’re going,” Arthur says. He tries to say it stoically.
She smiles fondly. “If I thought you would collapse without me, I would stay. But you won’t be alone, will you?” She nods at Eames over Arthur’s shoulder then returns her attention to Arthur. “Thank you, by the way. Have any of us said that yet? For coming to find us.”
Arthur grimaces. “I’m an asshole. I kept you waiting for longer than I’d wanted.”
“I heard of some of the obstacles that came your way.” She glances again at Eames. She bends down to hug Arthur close. “How lucky we are then,” she says. “For you and your tenacious heart.”
Arthur knows this gift now when he sees it. How generous it is to say, ‘Look. Here is a thing valuable in you.’
****
Arthur is tempted to get really fucking drunk. Just rage. He could get into a bar fight, break a few bones.
He’s run out of ways to forestall what feels inevitable, when Eames shows up at his door. “What are you doing here?” Arthur demands.
Eames is dressed to work out, a long-sleeved tee, boxing shorts. “I thought you might want to spar,” he says.
Arthur clenches his jaw.
“You’re very tense,” Eames says. “Rather rabbity, in truth. It’s dear.” He blinks lazily.
Arthur bites his tongue, nods. “Let’s go.”
The hotel gym is small, but empty, and they find some dusty mats stacked high in a corner. They go a few times; Eames circles, and Arthur unleashes a few flurries, growing frustrated as Eames lets himself be pushed, leaching the strength from Arthur’s attacks.
Arthur throws up his hands, steps back from Eames. “Don’t fucking slip me.”
“Are you asking me to go easy on you?” Eames asks, the disbelief mild but genuine.
Arthur breathes hard. “I want you to be an opponent, not a target.”
Eames’ eyes darken. He doesn’t smile, but he comes at Arthur, and there’s a--a joy to the fight. Arthur doesn’t know how to describe it any other way.
****
They finish after an hour. It’s about what they can sustain at that level of exertion. Eames is unwrapping his knuckles. He makes a quick noise in the back of his throat, then looks at Arthur where he’s stretching against the wall.
“You’ll have a bruise on that shin,” Eames says.
“It’s not bad,” Arthur says. He feels the muscles in his thighs strain, lengthening. He glances at Eames’ hands. “Do you want me to--?” Arthur rubs his palms against each other.
Eames lets the tape fall to the floor. He puts his hands on his hips, staring at Arthur.
“What?” Arthur asks.
Eames opens his mouth, closes it. He rubs thoughtfully at the stubble on his neck.
Arthur goes back to stretching, an old twitch in his back unsnarling.
“It must be good to have your sisters restored. To know that they’re out in the world, and able to come back to you.”
Arthur sits up. He moves, putting his back to the wall, leaning against it. He lets his head hang.
“You seem happy,” Eames says. There’s such an evenness to it, a part of the message lacking. It could be said with such a variety of intentions.
Arthur looks up, and Eames, he looks very satisfied, very warm. His hands hanging at his sides, full of ease, and Arthur, of all people, knows how much Eames mirrors people without thinking, a habit in him, to find the things beautiful, essential in someone.
How could this love have lasted, Arthur wonders. He can feel it wound tight around his heart, the thinned strings.
****
“This last one will be the hardest,” Arthur says.
“A weak attempt at scaring me from this commitment,” Eames says.
Arthur shakes his head. “It’s just that I don’t quite know how to get to her. She’s hidden pretty deep.” He hesitates. “I think Izanami could help. Would she?”
“Yes.”
“Would it come with strings?”
Eames shrugs. “More tolerable ones than you might imagine.”
****
The rainbow springs up -- it’s been a long time, and Arthur feels okay to say that he’d loved this way of travel. How you could walk from here to there, cushioned amongst stars, summoning a safe kind of dark.
He’d forgotten how imposing Izanami could be. The three of them walk together in silence for a while.
It’s Izanami who speaks first. “It’s strange -- I know mine was a bigger deception than your theft, but, still, I didn’t think I would feel such a debt. I thought I would feel better about where we stand.”
“You don’t owe me anything,” Arthur says.
“Hold on now,” Eames says. “Don’t give away your bargaining position so lightly.”
She ignores him. “I liked you too much,” she says to Arthur. “What’s a little trickery between friends?”
Arthur laughs. “No wonder you found Eames.”
“Drawn together by our shared charisma.” Eames smirks, a twist of his lips.
“Was that what brought us together?” Izanami asks him. She smiles, then says to Arthur, “I’m jealous of you, you know. That you’ve found a way to restore your sisters. I want to know so much about it. I’ve found my curiosity about it is insatiable.”
Arthur looks to Eames. “I’m surprised you haven’t said anything to her.”
“Where would I have found the time?” Eames shrugs. Then, when Arthur’s gaze doesn’t lift, he sighs. “I keep your secrets,” he says, lightly.
“How things have grown,” Izanami says. She says it almost warmly, but there’s a tension in her voice, an undercurrent stretched tight.
She doesn’t ask about Arthur’s sisters again, but she wants to, Arthur can see that. He should have understood earlier; that she had been searching, still, for a way to restore something that had been lost. To bring him back from his own kind of metamorphosis.
She and Arthur had often walked the same road.
Arthur matches his steps to hers. He wants to say something kind. “My sisters showed me more mercy than I thought they would, after all that time.”
She laughs, seizes Arthur’s hand. “I --.” She is cool, and strong, and Arthur realizes suddenly, how much she reminds him of Tavia, how they wear self-assurance like it’s something that’s been hard-earned. “Do you really think,” she asks, “that Saito might have felt comforted? That he might be patient, even after all this time?”
“I don’t know. If I were in his position, I think that I could have been,” Arthur says again. He isn’t sure how much that’ll matter to her.
“Sorry,” Eames says. He puts a hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “The bow will touch down soon, and if Izanami was right, we won’t have much time before the fog will push it back. Look hasty.”
Arthur holds onto Izanami’s hand for a second longer, his palms warming and he can feel all the bones she’s broken, the healed-over places.
“The person I am has drifted over all this time, despite my best efforts.” She is shining down upon him. “I’m so afraid of what will happen after I restore him.” She lets him go. “What if he finds a stranger’s heart, where his wife’s once was?”
Eames ahead of him. “Arthur, run!” he shouts.
Arthur, he flies.
****
Eames had always told his own stories.
This is what Arthur can’t forget:
The two of them thrown awake by their deaths while pulling a job, hidden under the briars that had grown up around them.
Arthur had woken up with an angry laugh, adrenaline jittering in his fingers. He reached for Eames, made a fist in his shirt.
“You’re a fucking gambling man,” Arthur said to him.
“It’s not a gamble if you know how the chips will fall.” Eames pressed a hand to Arthur’s back, kissed him hard. “Breathe,” he said.
Arthur fought the rush, willed his heart to calm. He pressed his forehead to Eames’ chest, moving with the the ebb and flow of him. “Fuck,” Arthur said. “I wish I knew what to fucking expect from you.”
“I know.” Eames turned away from Arthur, laid flat on his back. “Why do you think I tell you so many stories?”
Arthur got up on one elbow, looking down at Eames. “I never thought about it.”
Eames smiled wearily. He was looking up, beyond Arthur. “This is a good reminder for me,” he said, “that what I would want if I were you, and what you actually want are different things.”
Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Are you--I can’t tell how serious you’re being right now.”
Eames flicked a gaze at Arthur quick. He pulled a heavy coin from his pocket, spun it between his fingers. “Let’s play a game,” he said. “Heads, I love you; tails, you lose.”
He went to throw the coin, and Arthur, without knowing why, gripped his wrist, stopping him.
“Heads, I love you,” Eames said. Unadorned, and staring past Arthur.
Arthur laid down next to him. “What are you looking at?” he asked, and turned his face to see the briars retreating, windows of sky exposed: here, there. Thorns falling away in the face of that unconquered expanse.
****
He’s feeling pretty sure of himself, standing now in the fog on the side of this volcano. Arthur has to laugh, because of course that’s where his youngest sister would choose to return, of course this is where he would stop and turn to Eames, and feel a cataclysm coming.
“Hey,” he says. “Do you want to hear something?”
Eames faces him. His lips chapped, the skin over his cheeks red, flaking a little.
“Honestly,” Arthur says, “I didn’t care about the wing. It was weird as fuck, and I could see the kind of shit that might come my way, but I would have adjusted.” Arthur laughs. “I adjust; have you noticed?”
Eames looks confused. “Arthur, what are you doing?”
“No, shut up -- I want to tell you. Will you let me? I think it’s important that I tell it to you, this last part.”
Eames takes an aborted step forward. He nods.
Arthur feels a wave of relief, barrels into the story again. It pours out of him. “My sister hated that I had the wing. I thought it was a smaller kind of hate, like it reminded her that she hadn’t quite been able to finish the job cleanly. She’s finicky like that. She’s got this sweet face, but when she comes up against something she can’t do, she doubles down.” Arthur holds his smile sharp-edge up.
Eames, stays quiet, his unreadable face.
“Anyway, I woke up one morning with two arms restored, but no sisters. A miracle and curse. I thought, for a little while, that maybe she tricked the rest of them into making the trade for me, but it makes more sense, now, that she had persuaded them into going along with her. I’m sure she started with ‘If it were you’.” Arthur pauses. “Tavia said she swore up and down that I would be so much quicker. A year; two maybe.”
There’s a fear in him, suddenly, crawling up his edges, and Arthur, he shakes it off, takes two steps forward, outrunning it. He lets it chase him out onto the precipice.
He pulls an eyelash from Eames’ face, brushes at the water from the fog beading on Eames’ brows. “I knew for a long time, all the steps I would take. I thought I could never be swayed.” Arthur drops his hands. “Anyway. That’s it,” he says. He can feel the blood in his veins, the rush of its turn from blue to red upon exposure. “All my beginnings.”
Eames is staring at him hard, his brow furrowed.
Arthur bucks under the gaze. “What are you thinking?”
Eames laughs shakily. “I don’t know, too many things.”
He puts a hand on Arthur’s back, pushes the hood of Arthur’s coat back off of Arthur’s face.
“I’m thinking--How incredible it is that you can put your hands on something and make it new.” Eames shakes his head. “How, if I were anyone else, I would be telling you what a terrible idea it was to forgive me.”
And then he kisses Arthur, his mouth warm, a hand on Arthur’s hip, his fingers cold where they find the gaps and lie against Arthur’s skin.
He stays close. “I’m thinking how glad I am to know you. Every part of me, glad.”
Arthur kisses him again. They’re standing on a volcano. Once the sky filled with ash here, and the oceans steamed, and Eames pulls away from Arthur, breathing heavy, their foreheads touching--a world that had expired under their feet.
Let me tell you a story, Arthur thinks. This is fertile ground.
He hears a bird, calling in the distance.
The end.