On the Wings of an Angel (Part Two #1)
On the Wings of An Angel (Part Two #1)
Back to Interlude
Disclaimer and author's note, etc., back in the Master Post
On the Wings of an Angel
text by phoenix.writing
illustrations by creepylicious
Part Two (1)
It was another quiet day in the bookshop. But then, it was always a quiet day in the bookshop; this was the way that Harry preferred it. People were a nuisance and never quite right, something that he'd been feeling for some time but most markedly since prison.
It was much easier for everyone if they didn't interact too much.
Mind you, a certain amount of interaction was necessary for his business to stay afloat, but he found that he seemed to manage it somehow month after month even when there were moments where it seemed as though it wasn't going to come together.
There were times where he hated his parents for leaving him the bookshop, a family obligation that he had not felt quite able to simply shrug off, but it was something to fill his days; when he'd actually sat down to think about it, there didn't seem to be anything else that he'd rather do.
The bell over the door jangled. Harry steadfastly ignored it, thinking that he should really go ahead with his resolution to remove the bell. How many people, realistically, were going to steal old books? Not enough to break him, anyway.
Most people left once they realised this wasn't a shop that sold Twilight or Harry Potter or Hunger Games-or whatever the most popular new series was these days.
Harry let the sound of someone browsing the shelves of his shop fade away from him, continuing his work at the counter. He'd used to work in the back, but then he'd been constantly annoyed by needing to go up to the cash to deal with customers. They were few enough and far enough in between that it made more sense to work at the counter and integrate the interruptions that way.
When he glanced up again, it was to find someone standing in front of him. Harry tried not to startle, focussing on what was in the man's hand.
"Can't you read? No food or drink in here, Mate."
The impeccably dressed man held out the coffee. "It's for you."
Harry frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Caramel latte."
It seemed silly, on the one hand, to take the beverage that he had just criticised the man for having in the shop when Harry thought that he was drinking it, but how could Harry refuse a drink that might as well have been made for him?
He took the coffee and managed a tentative sip-followed by a sigh of pleasure. It even had the extra frothed milk and a sprinkling of cinnamon that Harry preferred. He took another long swallow, feeling the warmth swirl down his throat and pool in his stomach.
He looked up at the man who'd brought the coffee with his natty suit and dark, intense eyes.
"Stalker, then?" he asked.
"I'm sorry?"
"Not likely to know the cinnamon and the milk on a random chance."
The man's lips tipped up a bit. "Must have known you in another life."
"You don't strike me as a Buddhist."
"You don't know me very well."
"True."
Even as Harry was saying it, though, it felt a little off. He didn't believe in reincarnation, but there was something there. He pushed the niggling thought away but found himself, to his surprise, pursuing the conversation.
"So what brings you to the bookshop?"
"I'm looking for something I like."
"Oh? What are your interests?"
"Varied."
Harry found his lips curling up into a genuine smile in spite of himself. It had been a while since anyone had flirted so determinedly with him. The man hadn't looked away from Harry since he'd started talking to him, and Harry couldn't remember enjoying himself quite this much in quite some time.
"How did you wind up minding a bookstore?" the other man pursued.
Harry sobered. This was how these conversations started, and they ended with what Harry said next.
"My parents left it to me. I started managing it when I got out of prison."
The man didn't bat an eyelash. "Nice to have something lined up for when you get out. Otherwise, it's much easier to get sucked back onto the wrong side of the law."
There was a strange feeling in the pit of Harry's stomach, but he didn't let himself hope, made himself keep confessing.
"I'm not really interested in becoming a serial killer."
There. He'd said it. The handsome, well-dressed man could remember whatever convenient excuse would get him out of the building, and Harry would go back to being bored but safe.
Utterly improbably, the man's lips tipped up.
"That's good to know."
"You don't mind?" Harry asked uncertainly.
"How could I possibly mind? Just think of all the people I don't know that about. You've cleared it up right off the bat."
"I killed a man," Harry stated baldly, worried that he'd been too subtle before.
"A bad man?"
"Well, yes," Harry admitted, confused.
"And you don't intend to become a serial killer."
"No," Harry agreed.
"So we've resolved that."
He sounded so sure, and Harry felt warmed by something altogether more pleasant than the coffee, though he told himself that it was silly to be so affected by someone he didn't know.
Impulsively, he held out his hand. "I'm Harry."
The answering grip was firm and warm.
"Arthur."
Arthur was watching him carefully now, and Harry smiled as he retrieved his hand.
"It's nice to meet you, Arthur. Most people have run screaming from the shop by now."
"I'm not most people."
"So I'm gathering. Do you read?"
This surprised a laugh out of Arthur. "Period? Learned around the age of four."
Harry grinned and stressed with amusement, "Currently. Are you interested in something in the shop?"
"Apart from the obvious?"
Harry felt his grin widen impossibly large. He hadn't felt this good since before prison.
"Apart from the obvious," he agreed.
"I read for amusement when time permits and something really piques my interest, but I do a lot of research for my job, which tends to stray rather radically from the 9-5."
"Oh?"
"Intel-gathering for a think tank. Sometimes you need to know everything there is to know about socks. At 3am. Go figure."
Harry laughed again. "Socks. Really?"
Arthur winked. "Well, maybe not socks, but you get the idea."
Harry was beginning to.
"Return custom if you're sufficiently diverted, then?"
Arthur hummed an agreement, though Harry was pretty sure neither of them was really talking about books.
Harry nevertheless set down his coffee and headed out to his shelves. He didn't think he could possibly be misreading this given how obvious Arthur was being, but it had been a while, and this was a nicely transparent excuse.
He roamed the shelves, letting his fingers run along the books' spines, waiting to be inspired. The other man had done such a good job of guessing about Harry, he wanted to return the favour.
Arthur watched him quietly, making no move to interfere or speed him along.
Harry pondered. Although the perfect suit and the slicked back hair suggested that he'd enjoy something pretty classic, the job made Harry hesitate. If the book was too dry or too straightforward, that mightn't be of enough interest to the other man. But neither did Harry want to pick something that was so out there that Arthur wouldn't even try it.
His hands plucked the book off the shelf without his even being conscious of the decision being made. Arthur came over to see what Harry had chosen before he could seriously consider just shoving it back on the shelf.
"An Enquiry into the Nature of the Human Soul; Wherein the Immateriality of the Soul Is evinced from the Principles of Reason and Philosophy. Second edition. 1737," Arthur read over Harry's shoulder. "The second volume is almost entirely about dreaming. How did you know?"
It was only as Harry relaxed that he realised how tense he'd been as he waited for a verdict.
"Maybe I knew you in another life, too?"
Arthur took the book, and Harry's fingers tingled where their skin had touched.
Harry told himself that it had clearly simply been too long since he'd last pulled.
He refused to take any money for the book, even when Arthur teased him about how ineffective a business practice that was.
Arthur promised to bring the book back if it was, in effect, a loan, and since Harry would have been happy to make it a gift but really wanted the man to return, he accepted.
~*~
Almost before Harry knew what had happened, Arthur became a regular. He invariably showed up with coffee-usually for Harry but occasionally for himself as well-and Harry's day didn't feel complete unless he'd seen the other man.
They talked about everything, continued the impromptu lending library, and laughed a lot more than Harry would ever have imagined. Arthur's suits gradually disappeared, replaced with slacks and button-downs, occasionally a pullover, and even jeans a time or two.
On one memorable occasion, an unexpected torrential downpour outside had meant Arthur's hair going all to curl and frizz with the gel washed away, and Harry had run both hands through the curly mass and laughed with delight. Arthur had tried to hide how pleased he was.
Harry read the other man bits of his poetry, which Arthur criticised scathingly but with good humour, and somehow, Harry didn't mind. Arthur brought his guitar sometimes, and though he tended to "fiddle" more than play straight through, it was clear that he was quite good.
Arthur confessed that he'd never understood cricket and couldn't throw darts, and Harry tried to explain it to him until they finally had to agree that Arthur was not capable of learning either skill.
Harry discovered more books on dreaming and research methodologies than he had realised he'd had tucked away on his shelves-enough, he hoped, to keep Arthur interested forever.
Sometimes, though, Harry caught Arthur looking at him with an expression that Harry couldn't quite identify, one that made him worry that Arthur was getting bored, that one day he just wasn't going to come back.
Harry began to think that he needed to come up with a better way to secure Arthur's interest. This really wasn't a hardship, as it was something he'd been thinking about practically from the moment he met the man.
His attempt to kiss Arthur for the first time was an unmitigated disaster. Arthur sucked in a sharp breath and turned his head away, preventing the contact.
Harry recoiled, mortified.
"I'm sorry."
Arthur laid a hand on his arm, grasping hard enough that Harry couldn't keep pulling away.
"Please don't apologise."
"I didn't mean-I thought-" Harry stammered out.
"Don't apologize," Arthur ordered more firmly. "Horribly cliché as it is, it's not you, it's me. You thought right, and I just can't…. It's just not something I can do right now, all right?"
Harry nodded, relieved that he maybe hadn't ruined everything after all, but still feeling deeply unsettled.
~*~
When Arthur didn't show up the next day, Harry felt altogether dreadful. It seemed clear now that the other man had simply been letting him down gently, and now he'd run for the hills.
Harry was reminded of why he didn't do relationships, was reminded sharply of all the dangers.
He had never felt more lonely.
~*~
When a dull and otherwise completely dreary Monday morning two weeks later was interrupted by Arthur's arrival with a ridiculously large coffee, the relief Harry felt was absolute, all his intentions to remain distant should they ever see one another again vaporised as though they'd never existed.
"My turn to apologise," Arthur admitted, pushing the coffee across the counter as he stood there once more in the perfect suit that made Harry want to do nothing more than peel him out of it.
But he wasn't supposed to be thinking those thoughts anymore.
"I shouldn't have-" Harry tried again.
Arthur covered Harry's hands with his own. "What? Assumed that all my blatant flirting was going somewhere? Of course you should have. You picked up all the right signals."
"It's just not something you can do right now," Harry repeated the earlier words.
Arthur nodded, looking both relieved and distressed. "Forgive me?"
"Of course," Harry agreed easily, squeezing the other man's hands.
Though he'd prefer to have both, he'd take the company over a physical relationship.
Arthur looked down at their joined hands and then his eyebrows rose.
"Are you forging that book?"
Harry snatched his hands back, scrambling for everything laid across the counter. Shit. All this time, and he'd managed to keep it a secret, only he'd begun to think that Arthur wasn't ever going to come back, and he had been beyond bored.
Normally, he'd rattle off some sort of excuse, but it was like they had all dried up in his throat, and he couldn't seem to get any words out.
Arthur laughed. "But you can't spell."
Harry stared at him, incredulous. Arthur had just found out that Harry was forging some of his expensive first editions, and his only comment was that Harry couldn't spell?
He stared at the man closely, but Arthur's eyes were dancing with amusement, no hint of dismay or disapproval in them.
Harry cleared his throat. "Don't have to spell to copy, do I?"
Arthur let the laughter out now. "True."
"To be honest," Harry admitted, "it's really just to keep from getting bored. It's not like I need the money."
"No desire to close the shop?"
"And do what?"
"Travel? Get a bigger house? A faster car?"
Harry shrugged. "Doesn't really appeal. Sounds lonely."
"Some people might say that running an old bookstore is lonely."
"Some people don't have coffee-bearing stalkers keeping them company all the time."
Arthur smiled at him, a smile of genuine pleasure, and Harry felt truly settled for the first time since the ill-fated attempt at a kiss.
"All right," Arthur said bracingly, clearly sensing how much Harry wanted to kiss him again and moving them along. "Show me the details of what you're working on, and let me know at what point I should be proofing for you."
He seemed genuinely interested, and while it was technically making him an accessory, it was quite clear that Arthur had never intended to report it once he found out the truth, and it wasn't as though Harry was really intending to sell it.
Harry liked not having secrets from Arthur; if he could handle the murder, it seemed silly to be squeamish about the forging.
~*~
Harry found himself thinking a lot about the kiss-that-was-not. He'd thought that he'd be able to easily put it out of his head. He'd meant what he'd thought before, that he'd rather have the man in his life in any way that he could get him, but it was like not staring at the pink elephant in the middle of the room. Every time Harry looked at Arthur, he wanted to kiss him. Arthur would grin at him with that special light in his eyes, and it would be everything Harry could do not to jump the man, not to lean over and taste that smile.
But Arthur had been clear. He certainly hadn't missed Harry's interest, and if whatever prevented him from reciprocating suddenly disappeared, Harry had to assume that Arthur was going to let him know. Checking periodically to ensure that Harry's continued interest was known sounded like the sort of thing that verged on harassment.
So Harry did his best to be a good friend, and Arthur dutifully helped with the forging, catching some of Harry's mistakes before he could make them-which seemed improbable, but the man had an uncanny grasp of Harry's spelling and grammar so could often predict problem areas.
Harry had more fun with the company and the giggles-as he tried to slip errors and jokes in to see if Arthur would catch them-than with the actual forging.
He wasted time and money in untold quantities and couldn't have been happier.
~*~
The morning that Arthur came in with an expression more serious than Harry had ever seen rather than a coffee, Harry felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.
"What is it? What's the matter?" he demanded.
There was no way that he could feign nonchalance; he was too involved, and they both knew it.
"I'm not sure how much more time I have," Arthur admitted, eyes dark and stormy as they met Harry's. "I thought it would be better to go slow, but I'm not so sure anymore."
"You know I won't ever force you to do something you don't want to do," Harry felt compelled to point out even though Arthur had to know that much.
"Of course not," Arthur agreed with enough promptness that Harry felt better-at least until the other man continued. "It looks like I'm going to have to be the one to force you."
Harry frowned. "I don't understand."
They both knew that this was something that Harry wanted-only the look that Arthur was giving him told him that he was missing the wide and sweeping something that had hovered at the periphery for too long.
"Why are there never any customers here?"
Harry's frown deepened sharply, the question taking him by surprise and putting him on the defensive.
"I never said I was extremely successful, Darling."
He was an ex-con who'd killed someone and forged on the side when he got bored. If that wasn't what Arthur had signed up for, then he should have walked away a long time ago.
Arthur's eyes flickered closed for a moment and then open once more. There was a rawness in his expression, something that hadn't been there before, but when he spoke, his voice was curiously mild.
"I'm not talking about a slow week or two. Tell me the last time there was a customer in the store."
Harry opened his mouth to respond, and that was when his brain caught up with his body and he realised that he … couldn't. It was nonsensical. Of course there had been customers. There had to have been customers, he just … couldn't think of a single one.
Arthur's expression had softened now.
"Since you met me?" he proposed gently.
"When you left me," Harry agreed without thought, swallowing when he realised what he'd admitted and hurrying on. "The couple weeks that you weren't here. I think there were a few customers then."
"But when you were occupied with me, there were no customers to get in the way."
Wonderingly, confused, Harry agreed, "Right."
"That's not normal," Arthur pointed out, as though Harry might not have grasped that fact.
"Right," Harry agreed again because it was weird, only there was part of him that was also trying to rationalise it, to pass it off as simply the dry spell that Arthur had already dismissed.
"Where are we?"
"In my bookshop," Harry answered, beginning to get a little worried now.
Arthur rolled his eyes. "Where is your bookshop? What city?"
Harry blinked at him, mind a jumbled mass of confusion because part of him couldn't believe that Arthur was asking a question that silly, and the other part of him was stumbling over an answer.
"Leicester."
"Yet you've never asked me why I have an American accent."
"I assume you came from America," Harry snapped, beginning to get annoyed now.
"Did you?" Arthur asked with infuriating calm.
Of course he had. He-he hadn't bothered to ask because it was obvious, right? Not because he'd simply known when there was no reason for him to have known.
He was starting to get a headache.
"You don't like the cold, do you?"
Harry wasn't even tracking the conversation now.
"Not really, no."
"Has it ever been winter here?"
He opened his mouth to say yes but found his brain freezing again in a sudden inability to point out the obvious. It must have been winter here, but he couldn't actually think of an occasion. It always seemed to be … mild. Hot, sometimes, but … never cold?
"We have nice weather here," he managed finally, but even he could hear how hollow the excuse sounded, and Arthur didn't bother to pursue it.
"What did you have for dinner last night?"
"I…."
But he couldn't do it. He didn't remember.
"When's the last time you had stock delivered? Where did all the books on dreaming and research come from?"
He'd thought, hadn't he, that there were a lot of them?
Arthur just kept going. "Where do you get groceries? When's the last time you paid a bill? Your taxes? Rent?"
Regularly was all that sprang to mind, but he couldn't seize upon a single actual incident. It was like the world was imploding in his head, the mother of all headaches growing behind his eyes.
Arthur was relentless. "Why do you never ask me why I'm not working? Why I'm always here?"
"Because…."
"Because this is where you want me?"
"Yes." Harry gasped out the word, feeling as though he'd been running a race-or maybe just being chased by something monstrous. "You said your hours were flexible. And I was happy with all the time you were spending with me. I didn't care why. It's … I … I wasn't trying to pry."
Arthur smiled a little, though the smile did not reach his eyes, which looked worried. He was too pale, and there was tension pinching his mouth in a way that Harry didn't like.
"Which is very sweet but not very normal. You're a pretty curious guy."
"I am, aren't I?" Harry said slowly, feeling as though he was trying to push through a thick fog.
The smile became a little more genuine, though there was still something fragile in those eyes. "Not that I'm advocating your hounding me or anything."
"That would be normal."
Arthur's eyes flashed.
"I don't know why I said that," Harry said helplessly.
Arthur nodded a little, resolution hardening his face.
"Let's try this again. How long have you been running the bookshop?"
"Since I got out of prison."
"How long were you in prison?"
"Until I got paroled."
Arthur sighed, and Harry realised that his answers were … rather imprecise and circular.
"The name of your parole officer? The last time you saw him or her?"
A vast nothing.
"Where were you in prison? How long was your trial?"
"My trial?" Harry repeated blankly.
"You were in prison for murdering someone. You must have had a trial."
Harry froze. He couldn't remember a trial at all. Some of the other things, they could maybe be passed off as being boring and forgettable. Everyone forgot what they ate the week before, right? Mixed up their days and their activities when they were monotonous? It happened.
But it was pretty impossible to claim that the trial had been inconsequential.
"I don't remember," he admitted.
It felt like his head was being split in two. He wanted to lash out, but Arthur had always been there for him.
"What's happening?" he asked.
"I'm tearing your world apart."
Said so matter-of-factly, but Arthur's hands were gripping Harry's very cold ones, and there was still that look in the man's eyes that said that he was far more affected than he was letting on.
"Why?"
"Because it's not real."
Harry reeled back as though struck, ripping his hands away from Arthur's.
"What do you mean it's not real?" he demanded, suddenly infuriated. "Are you mad? Is this some kind of a sick joke?"
"I'm not crazy, and this isn't a joke." Arthur sounded desperately serious. "I was hoping that you'd start questioning more yourself so that I wouldn't have to spring it on you like this, but that's not working, and we're running out of time."
"What does that mean?"
Arthur drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You're in a coma. Everything around you right now is a construct of your subconscious."
Harry stared at him for a long, incredulous moment before he scoffed, "You're telling me that I'm in, what, the world's longest, most elaborate dream?"
Arthur's expression was still deadly earnest, his voice flat. "I'm telling you you're lost in limbo, and if you don't get out soon, you're going to die."
"I don't believe you."
"Why not?" Arthur asked, just as though this were a rational conversation. "I've just pointed out numerous ways that this world doesn't make sense."
"Just because something is weird doesn't make it invalid or non-existent," Harry snarled.
"Not non-existent," Arthur corrected. "Clearly, it's here. It's a world. But it's not the real world- it's not what you think it is."
"And I'm just supposed to take your word for it?" Harry asked dubiously.
He thought he saw a flash of hurt in Arthur's eyes, but it was quickly masked.
"I've been asking the questions so that you'll use that brain of yours and take your word for it."
It was a little sharper than anything that Arthur had said previously, and Harry heard the insult clearly.
"So I'm stupid for not believing a random person for telling me that I'm dreaming and living a lie?"
"You're not stupid," Arthur snapped, "and I'm not a random person."
"You're a part of my consciousness, I suppose? Not real at all?"
"Certainly not!" Arthur exclaimed, sounding affronted. "I'm real, just like you are. I've come to get you."
"A real hero," Harry infused the word with mockery, "who entered my coma to rescue me."
"I'm not a hero," Arthur negated, still sounding somewhat offended. "But I am trying to save your life."
"Why?" He knew there was something else here but didn't understand what it was yet.
"Because I owe it to you," Arthur said with finality. "But if I can't convince you soon, I don't know how much longer your body can hold on."
"So, what, if I agree that this is a dream, the world goes poof and this real one you claim is out there appears?"
Arthur's lips tightened, and it sounded as though he'd made his voice very carefully even when he answered, "Not exactly. To get out of this world, you need to … leave it."
Harry processed this, and then took a step away from the other man.
"I clearly should have asked if you were a serial killer."
"I'm not," Arthur averred immediately, looking torn between rolling his eyes and being offended again.
Even under the circumstances-or perhaps because of them-Harry couldn't help but find this funny. Somehow, it was hard to believe that a serial killer would roll his eyes so much, though maybe that was just Harry's opinion.
He must have let some of his amusement show because Arthur's expression softened, some of the tension going out of his shoulders.
"Wouldn't matter if I was, though, because you're the one who has to decide to leave."
Harry blinked at him, hoped that he hadn't come to the right conclusion. "You're telling me I need to kill myself."
"I'm telling you how you can return to reality," Arthur stated carefully.
Harry took that as a yes. Arthur made no move to come after him when he backed further away.
"Do you know how many people have told me I'm worthless? That I should just kill myself and save someone else the trouble?"
Arthur stepped forward, hand outstretched, but he stopped when Harry took another step away and let his hand fall to his side.
"No one who really knows you," he answered, meeting Harry's eyes and not looking away. "I came here to save you, remember."
Harry pushed away the past, concentrating on the present, though he wasn't so sure that it wasn't about to turn just as sour. "About that. You're saying that everything that's happened has been a set up? That you always knew me and just let this happen so you could convince me to kill myself?"
"I came bearing the kind of coffee you like," Arthur pointed out, clearly trying to get another one of those "logical" assertions in that was supposed to convince Harry that he was living a lie. "I hoped that I would jog your memory and we wouldn't have to have this awkward conversation."
"It is a crappy conversation."
Arthur huffed a laugh, and Harry felt a bit better, whether he should or not. He missed Arthur's sense of humour and laughter, he realised, and that had put him on edge to begin with. It had only gotten worse from there.
"I'm sorry." Arthur sounded genuinely regretful. "I've honestly enjoyed the time we've had here, but I think we're pushing it as it is."
"We were happy," Harry couldn't help but point out.
Unspoken but understood was the fact that Arthur had ruined that.
"But this isn't reality," Arthur stressed.
"Does it matter?"
"Yes."
"Why?" Harry asked a little bit desperately. "If it feels real and looks real and we're happy?"
Though it was pretty clear that Arthur had never been happy like Harry had been. The thought niggled unpleasantly around the edges of his brain.
"Because you were sick of people because there were no real people around you. Because you were wasting away in a bookshop."
"I thought you liked the bookshop," Harry said, hurt.
Arthur sucked in breath sharply through his nose, trying to keep his temper, Harry knew.
"I like when you like it," Arthur answered, leaving Harry rather muddled. "But that still doesn't make it real, doesn't mean that this world is populated by anything other than your mind."
Harry knew that they were going to get into a philosophical debate if they argued whether that mattered or not, but Arthur kept going.
"You're getting thinner."
"I-What?"
This had not been where Harry thought the conversation was going at all.
"The longer I've been here, the thinner you've become."
"I'm spending time with you instead of eating?"
Arthur gave a half laugh, but something altogether more serious lurked underneath.
"It means your sense of self is being undermined by the real world. And if your subconscious can't keep up the illusion, you're running out of time more and more quickly. Our bodies don't stay comatose forever."
"But if I kill myself here, I'll wake up there. That's what you're claiming."
"That's how this works. And you know that's how this works."
"How would I know?" Harry asked, surprised.
"Because that's what we do. We work in dreams."
"Come again?"
Arthur was starting to look frustrated again. "How can you have suppressed all of this this much? There's a piece of technology called a PASIV. It allows people to dream share, allows people to enter others' dreams."
"How is that a job?"
"We can extract information."
Arthur had told Harry he worked for a think tank. Intel-gathering. Research. Everything was wrapping in on itself so tightly that he was worried it was going to suffocate him-only that was what Arthur was saying he needed to do anyway.
Something had to give.
"That's crazy."
Arthur grimaced. "I don't know what else to say to you. I've pointed out all the ways this is illogical. You've admitted to not knowing things that you know you should, skipping from event to event just like you do in a dream. What else can I say to convince you?"
The direct question threw Harry. "Well, it's not…. There isn't anything you can say," he spluttered. "I mean, it's not something that you can just take on faith, is it? Not when the only way to prove it is to kill yourself. You're asking for a lot."
"I know I am. But I have to try, right?"
He seemed desperate, and Harry wanted to reassure him, wanted to make him feel better. But he didn't know how, not when everything was so screwed up.
If he was telling the truth, then he was trying to do a very good thing. But how could Harry possibly know that he was telling the truth?
"I want to believe you."
He didn't know where the words had come from, and Arthur's eyes snapped to his.
"Do you?" he asked intensely.
Harry swallowed. "But I just … I can't. It's unbelievable. Why don't I remember any of this real life?"
"I don't really know. But I think you're too smart for your own good, and this was the only way your brain could build a construct that you'd buy. You had to forget all about the PASIV and extracting."
"And everyone you say I worked with? You?"
"Apparently. For the most part. But you found the books on dreaming. And you do things when you don't think about it."
"What sort of things?"
"Wear horrible shirts because you know I hate them."
He looked down at the gaudy shirt that he was currently wearing. He hadn't worn anything like that before Arthur came along, and he did know that the other man didn't like them.
His lips tipped up involuntarily, and he said halfway between a question and a statement, "I like to torture you with them."
"You brought me cinnamon buns because they're my favourite, even though I didn't tell you here, rub at the perfect spot at the back of my neck that eases my tension headaches, never ask me why I wear a suit and tie to a bookstore."
"You like your suit and tie," he answered automatically.
"Yes, I do, and I know it's something you can infer because I wear it, but did you infer it, or did you know it?"
"I knew it," Harry admitted absently before rallying. "But you stopped wearing the suits."
Arthur looked away for a moment, then back at Harry. "This is limbo. People lose themselves here. It's not always easy for me to remember why I'm here."
"But the suits help you remember?"
Arthur nodded, looking as though he were contemplating saying more but stopping there.
This seemed a little odd to Harry, but on second thought, it was better not to question how Arthur felt about his suits.
"Why isn't anything helping me remember?"
"Because this is the world you created, and this is the way you want it to be."
"I created this world."
"Yes."
"Then why would I make it like this?" Harry demanded, suddenly angry again. "Why would I have killed someone? Why would I have gone to prison? Why would-"
He cut himself off abruptly.
Arthur looked at him suspiciously. "Why would what?"
"Nothing."
"No, this is important," Arthur corrected, staring at him intently. "This might be most important. What don't you want to tell me?"
Harry hadn't ever told anyone, but no matter who or what Arthur was, it was clear that he wasn't that.
"Perhaps you'd better see this world that you claim I created for myself."
It was a short walk, and since Arthur didn't point it out, Harry couldn't help but notice that they went from the city to this secluded, nature-bound area very quickly. Still, though, there were green spaces in towns and cities, weren't there? He was second-guessing everything now, and it was driving him mad.
He retraced the well-trod route easily. Flowers were blooming everywhere since it would be a waste to bring cut flowers all the time.
Beside him, Arthur sucked in a breath. "Oh, Eames."
He'd never called Harry that, and yet it resonated in a way that was altogether right-and therefore altogether unsettling.
Arthur knelt down by the gravestone and ran a finger along the smooth surface.
"Why did you go to prison?"
He wasn't looking at Harry but down at the grave. Harry frowned.
"I killed a man. You already know-This isn't him!" he yelped, horrified.
Arthur looked up at him fleetingly. "You killed a bad man. You don't think this man is a bad man."
He looked back down at the grave, finger now following the one word carefully incised on the marble surface.
Harry swallowed heavily. "He was a very good man."
"And how did he die?"
The words stuck in his throat and came out sounding like sandpaper. "He was killed by a bad man."
"Why?"
"Why?" Harry parroted.
"Yes, why. Why did Collins kill him?"
No one had ever asked him why before. "Because he was a traitorous bastard who was a miserable excuse for a human being, that's why."
"But there must have been a reason," Arthur pressed. "Collins wasn't a serial killer. It wasn't a senseless act of violence. Why this man?"
Harry felt a little bit as though he couldn't catch his breath, as though he were rushing towards a precipice-and he wasn't even moving.
"He had information Collins wanted."
"What sort of information?"
"I don't know!" Harry yelled, whirling away from the grave and Arthur's calm, infuriating voice. "I don't know, all right? He just…. Collins killed him, and I have to wake up every day, and he's not here. And I go to sleep every night, and he's still not here, and nothing's going to change that. It doesn't matter why."
A hand on his arm, and for some reason, Harry didn't feel like shaking it off. It felt like warmth was sinking back into him from that one connection, trying to thaw everything that had frozen-that had maybe been frozen for years.
"I'm sorry," Arthur murmured when Harry turned back to him. "This isn't … pleasant for me, either. I'm trying to help."
"You have an odd way of showing it."
"You're very stubborn."
"I was born that way, Darling."
Arthur's lips twitched up in a half smile. "I know you were. So let's try this again. Whose grave is that?"
"Is your memory going? I just told you-"
"-what happened, yes. But you didn't give me a name. Whose grave is that?"
Harry couldn't explain why the bottom had suddenly dropped out of his stomach. He knew it was a perfectly fair question, but his mind was rebelling.
"Come on," Arthur prompted like a shark who was homing in on the bloody kill. "Give me a name. It's not a hard question. If he means so much to you, he-"
"Arthur!" Harry snapped.
"Yes?"
"That's his name," Harry said, aggrieved. "His name was Arthur. He-"
Arthur was staring at him with eyes that saw too much.
Harry swore. "Please tell me that's not why you told me that was your name."
"You stubborn son of a bitch," Arthur groaned. "Arthur is my name. I'm trying to tell you that you got it wrong. I chose to make myself scarce before Collins could try anything-but you didn't know that, and that's how you wound up in this world with that gravestone."
Harry's brain short-circuited.
"You're saying that you're my Arthur? I mean, that Arthur?" He pointed at the grave.
Arthur nodded, looking pained.
"And my brain has just … what? Separated the two of you to screw with my head?"
"You wound up in the coma thinking that I was dead, thinking that Collins had killed me. Your subconscious had no way of knowing that the real me was going to show up, and it had already stripped out everything to do with dreaming, so it just … kept doing that."
Harry hated how much this … almost made sense. Arthur could almost bring him there, and then Harry baulked and panicked because it was still the craziest thing he'd ever heard and none of it could be proved.
"But if I've divided it all up subconsciously, how can I ever know? Because I don't remember the life that you're trying to tell me about, and you don't know the life that I supposedly made up. The only way I can get to the life you say is real is to kill myself here, and you say that staying here is killing me anyway."
"Would you hit me if I said 'take a gamble'?" Arthur asked.
"I'd have to at least seriously consider it. This is my life we're talking about."
"I know," Arthur admitted softly.
Because if Arthur was telling the truth, he'd been here fighting for Harry's life all this time. And while people did stupid, elaborate, malicious things when the mood struck them, Harry was having a hard time truly conceiving why anyone would go to this elaborate an effort. There were better ways to get him to kill himself, surely. Arthur could have done it and made it look like suicide a hundred times over with how much time they spent together. And if it was true-
"You're saying that there's a life out there where he's still alive."
He gestured at the grave because he was still having trouble reconciling that Arthur and this Arthur, trying to meld together two people who were so distinct in Harry's mind. And yet he'd been so happy when this Arthur had come into his life, happy in a way that he hadn't been since-
"No!"
He looked at Arthur, confused.
"Well, yes," he corrected a moment later, "but you can't-" He sounded more frantic than Harry was used to, muddling his words because he was reacting instead of thinking before he spoke. "If you decide to return to the real world, you need to go for you, not for something else, not because anyone told you to. You need to remember."
"And that's why we're here," Harry verbalised finally. "Because you're doing everything you can to convince me, to make me truly believe, and it's not working."
Arthur nodded.
Because Arthur could have promised him everything he ever wanted, could have told him that anything was out there in reality, but he had refused to do it. He wanted Harry to come of his own accord because he believed.
But how did you believe in something as crazy as that, in something that Harry could never see with these eyes by definition because if what Arthur was saying was true, then his eyes weren't even real. Everything around him was a construct.
"If this is really a dream," Harry was struck by the sudden notion, "can't you, I don't know, make it act like a dream? Everything you've said so far is sort of … circumstantial, you know, and usually stuff that happened in the past. Can't you do something now? Manipulate the world?"
"This is limbo," Arthur corrected. "It's more complicated than that."
"When is it not?"
A half smile, but Arthur was looking serious again.
"It's … possible," he admitted slowly. "You created the whole world to begin with."
"My subconscious. And I don't remember any of it."
"True," Arthur conceded, sounding like he'd already known the point that was coming.
"And I get that theoretically, we were affecting the world in little ways, making all those books appear, that sort of thing, but that's just … casual. Something that could be chalked up to coincidence or good luck or intuition. This is a serious leap, Arthur."
"The biggest," the other man agreed seriously.
Harry continued. "If this is limbo and the subconscious and a vast mental construct, you should be able to do crazy stuff, right? Amazingly showy? Change the whole world?"
Something new appeared in Arthur's eyes, an expression that hadn't been there before. A resolution, maybe, but one that scared Harry a little.
"Promise me something. When you realise that you're dreaming, wake up."
Harry just had time to begin contemplating the many ways in which that statement was wrong when the world broke apart.
On to Part Two (2)
Back to Interlude
Disclaimer and author's note, etc., back in the Master Post
On the Wings of an Angel
text by phoenix.writing
illustrations by creepylicious
Part Two (1)
It was another quiet day in the bookshop. But then, it was always a quiet day in the bookshop; this was the way that Harry preferred it. People were a nuisance and never quite right, something that he'd been feeling for some time but most markedly since prison.
It was much easier for everyone if they didn't interact too much.
Mind you, a certain amount of interaction was necessary for his business to stay afloat, but he found that he seemed to manage it somehow month after month even when there were moments where it seemed as though it wasn't going to come together.
There were times where he hated his parents for leaving him the bookshop, a family obligation that he had not felt quite able to simply shrug off, but it was something to fill his days; when he'd actually sat down to think about it, there didn't seem to be anything else that he'd rather do.
The bell over the door jangled. Harry steadfastly ignored it, thinking that he should really go ahead with his resolution to remove the bell. How many people, realistically, were going to steal old books? Not enough to break him, anyway.
Most people left once they realised this wasn't a shop that sold Twilight or Harry Potter or Hunger Games-or whatever the most popular new series was these days.
Harry let the sound of someone browsing the shelves of his shop fade away from him, continuing his work at the counter. He'd used to work in the back, but then he'd been constantly annoyed by needing to go up to the cash to deal with customers. They were few enough and far enough in between that it made more sense to work at the counter and integrate the interruptions that way.
When he glanced up again, it was to find someone standing in front of him. Harry tried not to startle, focussing on what was in the man's hand.
"Can't you read? No food or drink in here, Mate."
The impeccably dressed man held out the coffee. "It's for you."
Harry frowned. "What do you mean?"
"Caramel latte."
It seemed silly, on the one hand, to take the beverage that he had just criticised the man for having in the shop when Harry thought that he was drinking it, but how could Harry refuse a drink that might as well have been made for him?
He took the coffee and managed a tentative sip-followed by a sigh of pleasure. It even had the extra frothed milk and a sprinkling of cinnamon that Harry preferred. He took another long swallow, feeling the warmth swirl down his throat and pool in his stomach.
He looked up at the man who'd brought the coffee with his natty suit and dark, intense eyes.
"Stalker, then?" he asked.
"I'm sorry?"
"Not likely to know the cinnamon and the milk on a random chance."
The man's lips tipped up a bit. "Must have known you in another life."
"You don't strike me as a Buddhist."
"You don't know me very well."
"True."
Even as Harry was saying it, though, it felt a little off. He didn't believe in reincarnation, but there was something there. He pushed the niggling thought away but found himself, to his surprise, pursuing the conversation.
"So what brings you to the bookshop?"
"I'm looking for something I like."
"Oh? What are your interests?"
"Varied."
Harry found his lips curling up into a genuine smile in spite of himself. It had been a while since anyone had flirted so determinedly with him. The man hadn't looked away from Harry since he'd started talking to him, and Harry couldn't remember enjoying himself quite this much in quite some time.
"How did you wind up minding a bookstore?" the other man pursued.
Harry sobered. This was how these conversations started, and they ended with what Harry said next.
"My parents left it to me. I started managing it when I got out of prison."
The man didn't bat an eyelash. "Nice to have something lined up for when you get out. Otherwise, it's much easier to get sucked back onto the wrong side of the law."
There was a strange feeling in the pit of Harry's stomach, but he didn't let himself hope, made himself keep confessing.
"I'm not really interested in becoming a serial killer."
There. He'd said it. The handsome, well-dressed man could remember whatever convenient excuse would get him out of the building, and Harry would go back to being bored but safe.
Utterly improbably, the man's lips tipped up.
"That's good to know."
"You don't mind?" Harry asked uncertainly.
"How could I possibly mind? Just think of all the people I don't know that about. You've cleared it up right off the bat."
"I killed a man," Harry stated baldly, worried that he'd been too subtle before.
"A bad man?"
"Well, yes," Harry admitted, confused.
"And you don't intend to become a serial killer."
"No," Harry agreed.
"So we've resolved that."
He sounded so sure, and Harry felt warmed by something altogether more pleasant than the coffee, though he told himself that it was silly to be so affected by someone he didn't know.
Impulsively, he held out his hand. "I'm Harry."
The answering grip was firm and warm.
"Arthur."
Arthur was watching him carefully now, and Harry smiled as he retrieved his hand.
"It's nice to meet you, Arthur. Most people have run screaming from the shop by now."
"I'm not most people."
"So I'm gathering. Do you read?"
This surprised a laugh out of Arthur. "Period? Learned around the age of four."
Harry grinned and stressed with amusement, "Currently. Are you interested in something in the shop?"
"Apart from the obvious?"
Harry felt his grin widen impossibly large. He hadn't felt this good since before prison.
"Apart from the obvious," he agreed.
"I read for amusement when time permits and something really piques my interest, but I do a lot of research for my job, which tends to stray rather radically from the 9-5."
"Oh?"
"Intel-gathering for a think tank. Sometimes you need to know everything there is to know about socks. At 3am. Go figure."
Harry laughed again. "Socks. Really?"
Arthur winked. "Well, maybe not socks, but you get the idea."
Harry was beginning to.
"Return custom if you're sufficiently diverted, then?"
Arthur hummed an agreement, though Harry was pretty sure neither of them was really talking about books.
Harry nevertheless set down his coffee and headed out to his shelves. He didn't think he could possibly be misreading this given how obvious Arthur was being, but it had been a while, and this was a nicely transparent excuse.
He roamed the shelves, letting his fingers run along the books' spines, waiting to be inspired. The other man had done such a good job of guessing about Harry, he wanted to return the favour.
Arthur watched him quietly, making no move to interfere or speed him along.
Harry pondered. Although the perfect suit and the slicked back hair suggested that he'd enjoy something pretty classic, the job made Harry hesitate. If the book was too dry or too straightforward, that mightn't be of enough interest to the other man. But neither did Harry want to pick something that was so out there that Arthur wouldn't even try it.
His hands plucked the book off the shelf without his even being conscious of the decision being made. Arthur came over to see what Harry had chosen before he could seriously consider just shoving it back on the shelf.
"An Enquiry into the Nature of the Human Soul; Wherein the Immateriality of the Soul Is evinced from the Principles of Reason and Philosophy. Second edition. 1737," Arthur read over Harry's shoulder. "The second volume is almost entirely about dreaming. How did you know?"
It was only as Harry relaxed that he realised how tense he'd been as he waited for a verdict.
"Maybe I knew you in another life, too?"
Arthur took the book, and Harry's fingers tingled where their skin had touched.
Harry told himself that it had clearly simply been too long since he'd last pulled.
He refused to take any money for the book, even when Arthur teased him about how ineffective a business practice that was.
Arthur promised to bring the book back if it was, in effect, a loan, and since Harry would have been happy to make it a gift but really wanted the man to return, he accepted.
~*~
Almost before Harry knew what had happened, Arthur became a regular. He invariably showed up with coffee-usually for Harry but occasionally for himself as well-and Harry's day didn't feel complete unless he'd seen the other man.
They talked about everything, continued the impromptu lending library, and laughed a lot more than Harry would ever have imagined. Arthur's suits gradually disappeared, replaced with slacks and button-downs, occasionally a pullover, and even jeans a time or two.
On one memorable occasion, an unexpected torrential downpour outside had meant Arthur's hair going all to curl and frizz with the gel washed away, and Harry had run both hands through the curly mass and laughed with delight. Arthur had tried to hide how pleased he was.
Harry read the other man bits of his poetry, which Arthur criticised scathingly but with good humour, and somehow, Harry didn't mind. Arthur brought his guitar sometimes, and though he tended to "fiddle" more than play straight through, it was clear that he was quite good.
Arthur confessed that he'd never understood cricket and couldn't throw darts, and Harry tried to explain it to him until they finally had to agree that Arthur was not capable of learning either skill.
Harry discovered more books on dreaming and research methodologies than he had realised he'd had tucked away on his shelves-enough, he hoped, to keep Arthur interested forever.
Sometimes, though, Harry caught Arthur looking at him with an expression that Harry couldn't quite identify, one that made him worry that Arthur was getting bored, that one day he just wasn't going to come back.
Harry began to think that he needed to come up with a better way to secure Arthur's interest. This really wasn't a hardship, as it was something he'd been thinking about practically from the moment he met the man.
His attempt to kiss Arthur for the first time was an unmitigated disaster. Arthur sucked in a sharp breath and turned his head away, preventing the contact.
Harry recoiled, mortified.
"I'm sorry."
Arthur laid a hand on his arm, grasping hard enough that Harry couldn't keep pulling away.
"Please don't apologise."
"I didn't mean-I thought-" Harry stammered out.
"Don't apologize," Arthur ordered more firmly. "Horribly cliché as it is, it's not you, it's me. You thought right, and I just can't…. It's just not something I can do right now, all right?"
Harry nodded, relieved that he maybe hadn't ruined everything after all, but still feeling deeply unsettled.
~*~
When Arthur didn't show up the next day, Harry felt altogether dreadful. It seemed clear now that the other man had simply been letting him down gently, and now he'd run for the hills.
Harry was reminded of why he didn't do relationships, was reminded sharply of all the dangers.
He had never felt more lonely.
~*~
When a dull and otherwise completely dreary Monday morning two weeks later was interrupted by Arthur's arrival with a ridiculously large coffee, the relief Harry felt was absolute, all his intentions to remain distant should they ever see one another again vaporised as though they'd never existed.
"My turn to apologise," Arthur admitted, pushing the coffee across the counter as he stood there once more in the perfect suit that made Harry want to do nothing more than peel him out of it.
But he wasn't supposed to be thinking those thoughts anymore.
"I shouldn't have-" Harry tried again.
Arthur covered Harry's hands with his own. "What? Assumed that all my blatant flirting was going somewhere? Of course you should have. You picked up all the right signals."
"It's just not something you can do right now," Harry repeated the earlier words.
Arthur nodded, looking both relieved and distressed. "Forgive me?"
"Of course," Harry agreed easily, squeezing the other man's hands.
Though he'd prefer to have both, he'd take the company over a physical relationship.
Arthur looked down at their joined hands and then his eyebrows rose.
"Are you forging that book?"
Harry snatched his hands back, scrambling for everything laid across the counter. Shit. All this time, and he'd managed to keep it a secret, only he'd begun to think that Arthur wasn't ever going to come back, and he had been beyond bored.
Normally, he'd rattle off some sort of excuse, but it was like they had all dried up in his throat, and he couldn't seem to get any words out.
Arthur laughed. "But you can't spell."
Harry stared at him, incredulous. Arthur had just found out that Harry was forging some of his expensive first editions, and his only comment was that Harry couldn't spell?
He stared at the man closely, but Arthur's eyes were dancing with amusement, no hint of dismay or disapproval in them.
Harry cleared his throat. "Don't have to spell to copy, do I?"
Arthur let the laughter out now. "True."
"To be honest," Harry admitted, "it's really just to keep from getting bored. It's not like I need the money."
"No desire to close the shop?"
"And do what?"
"Travel? Get a bigger house? A faster car?"
Harry shrugged. "Doesn't really appeal. Sounds lonely."
"Some people might say that running an old bookstore is lonely."
"Some people don't have coffee-bearing stalkers keeping them company all the time."
Arthur smiled at him, a smile of genuine pleasure, and Harry felt truly settled for the first time since the ill-fated attempt at a kiss.
"All right," Arthur said bracingly, clearly sensing how much Harry wanted to kiss him again and moving them along. "Show me the details of what you're working on, and let me know at what point I should be proofing for you."
He seemed genuinely interested, and while it was technically making him an accessory, it was quite clear that Arthur had never intended to report it once he found out the truth, and it wasn't as though Harry was really intending to sell it.
Harry liked not having secrets from Arthur; if he could handle the murder, it seemed silly to be squeamish about the forging.
~*~
Harry found himself thinking a lot about the kiss-that-was-not. He'd thought that he'd be able to easily put it out of his head. He'd meant what he'd thought before, that he'd rather have the man in his life in any way that he could get him, but it was like not staring at the pink elephant in the middle of the room. Every time Harry looked at Arthur, he wanted to kiss him. Arthur would grin at him with that special light in his eyes, and it would be everything Harry could do not to jump the man, not to lean over and taste that smile.
But Arthur had been clear. He certainly hadn't missed Harry's interest, and if whatever prevented him from reciprocating suddenly disappeared, Harry had to assume that Arthur was going to let him know. Checking periodically to ensure that Harry's continued interest was known sounded like the sort of thing that verged on harassment.
So Harry did his best to be a good friend, and Arthur dutifully helped with the forging, catching some of Harry's mistakes before he could make them-which seemed improbable, but the man had an uncanny grasp of Harry's spelling and grammar so could often predict problem areas.
Harry had more fun with the company and the giggles-as he tried to slip errors and jokes in to see if Arthur would catch them-than with the actual forging.
He wasted time and money in untold quantities and couldn't have been happier.
~*~
The morning that Arthur came in with an expression more serious than Harry had ever seen rather than a coffee, Harry felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.
"What is it? What's the matter?" he demanded.
There was no way that he could feign nonchalance; he was too involved, and they both knew it.
"I'm not sure how much more time I have," Arthur admitted, eyes dark and stormy as they met Harry's. "I thought it would be better to go slow, but I'm not so sure anymore."
"You know I won't ever force you to do something you don't want to do," Harry felt compelled to point out even though Arthur had to know that much.
"Of course not," Arthur agreed with enough promptness that Harry felt better-at least until the other man continued. "It looks like I'm going to have to be the one to force you."
Harry frowned. "I don't understand."
They both knew that this was something that Harry wanted-only the look that Arthur was giving him told him that he was missing the wide and sweeping something that had hovered at the periphery for too long.
"Why are there never any customers here?"
Harry's frown deepened sharply, the question taking him by surprise and putting him on the defensive.
"I never said I was extremely successful, Darling."
He was an ex-con who'd killed someone and forged on the side when he got bored. If that wasn't what Arthur had signed up for, then he should have walked away a long time ago.
Arthur's eyes flickered closed for a moment and then open once more. There was a rawness in his expression, something that hadn't been there before, but when he spoke, his voice was curiously mild.
"I'm not talking about a slow week or two. Tell me the last time there was a customer in the store."
Harry opened his mouth to respond, and that was when his brain caught up with his body and he realised that he … couldn't. It was nonsensical. Of course there had been customers. There had to have been customers, he just … couldn't think of a single one.
Arthur's expression had softened now.
"Since you met me?" he proposed gently.
"When you left me," Harry agreed without thought, swallowing when he realised what he'd admitted and hurrying on. "The couple weeks that you weren't here. I think there were a few customers then."
"But when you were occupied with me, there were no customers to get in the way."
Wonderingly, confused, Harry agreed, "Right."
"That's not normal," Arthur pointed out, as though Harry might not have grasped that fact.
"Right," Harry agreed again because it was weird, only there was part of him that was also trying to rationalise it, to pass it off as simply the dry spell that Arthur had already dismissed.
"Where are we?"
"In my bookshop," Harry answered, beginning to get a little worried now.
Arthur rolled his eyes. "Where is your bookshop? What city?"
Harry blinked at him, mind a jumbled mass of confusion because part of him couldn't believe that Arthur was asking a question that silly, and the other part of him was stumbling over an answer.
"Leicester."
"Yet you've never asked me why I have an American accent."
"I assume you came from America," Harry snapped, beginning to get annoyed now.
"Did you?" Arthur asked with infuriating calm.
Of course he had. He-he hadn't bothered to ask because it was obvious, right? Not because he'd simply known when there was no reason for him to have known.
He was starting to get a headache.
"You don't like the cold, do you?"
Harry wasn't even tracking the conversation now.
"Not really, no."
"Has it ever been winter here?"
He opened his mouth to say yes but found his brain freezing again in a sudden inability to point out the obvious. It must have been winter here, but he couldn't actually think of an occasion. It always seemed to be … mild. Hot, sometimes, but … never cold?
"We have nice weather here," he managed finally, but even he could hear how hollow the excuse sounded, and Arthur didn't bother to pursue it.
"What did you have for dinner last night?"
"I…."
But he couldn't do it. He didn't remember.
"When's the last time you had stock delivered? Where did all the books on dreaming and research come from?"
He'd thought, hadn't he, that there were a lot of them?
Arthur just kept going. "Where do you get groceries? When's the last time you paid a bill? Your taxes? Rent?"
Regularly was all that sprang to mind, but he couldn't seize upon a single actual incident. It was like the world was imploding in his head, the mother of all headaches growing behind his eyes.
Arthur was relentless. "Why do you never ask me why I'm not working? Why I'm always here?"
"Because…."
"Because this is where you want me?"
"Yes." Harry gasped out the word, feeling as though he'd been running a race-or maybe just being chased by something monstrous. "You said your hours were flexible. And I was happy with all the time you were spending with me. I didn't care why. It's … I … I wasn't trying to pry."
Arthur smiled a little, though the smile did not reach his eyes, which looked worried. He was too pale, and there was tension pinching his mouth in a way that Harry didn't like.
"Which is very sweet but not very normal. You're a pretty curious guy."
"I am, aren't I?" Harry said slowly, feeling as though he was trying to push through a thick fog.
The smile became a little more genuine, though there was still something fragile in those eyes. "Not that I'm advocating your hounding me or anything."
"That would be normal."
Arthur's eyes flashed.
"I don't know why I said that," Harry said helplessly.
Arthur nodded a little, resolution hardening his face.
"Let's try this again. How long have you been running the bookshop?"
"Since I got out of prison."
"How long were you in prison?"
"Until I got paroled."
Arthur sighed, and Harry realised that his answers were … rather imprecise and circular.
"The name of your parole officer? The last time you saw him or her?"
A vast nothing.
"Where were you in prison? How long was your trial?"
"My trial?" Harry repeated blankly.
"You were in prison for murdering someone. You must have had a trial."
Harry froze. He couldn't remember a trial at all. Some of the other things, they could maybe be passed off as being boring and forgettable. Everyone forgot what they ate the week before, right? Mixed up their days and their activities when they were monotonous? It happened.
But it was pretty impossible to claim that the trial had been inconsequential.
"I don't remember," he admitted.
It felt like his head was being split in two. He wanted to lash out, but Arthur had always been there for him.
"What's happening?" he asked.
"I'm tearing your world apart."
Said so matter-of-factly, but Arthur's hands were gripping Harry's very cold ones, and there was still that look in the man's eyes that said that he was far more affected than he was letting on.
"Why?"
"Because it's not real."
Harry reeled back as though struck, ripping his hands away from Arthur's.
"What do you mean it's not real?" he demanded, suddenly infuriated. "Are you mad? Is this some kind of a sick joke?"
"I'm not crazy, and this isn't a joke." Arthur sounded desperately serious. "I was hoping that you'd start questioning more yourself so that I wouldn't have to spring it on you like this, but that's not working, and we're running out of time."
"What does that mean?"
Arthur drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You're in a coma. Everything around you right now is a construct of your subconscious."
Harry stared at him for a long, incredulous moment before he scoffed, "You're telling me that I'm in, what, the world's longest, most elaborate dream?"
Arthur's expression was still deadly earnest, his voice flat. "I'm telling you you're lost in limbo, and if you don't get out soon, you're going to die."
"I don't believe you."
"Why not?" Arthur asked, just as though this were a rational conversation. "I've just pointed out numerous ways that this world doesn't make sense."
"Just because something is weird doesn't make it invalid or non-existent," Harry snarled.
"Not non-existent," Arthur corrected. "Clearly, it's here. It's a world. But it's not the real world- it's not what you think it is."
"And I'm just supposed to take your word for it?" Harry asked dubiously.
He thought he saw a flash of hurt in Arthur's eyes, but it was quickly masked.
"I've been asking the questions so that you'll use that brain of yours and take your word for it."
It was a little sharper than anything that Arthur had said previously, and Harry heard the insult clearly.
"So I'm stupid for not believing a random person for telling me that I'm dreaming and living a lie?"
"You're not stupid," Arthur snapped, "and I'm not a random person."
"You're a part of my consciousness, I suppose? Not real at all?"
"Certainly not!" Arthur exclaimed, sounding affronted. "I'm real, just like you are. I've come to get you."
"A real hero," Harry infused the word with mockery, "who entered my coma to rescue me."
"I'm not a hero," Arthur negated, still sounding somewhat offended. "But I am trying to save your life."
"Why?" He knew there was something else here but didn't understand what it was yet.
"Because I owe it to you," Arthur said with finality. "But if I can't convince you soon, I don't know how much longer your body can hold on."
"So, what, if I agree that this is a dream, the world goes poof and this real one you claim is out there appears?"
Arthur's lips tightened, and it sounded as though he'd made his voice very carefully even when he answered, "Not exactly. To get out of this world, you need to … leave it."
Harry processed this, and then took a step away from the other man.
"I clearly should have asked if you were a serial killer."
"I'm not," Arthur averred immediately, looking torn between rolling his eyes and being offended again.
Even under the circumstances-or perhaps because of them-Harry couldn't help but find this funny. Somehow, it was hard to believe that a serial killer would roll his eyes so much, though maybe that was just Harry's opinion.
He must have let some of his amusement show because Arthur's expression softened, some of the tension going out of his shoulders.
"Wouldn't matter if I was, though, because you're the one who has to decide to leave."
Harry blinked at him, hoped that he hadn't come to the right conclusion. "You're telling me I need to kill myself."
"I'm telling you how you can return to reality," Arthur stated carefully.
Harry took that as a yes. Arthur made no move to come after him when he backed further away.
"Do you know how many people have told me I'm worthless? That I should just kill myself and save someone else the trouble?"
Arthur stepped forward, hand outstretched, but he stopped when Harry took another step away and let his hand fall to his side.
"No one who really knows you," he answered, meeting Harry's eyes and not looking away. "I came here to save you, remember."
Harry pushed away the past, concentrating on the present, though he wasn't so sure that it wasn't about to turn just as sour. "About that. You're saying that everything that's happened has been a set up? That you always knew me and just let this happen so you could convince me to kill myself?"
"I came bearing the kind of coffee you like," Arthur pointed out, clearly trying to get another one of those "logical" assertions in that was supposed to convince Harry that he was living a lie. "I hoped that I would jog your memory and we wouldn't have to have this awkward conversation."
"It is a crappy conversation."
Arthur huffed a laugh, and Harry felt a bit better, whether he should or not. He missed Arthur's sense of humour and laughter, he realised, and that had put him on edge to begin with. It had only gotten worse from there.
"I'm sorry." Arthur sounded genuinely regretful. "I've honestly enjoyed the time we've had here, but I think we're pushing it as it is."
"We were happy," Harry couldn't help but point out.
Unspoken but understood was the fact that Arthur had ruined that.
"But this isn't reality," Arthur stressed.
"Does it matter?"
"Yes."
"Why?" Harry asked a little bit desperately. "If it feels real and looks real and we're happy?"
Though it was pretty clear that Arthur had never been happy like Harry had been. The thought niggled unpleasantly around the edges of his brain.
"Because you were sick of people because there were no real people around you. Because you were wasting away in a bookshop."
"I thought you liked the bookshop," Harry said, hurt.
Arthur sucked in breath sharply through his nose, trying to keep his temper, Harry knew.
"I like when you like it," Arthur answered, leaving Harry rather muddled. "But that still doesn't make it real, doesn't mean that this world is populated by anything other than your mind."
Harry knew that they were going to get into a philosophical debate if they argued whether that mattered or not, but Arthur kept going.
"You're getting thinner."
"I-What?"
This had not been where Harry thought the conversation was going at all.
"The longer I've been here, the thinner you've become."
"I'm spending time with you instead of eating?"
Arthur gave a half laugh, but something altogether more serious lurked underneath.
"It means your sense of self is being undermined by the real world. And if your subconscious can't keep up the illusion, you're running out of time more and more quickly. Our bodies don't stay comatose forever."
"But if I kill myself here, I'll wake up there. That's what you're claiming."
"That's how this works. And you know that's how this works."
"How would I know?" Harry asked, surprised.
"Because that's what we do. We work in dreams."
"Come again?"
Arthur was starting to look frustrated again. "How can you have suppressed all of this this much? There's a piece of technology called a PASIV. It allows people to dream share, allows people to enter others' dreams."
"How is that a job?"
"We can extract information."
Arthur had told Harry he worked for a think tank. Intel-gathering. Research. Everything was wrapping in on itself so tightly that he was worried it was going to suffocate him-only that was what Arthur was saying he needed to do anyway.
Something had to give.
"That's crazy."
Arthur grimaced. "I don't know what else to say to you. I've pointed out all the ways this is illogical. You've admitted to not knowing things that you know you should, skipping from event to event just like you do in a dream. What else can I say to convince you?"
The direct question threw Harry. "Well, it's not…. There isn't anything you can say," he spluttered. "I mean, it's not something that you can just take on faith, is it? Not when the only way to prove it is to kill yourself. You're asking for a lot."
"I know I am. But I have to try, right?"
He seemed desperate, and Harry wanted to reassure him, wanted to make him feel better. But he didn't know how, not when everything was so screwed up.
If he was telling the truth, then he was trying to do a very good thing. But how could Harry possibly know that he was telling the truth?
"I want to believe you."
He didn't know where the words had come from, and Arthur's eyes snapped to his.
"Do you?" he asked intensely.
Harry swallowed. "But I just … I can't. It's unbelievable. Why don't I remember any of this real life?"
"I don't really know. But I think you're too smart for your own good, and this was the only way your brain could build a construct that you'd buy. You had to forget all about the PASIV and extracting."
"And everyone you say I worked with? You?"
"Apparently. For the most part. But you found the books on dreaming. And you do things when you don't think about it."
"What sort of things?"
"Wear horrible shirts because you know I hate them."
He looked down at the gaudy shirt that he was currently wearing. He hadn't worn anything like that before Arthur came along, and he did know that the other man didn't like them.
His lips tipped up involuntarily, and he said halfway between a question and a statement, "I like to torture you with them."
"You brought me cinnamon buns because they're my favourite, even though I didn't tell you here, rub at the perfect spot at the back of my neck that eases my tension headaches, never ask me why I wear a suit and tie to a bookstore."
"You like your suit and tie," he answered automatically.
"Yes, I do, and I know it's something you can infer because I wear it, but did you infer it, or did you know it?"
"I knew it," Harry admitted absently before rallying. "But you stopped wearing the suits."
Arthur looked away for a moment, then back at Harry. "This is limbo. People lose themselves here. It's not always easy for me to remember why I'm here."
"But the suits help you remember?"
Arthur nodded, looking as though he were contemplating saying more but stopping there.
This seemed a little odd to Harry, but on second thought, it was better not to question how Arthur felt about his suits.
"Why isn't anything helping me remember?"
"Because this is the world you created, and this is the way you want it to be."
"I created this world."
"Yes."
"Then why would I make it like this?" Harry demanded, suddenly angry again. "Why would I have killed someone? Why would I have gone to prison? Why would-"
He cut himself off abruptly.
Arthur looked at him suspiciously. "Why would what?"
"Nothing."
"No, this is important," Arthur corrected, staring at him intently. "This might be most important. What don't you want to tell me?"
Harry hadn't ever told anyone, but no matter who or what Arthur was, it was clear that he wasn't that.
"Perhaps you'd better see this world that you claim I created for myself."
It was a short walk, and since Arthur didn't point it out, Harry couldn't help but notice that they went from the city to this secluded, nature-bound area very quickly. Still, though, there were green spaces in towns and cities, weren't there? He was second-guessing everything now, and it was driving him mad.
He retraced the well-trod route easily. Flowers were blooming everywhere since it would be a waste to bring cut flowers all the time.
Beside him, Arthur sucked in a breath. "Oh, Eames."
He'd never called Harry that, and yet it resonated in a way that was altogether right-and therefore altogether unsettling.
Arthur knelt down by the gravestone and ran a finger along the smooth surface.
"Why did you go to prison?"
He wasn't looking at Harry but down at the grave. Harry frowned.
"I killed a man. You already know-This isn't him!" he yelped, horrified.
Arthur looked up at him fleetingly. "You killed a bad man. You don't think this man is a bad man."
He looked back down at the grave, finger now following the one word carefully incised on the marble surface.
Harry swallowed heavily. "He was a very good man."
"And how did he die?"
The words stuck in his throat and came out sounding like sandpaper. "He was killed by a bad man."
"Why?"
"Why?" Harry parroted.
"Yes, why. Why did Collins kill him?"
No one had ever asked him why before. "Because he was a traitorous bastard who was a miserable excuse for a human being, that's why."
"But there must have been a reason," Arthur pressed. "Collins wasn't a serial killer. It wasn't a senseless act of violence. Why this man?"
Harry felt a little bit as though he couldn't catch his breath, as though he were rushing towards a precipice-and he wasn't even moving.
"He had information Collins wanted."
"What sort of information?"
"I don't know!" Harry yelled, whirling away from the grave and Arthur's calm, infuriating voice. "I don't know, all right? He just…. Collins killed him, and I have to wake up every day, and he's not here. And I go to sleep every night, and he's still not here, and nothing's going to change that. It doesn't matter why."
A hand on his arm, and for some reason, Harry didn't feel like shaking it off. It felt like warmth was sinking back into him from that one connection, trying to thaw everything that had frozen-that had maybe been frozen for years.
"I'm sorry," Arthur murmured when Harry turned back to him. "This isn't … pleasant for me, either. I'm trying to help."
"You have an odd way of showing it."
"You're very stubborn."
"I was born that way, Darling."
Arthur's lips twitched up in a half smile. "I know you were. So let's try this again. Whose grave is that?"
"Is your memory going? I just told you-"
"-what happened, yes. But you didn't give me a name. Whose grave is that?"
Harry couldn't explain why the bottom had suddenly dropped out of his stomach. He knew it was a perfectly fair question, but his mind was rebelling.
"Come on," Arthur prompted like a shark who was homing in on the bloody kill. "Give me a name. It's not a hard question. If he means so much to you, he-"
"Arthur!" Harry snapped.
"Yes?"
"That's his name," Harry said, aggrieved. "His name was Arthur. He-"
Arthur was staring at him with eyes that saw too much.
Harry swore. "Please tell me that's not why you told me that was your name."
"You stubborn son of a bitch," Arthur groaned. "Arthur is my name. I'm trying to tell you that you got it wrong. I chose to make myself scarce before Collins could try anything-but you didn't know that, and that's how you wound up in this world with that gravestone."
Harry's brain short-circuited.
"You're saying that you're my Arthur? I mean, that Arthur?" He pointed at the grave.
Arthur nodded, looking pained.
"And my brain has just … what? Separated the two of you to screw with my head?"
"You wound up in the coma thinking that I was dead, thinking that Collins had killed me. Your subconscious had no way of knowing that the real me was going to show up, and it had already stripped out everything to do with dreaming, so it just … kept doing that."
Harry hated how much this … almost made sense. Arthur could almost bring him there, and then Harry baulked and panicked because it was still the craziest thing he'd ever heard and none of it could be proved.
"But if I've divided it all up subconsciously, how can I ever know? Because I don't remember the life that you're trying to tell me about, and you don't know the life that I supposedly made up. The only way I can get to the life you say is real is to kill myself here, and you say that staying here is killing me anyway."
"Would you hit me if I said 'take a gamble'?" Arthur asked.
"I'd have to at least seriously consider it. This is my life we're talking about."
"I know," Arthur admitted softly.
Because if Arthur was telling the truth, he'd been here fighting for Harry's life all this time. And while people did stupid, elaborate, malicious things when the mood struck them, Harry was having a hard time truly conceiving why anyone would go to this elaborate an effort. There were better ways to get him to kill himself, surely. Arthur could have done it and made it look like suicide a hundred times over with how much time they spent together. And if it was true-
"You're saying that there's a life out there where he's still alive."
He gestured at the grave because he was still having trouble reconciling that Arthur and this Arthur, trying to meld together two people who were so distinct in Harry's mind. And yet he'd been so happy when this Arthur had come into his life, happy in a way that he hadn't been since-
"No!"
He looked at Arthur, confused.
"Well, yes," he corrected a moment later, "but you can't-" He sounded more frantic than Harry was used to, muddling his words because he was reacting instead of thinking before he spoke. "If you decide to return to the real world, you need to go for you, not for something else, not because anyone told you to. You need to remember."
"And that's why we're here," Harry verbalised finally. "Because you're doing everything you can to convince me, to make me truly believe, and it's not working."
Arthur nodded.
Because Arthur could have promised him everything he ever wanted, could have told him that anything was out there in reality, but he had refused to do it. He wanted Harry to come of his own accord because he believed.
But how did you believe in something as crazy as that, in something that Harry could never see with these eyes by definition because if what Arthur was saying was true, then his eyes weren't even real. Everything around him was a construct.
"If this is really a dream," Harry was struck by the sudden notion, "can't you, I don't know, make it act like a dream? Everything you've said so far is sort of … circumstantial, you know, and usually stuff that happened in the past. Can't you do something now? Manipulate the world?"
"This is limbo," Arthur corrected. "It's more complicated than that."
"When is it not?"
A half smile, but Arthur was looking serious again.
"It's … possible," he admitted slowly. "You created the whole world to begin with."
"My subconscious. And I don't remember any of it."
"True," Arthur conceded, sounding like he'd already known the point that was coming.
"And I get that theoretically, we were affecting the world in little ways, making all those books appear, that sort of thing, but that's just … casual. Something that could be chalked up to coincidence or good luck or intuition. This is a serious leap, Arthur."
"The biggest," the other man agreed seriously.
Harry continued. "If this is limbo and the subconscious and a vast mental construct, you should be able to do crazy stuff, right? Amazingly showy? Change the whole world?"
Something new appeared in Arthur's eyes, an expression that hadn't been there before. A resolution, maybe, but one that scared Harry a little.
"Promise me something. When you realise that you're dreaming, wake up."
Harry just had time to begin contemplating the many ways in which that statement was wrong when the world broke apart.
On to Part Two (2)