A Bad Dream, pt. four
Title: A Bad Dream
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~3100
Rating: PG-13 (this part)
Summary: Sometimes, the recovery can be just as hard to cope with as the trauma. Arthur and Eames learn this the hard way.
Warnings: Language, references to noncon
Author's Note: Finally a decently-sized chapter oh my god. Too much Eames up in here! The next part will be Arthur.
part one, part two, part three, part five, part six, part seven, part eight, part nine.
+
“You're late.” Cobb raised an eyebrow. “I expected you earlier.”
“Yeah. Well.” Eames had his hands shoved in his pockets, resentfully. “Had to pick up some smokes. And stop for a drink or two.”
Cobb let him in. Eames entered the room warily. The lights were all on and Cobb was dressed in his day clothes and everything.
“What made you so sure I'd come here?” he demanded. “I could've gone to Ari. Or found another hotel.”
“But you wouldn't have, because Ariadne would ask questions about why you're not with Arthur, and I won't do that. And I know you don't like spending the night alone.”
Eames half considered leaving right then, but he was tired and jet-lagged and besides, Cobb was right. He sank down onto the little couch in Cobb's room. Square and uncomfortable just like the chairs in his and Arthur's.
“I suppose Arthur called you.”
“He's pretty shook up,” Cobb conceded, taking a seat at the end of the bed, facing Eames. “As shook up as Arthur gets, anyway.”
Eames bowed his head, propped his elbows on his knees and rubbed wearily at his eyes with the heels of his palms.
“I don't care. He's not allowed to be shook up. I'm the one who ...”
He sucked in a breath through his teeth. He couldn't finish the sentence. Cobb seemed to understand.
“Arthur's my partner; I trained him myself and I trust him with my life. But he's not very good when it comes to things like emotions or communication.” The bed creaked as Cobb leaned forward. “You know he's more into action. I think he's been feeling helpless for a long time now because he can't physically do anything to help you. And I think he might have mistakenly taken some of that frustration out on you. I'm not saying it's okay,” he clarified, raising his hands. “Just telling you what I think.”
“You're right,” said Eames flatly. “It's not okay.”
Cobb sighed.
“You can take the couch if you really want, but I think the floor will be more comfortable.”
Eames would have made a joke about sharing the bed, probably involving spooning, but it didn't seem appropriate given the circumstances. Cobb pulled the duvet off his bed and tossed him a pillow and Eames worked them both into something vaguely resembling a sleeping bag that wasn't going to be very comfortable, but it wasn't as though he'd be getting much sleeping done anyway.
“Take today off from dreaming, too.” Cobb turned off the lights and Eames heard him shedding clothes. “Straighten your head out. But I want to see something by Monday. Is that fair?”
“Yeah. Alright. Cobb?”
“What?”
Eames wasn't sure what had compelled him to speak and he didn't know if, for one absurd second, he might actually have been about to proposition Cobb. So he said something else, the first thing to pop into his head:
“You know Arthur better than anybody, don't you?”
“Probably,” said Cobb, not even bothering to pretend that Eames might hold that title, because they both knew he didn't.
“What do you think would've happened if it had been Arthur they'd taken ... instead of me?”
For a couple seconds Cobb was silent. When he spoke, Eames knew his silence wasn't from surprise, but rather consideration.
“He'd have lost his mind,” he said simply, without a trace of doubt.
Eames had the entire rest of the night to think about that, while Cobb slept. He didn't know what to make of that.
+
In the morning, Eames feigned sleep so that he could lag behind another hour or two after Cobb got up and left. He wasn't quite ready to face the rest of the team -- or the possibility of encountering JJ again -- so he spent a couple of hours steeling himself. With some apprehension, he went to break into Arthur's hotel room on the floor below Cobb's, and found that the point man had left the door open for him.
Arthur was gone, making it safe for him to collect all his things, except for one: He pulled a burgundy hoodie out of his suitcase and left it rumpled up on Arthur's bed.
Everything else was lugged back up to Cobb's. He stowed them under the bed, in case Cobb got the impression that Eames was planning on bunking with him all week. He still had some dignity to speak of.
When he could avoid it no longer, he took the subway to the seedy neighbourhood in Lower Manhattan where the studio apartment was. He jogged up the stairs hastily, not wanting to linger, even in broad daylight.
Reaching the loft, he found that somebody -- no doubt Arthur -- had completely redecorated their working space. All the white sheets had been taken off the furniture, and the tables had been pushed around to serve as individual desks for each of them, a chair pulled up to each. Even some rickety folding chairs had been procured, standing around the PASIV in its silver briefcase.
Cobb was on the far side of the room, scribbling on a whiteboard with sharp, violent strokes of the marker. Arthur, sitting at a table in one corner and poring over a pile of paperwork, was wearing a sweatervest with the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up today. He looked as clean-cut and prim as ever, except that his eyes were almost as bloodshot as Eames'.
JJ was nowhere in sight. A small relief.
He spied a file folder lying on one of the makeshift desks with a sticky-note tacked to it, reading, in Arthur's crisp handwriting, Eames. In spite of himself, he took a seat and pulled the folder over, half expecting to find some precisely-worded letter of apology inside when he opened it.
Instead, just to be predictable, Arthur had left a sheaf of papers, his own notes, and a stack of photographs. Of course. Eames snuck a glance at him.
“I think he's been here all night.” Ariadne was sliding into the chair nearest to him and scooting closer. “I don't know how he dug up so much information so fast. It's way more than what JJ left us. He went under with the mark for two hours, too, just to tail him, since we can't do that in reality this time. I dunno how he's doing it, I was so jet-lagged yesterday I was out like a light. He's like a robot.”
“'Extra-terrestrial' was always my theory,” Eames remarked.
Ariadne grinned at him, then dropped her voice conspiratorially low. “I'd stay away from our fearless leader this morning, if I were you. He's in a pretty foul mood.”
“Who, Cobb?” Eames looked over at the extractor, who was still scrawling manically across the board. “Why? What's happened?”
“That guy, McAvoy, the one who doesn't like me, he showed up early this morning with a proposition for Cobb. He offered him double what he's paying him if Cobb agreed to kill this mark once we find out he's guilty -- if he is.”
Surprised, Eames said, “An unscrupulous man would take the deal and shoot the man for the money, without gathering proof at all.”
“Right, but most people have scruples, and I think the idea is that if Cobb's responsible for whether this guy lives or dies, he's going to try especially hard to find real, solid proof that he's guilty before making the call.”
“So did Cobb take the deal?”
“No,” said Ariadne. “But Arthur did.”
Eames stared at her. “You're joking.”
“Nope.”
“No wonder Cobb's angry.”
They both glanced over at the extractor's protégé, who was still reading feverishly through the sheets of intelligence he'd gathered while propping open his laptop at the same time, oblivious to their attention.
“I'll let you get to work, anyway,” said Ariadne, getting up. “Oh -- and don't use that bathroom over there, it's not worth it.”
She pulled a face, and went back over to her own desk in the opposite corner of the room.
Eames had to steel himself all over again. Couldn't put it off forever. He opened the folder again. He knew it would be difficult.
He started reading anyway.
The ironic thing was that Arthur wasn't handing him anything he wouldn't show Eames in normal circumstances. True, they'd never quite had to work a job like this one before, but Arthur couldn't be blamed for the nature of the research. It was entirely possible he hadn't arranged all the information so that the most important parts -- naturally, the background information and exhaustive police reports and autopsies of the rape and murder victims -- were on the top of the pile. Their mark's name was Joseph Ford and he'd been charged with seven counts of murder overall. Eames soon began to see that, if Ford was indeed their man, he could sooner be called a serial rapist than a killer. The murder came second to the sexual assault as a matter of convenience. The murders were quick, strangulation or suffocation; it was the pre-mortem damage that was so extensive and unsettling.
Eames had to stop five times, and each time he forced himself to keep reading. He had to read and let his mind construct a solid picture of each girl and what she was like in life, and then flip the page and watch her be taken apart in stark, unpassionate typeface. But there was no way he could get a feel for the forgery he'd have to concoct if he didn't know everything about Ford's pattern and what he liked, what made him tick, what got his motor going. Whatever he forged would have to catch Ford's attention right away and hold it for as long as necessary.
He found himself queasily hoping that Ford wasn't their man.
He thumbed through the photographs at the bottom and found McAvoy's daughter. Hard to believe something so delicate and pretty could come from such a rough, hardened man. Or had the year-long court trial done that to him?
When Arthur approached his desk sometime after noon, Eames had the folder propped up in his lap and was chewing on the end of his pen. Arthur glanced over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow.
“The Saturday Times crossword?”
“Bought it at the airport yesterday.”
“You never cease to surprise me, Eames.”
“It's good exercise for my brain.” Eames tapped his temple with the pen. “Helps me work.”
“I'm sure it does.” Arthur dropped a small stack of papers on his desk. Eames could see that both sides of each sheet were covered in Arthur's tiny, impeccable handwriting, right down to cramped little notes stuffed into the margins. “I've been jotting down a couple theories based on the information I've gathered -- how he chooses the victims, what he wants from them, things like that. It should help you.”
Eames stared at the papers and raised his eyebrows. It wasn't just the sheer amount of paperwork Arthur had muscled through like he was running on a concoction of speed, caffeine and Red Bull this morning. What really surprised him was the blasé, impersonal way Arthur spoke to him. Like it really was just that easy for the point man to compartmentalize. He'd already taken that morning's scene, studied it, boxed it up, and tucked it away where it wouldn't interfere with his work performance. Like Eames was that easy to forget about.
There was a slow, angry burn in Eames' stomach. If Arthur wanted to pretend that this was any other job and nothing had ever happened to Eames or between the two of them -- fine.
“Thank you, darling.” He smiled sweetly around the pen clamped in his teeth, certain the barbed pet name would sting. “I'm sure it will.”
Arthur blinked. He turned and started walking away.
“Hang on,” said Eames. A thought had struck him, and as long as they were playing this game, well, Arthur was the point man, after all. He was the one who knew everything.
Arthur stopped and glanced back at him, expressionless.
“This fellow we're working with,” said Eames, taking the pen out of his mouth and twirling it idly around his fingers like his pulse hadn't just quickened nervously. “This -- JJ. I've never heard of him before. Have you ever worked with him?”
Arthur shook his head. “Not me or Cobb, not personally, no. I've heard about him though. The story is that he's very wealthy, born into old money, I think, and when he got bored with other pursuits he started hiring people in the dreaming business to train him to do it. Sort of a spoiled brat wanting to play with the big kids. But by all accounts he's good enough at it to freelance. I wouldn't imagine he needs the money, I think he just enjoys the thrill of it. Reality's not big enough for him.” Arthur shrugged his shoulders. “I don't think he's been involved in illegal pursuits for very long, though, which might be why you hadn't heard about him. I guess he just started to find legal work too boring for him. Does that answer your question?”
“It does, thank you. Knew I could count on you, as usual, Arthur.”
Arthur turned his back and left.
JJ. What a stupid name to pick for the business. It didn't suit him. Eames scowled and went down to the next floor for a cigarette, so that Arthur wouldn't see him pacing and sweating and thinking furiously about how he was supposed to deal with this problem on top of everything else.
After work he and Cobb went to a bar to wile away the last hours before they could feasibly return to the hotel. They didn't talk about the job or Arthur. Eames decided he liked Cobb again.
He cut himself off after two beers, because he knew if he kept going, he wouldn't stop. So when they got back to the hotel, and Eames realized he'd forgotten to book his own hotel room and Cobb just sighed and opened the door, he was barely buzzed. That was how he knew beyond a doubt that something was wrong, when Cobb stepped inside, and Eames was standing too close and Cobb brushed past him, a fleeting contact (a threat, wildly thought in the back of his mind) and Eames didn't even know he was leaning dangerously, dizzily in until Cobb put a hand on his chest and pushed him back a step, gently but firmly.
“That's not okay,” he reminded Eames quietly.
“Fuck,” Eames said weakly. He slumped to the floor.
Cobb stepped wordlessly past him, giving him space, and switched on the lights, then watched him carefully to see what he'd do. The door was still open. So that Eames could make an escape if he wanted to? So that Cobb wouldn't have to be locked up with him? He couldn't guess.
“Something's wrong with me, Cobb,” he said with plain exhaustion. “I don't know what I'm doing. I got so much better than this, I swear I did. I haven't been like this in months. I don't know what's happening to me.”
He expected Cobb to throw him out or something. He knew all this was making Cobb more uncomfortable than he'd like to say. Instead, his employer took a seat on the bed.
“After Mal died,” he said quietly, looking down at his folded hands, “it was like there wasn't a part of my body that didn't physically hurt. I shouldn't have kept dreaming, but I did, and I let the situation get out of hand. The problem with dreamers is that we let our subconsciouses turn into living, breathing things, and when there's too much buried in there, it'll start to sneak up on you, even when you're awake. You lose control.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Eames asked tiredly. Cobb shrugged.
“The alternative is to stop dreaming.”
Eames thought about JJ. Then he thought about how much he loved his job, how every time he met a new person he had analyzed in seconds their facial structure and the way they spoke and smiled and moved, how forging came as naturally to him as breathing.
“I don't think I can do that,” he said.
“I couldn't, either.” Cobb smiled sadly. “I don't know what else to tell you, Eames. I don't know what you need, and even if I did, I don't think I'd be the person to give it to you.” He shook his head and said, “I can call the front desk and book you another room, if you want.”
Eames nodded. It hadn't hit him until Cobb had brushed him that he still didn't trust men -- not even one he'd known for years. Arthur had seemed safe for awhile, but not anymore, and Cobb -- Cobb was virtually an unknown, now. He might not necessarily hurt Eames, but there were a thousand tiny things the extractor could do to trigger him and not even realize, and Eames was starting to live in fear of the next trigger. He could no longer know how he'd react. He was regressing, the very thing he'd been so afraid of.
When the room was booked, Eames fetched his key card from the front desk and took his luggage from Cobb's room to his own. He switched the lights on and immediately hated it. It was every fucking hotel room and every fucking bed he'd ever been stretched over and raped on in his dreamscape.
He had to get some sleep before he collapsed.
He turned around in the doorway and left the room.
It was surprisingly easy to break into Arthur's room. Eames was extremely cautious sneaking across the room, because he didn't want to wake Arthur up -- that would have been too hard to face. Instead, he crept over to the PD, a flicker of silver in the sliver of light cast through the door, and took it. He went back to his own room.
At least it was sleep.
That was what he told himself.
He stretched out on the floor because he couldn't make himself vulnerable on the bed, and pressed the trigger button. The PASIV gave a comforting wheeze, and he slumped against the carpet.
next
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~3100
Rating: PG-13 (this part)
Summary: Sometimes, the recovery can be just as hard to cope with as the trauma. Arthur and Eames learn this the hard way.
Warnings: Language, references to noncon
Author's Note: Finally a decently-sized chapter oh my god. Too much Eames up in here! The next part will be Arthur.
part one, part two, part three, part five, part six, part seven, part eight, part nine.
+
“You're late.” Cobb raised an eyebrow. “I expected you earlier.”
“Yeah. Well.” Eames had his hands shoved in his pockets, resentfully. “Had to pick up some smokes. And stop for a drink or two.”
Cobb let him in. Eames entered the room warily. The lights were all on and Cobb was dressed in his day clothes and everything.
“What made you so sure I'd come here?” he demanded. “I could've gone to Ari. Or found another hotel.”
“But you wouldn't have, because Ariadne would ask questions about why you're not with Arthur, and I won't do that. And I know you don't like spending the night alone.”
Eames half considered leaving right then, but he was tired and jet-lagged and besides, Cobb was right. He sank down onto the little couch in Cobb's room. Square and uncomfortable just like the chairs in his and Arthur's.
“I suppose Arthur called you.”
“He's pretty shook up,” Cobb conceded, taking a seat at the end of the bed, facing Eames. “As shook up as Arthur gets, anyway.”
Eames bowed his head, propped his elbows on his knees and rubbed wearily at his eyes with the heels of his palms.
“I don't care. He's not allowed to be shook up. I'm the one who ...”
He sucked in a breath through his teeth. He couldn't finish the sentence. Cobb seemed to understand.
“Arthur's my partner; I trained him myself and I trust him with my life. But he's not very good when it comes to things like emotions or communication.” The bed creaked as Cobb leaned forward. “You know he's more into action. I think he's been feeling helpless for a long time now because he can't physically do anything to help you. And I think he might have mistakenly taken some of that frustration out on you. I'm not saying it's okay,” he clarified, raising his hands. “Just telling you what I think.”
“You're right,” said Eames flatly. “It's not okay.”
Cobb sighed.
“You can take the couch if you really want, but I think the floor will be more comfortable.”
Eames would have made a joke about sharing the bed, probably involving spooning, but it didn't seem appropriate given the circumstances. Cobb pulled the duvet off his bed and tossed him a pillow and Eames worked them both into something vaguely resembling a sleeping bag that wasn't going to be very comfortable, but it wasn't as though he'd be getting much sleeping done anyway.
“Take today off from dreaming, too.” Cobb turned off the lights and Eames heard him shedding clothes. “Straighten your head out. But I want to see something by Monday. Is that fair?”
“Yeah. Alright. Cobb?”
“What?”
Eames wasn't sure what had compelled him to speak and he didn't know if, for one absurd second, he might actually have been about to proposition Cobb. So he said something else, the first thing to pop into his head:
“You know Arthur better than anybody, don't you?”
“Probably,” said Cobb, not even bothering to pretend that Eames might hold that title, because they both knew he didn't.
“What do you think would've happened if it had been Arthur they'd taken ... instead of me?”
For a couple seconds Cobb was silent. When he spoke, Eames knew his silence wasn't from surprise, but rather consideration.
“He'd have lost his mind,” he said simply, without a trace of doubt.
Eames had the entire rest of the night to think about that, while Cobb slept. He didn't know what to make of that.
+
In the morning, Eames feigned sleep so that he could lag behind another hour or two after Cobb got up and left. He wasn't quite ready to face the rest of the team -- or the possibility of encountering JJ again -- so he spent a couple of hours steeling himself. With some apprehension, he went to break into Arthur's hotel room on the floor below Cobb's, and found that the point man had left the door open for him.
Arthur was gone, making it safe for him to collect all his things, except for one: He pulled a burgundy hoodie out of his suitcase and left it rumpled up on Arthur's bed.
Everything else was lugged back up to Cobb's. He stowed them under the bed, in case Cobb got the impression that Eames was planning on bunking with him all week. He still had some dignity to speak of.
When he could avoid it no longer, he took the subway to the seedy neighbourhood in Lower Manhattan where the studio apartment was. He jogged up the stairs hastily, not wanting to linger, even in broad daylight.
Reaching the loft, he found that somebody -- no doubt Arthur -- had completely redecorated their working space. All the white sheets had been taken off the furniture, and the tables had been pushed around to serve as individual desks for each of them, a chair pulled up to each. Even some rickety folding chairs had been procured, standing around the PASIV in its silver briefcase.
Cobb was on the far side of the room, scribbling on a whiteboard with sharp, violent strokes of the marker. Arthur, sitting at a table in one corner and poring over a pile of paperwork, was wearing a sweatervest with the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up today. He looked as clean-cut and prim as ever, except that his eyes were almost as bloodshot as Eames'.
JJ was nowhere in sight. A small relief.
He spied a file folder lying on one of the makeshift desks with a sticky-note tacked to it, reading, in Arthur's crisp handwriting, Eames. In spite of himself, he took a seat and pulled the folder over, half expecting to find some precisely-worded letter of apology inside when he opened it.
Instead, just to be predictable, Arthur had left a sheaf of papers, his own notes, and a stack of photographs. Of course. Eames snuck a glance at him.
“I think he's been here all night.” Ariadne was sliding into the chair nearest to him and scooting closer. “I don't know how he dug up so much information so fast. It's way more than what JJ left us. He went under with the mark for two hours, too, just to tail him, since we can't do that in reality this time. I dunno how he's doing it, I was so jet-lagged yesterday I was out like a light. He's like a robot.”
“'Extra-terrestrial' was always my theory,” Eames remarked.
Ariadne grinned at him, then dropped her voice conspiratorially low. “I'd stay away from our fearless leader this morning, if I were you. He's in a pretty foul mood.”
“Who, Cobb?” Eames looked over at the extractor, who was still scrawling manically across the board. “Why? What's happened?”
“That guy, McAvoy, the one who doesn't like me, he showed up early this morning with a proposition for Cobb. He offered him double what he's paying him if Cobb agreed to kill this mark once we find out he's guilty -- if he is.”
Surprised, Eames said, “An unscrupulous man would take the deal and shoot the man for the money, without gathering proof at all.”
“Right, but most people have scruples, and I think the idea is that if Cobb's responsible for whether this guy lives or dies, he's going to try especially hard to find real, solid proof that he's guilty before making the call.”
“So did Cobb take the deal?”
“No,” said Ariadne. “But Arthur did.”
Eames stared at her. “You're joking.”
“Nope.”
“No wonder Cobb's angry.”
They both glanced over at the extractor's protégé, who was still reading feverishly through the sheets of intelligence he'd gathered while propping open his laptop at the same time, oblivious to their attention.
“I'll let you get to work, anyway,” said Ariadne, getting up. “Oh -- and don't use that bathroom over there, it's not worth it.”
She pulled a face, and went back over to her own desk in the opposite corner of the room.
Eames had to steel himself all over again. Couldn't put it off forever. He opened the folder again. He knew it would be difficult.
He started reading anyway.
The ironic thing was that Arthur wasn't handing him anything he wouldn't show Eames in normal circumstances. True, they'd never quite had to work a job like this one before, but Arthur couldn't be blamed for the nature of the research. It was entirely possible he hadn't arranged all the information so that the most important parts -- naturally, the background information and exhaustive police reports and autopsies of the rape and murder victims -- were on the top of the pile. Their mark's name was Joseph Ford and he'd been charged with seven counts of murder overall. Eames soon began to see that, if Ford was indeed their man, he could sooner be called a serial rapist than a killer. The murder came second to the sexual assault as a matter of convenience. The murders were quick, strangulation or suffocation; it was the pre-mortem damage that was so extensive and unsettling.
Eames had to stop five times, and each time he forced himself to keep reading. He had to read and let his mind construct a solid picture of each girl and what she was like in life, and then flip the page and watch her be taken apart in stark, unpassionate typeface. But there was no way he could get a feel for the forgery he'd have to concoct if he didn't know everything about Ford's pattern and what he liked, what made him tick, what got his motor going. Whatever he forged would have to catch Ford's attention right away and hold it for as long as necessary.
He found himself queasily hoping that Ford wasn't their man.
He thumbed through the photographs at the bottom and found McAvoy's daughter. Hard to believe something so delicate and pretty could come from such a rough, hardened man. Or had the year-long court trial done that to him?
When Arthur approached his desk sometime after noon, Eames had the folder propped up in his lap and was chewing on the end of his pen. Arthur glanced over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow.
“The Saturday Times crossword?”
“Bought it at the airport yesterday.”
“You never cease to surprise me, Eames.”
“It's good exercise for my brain.” Eames tapped his temple with the pen. “Helps me work.”
“I'm sure it does.” Arthur dropped a small stack of papers on his desk. Eames could see that both sides of each sheet were covered in Arthur's tiny, impeccable handwriting, right down to cramped little notes stuffed into the margins. “I've been jotting down a couple theories based on the information I've gathered -- how he chooses the victims, what he wants from them, things like that. It should help you.”
Eames stared at the papers and raised his eyebrows. It wasn't just the sheer amount of paperwork Arthur had muscled through like he was running on a concoction of speed, caffeine and Red Bull this morning. What really surprised him was the blasé, impersonal way Arthur spoke to him. Like it really was just that easy for the point man to compartmentalize. He'd already taken that morning's scene, studied it, boxed it up, and tucked it away where it wouldn't interfere with his work performance. Like Eames was that easy to forget about.
There was a slow, angry burn in Eames' stomach. If Arthur wanted to pretend that this was any other job and nothing had ever happened to Eames or between the two of them -- fine.
“Thank you, darling.” He smiled sweetly around the pen clamped in his teeth, certain the barbed pet name would sting. “I'm sure it will.”
Arthur blinked. He turned and started walking away.
“Hang on,” said Eames. A thought had struck him, and as long as they were playing this game, well, Arthur was the point man, after all. He was the one who knew everything.
Arthur stopped and glanced back at him, expressionless.
“This fellow we're working with,” said Eames, taking the pen out of his mouth and twirling it idly around his fingers like his pulse hadn't just quickened nervously. “This -- JJ. I've never heard of him before. Have you ever worked with him?”
Arthur shook his head. “Not me or Cobb, not personally, no. I've heard about him though. The story is that he's very wealthy, born into old money, I think, and when he got bored with other pursuits he started hiring people in the dreaming business to train him to do it. Sort of a spoiled brat wanting to play with the big kids. But by all accounts he's good enough at it to freelance. I wouldn't imagine he needs the money, I think he just enjoys the thrill of it. Reality's not big enough for him.” Arthur shrugged his shoulders. “I don't think he's been involved in illegal pursuits for very long, though, which might be why you hadn't heard about him. I guess he just started to find legal work too boring for him. Does that answer your question?”
“It does, thank you. Knew I could count on you, as usual, Arthur.”
Arthur turned his back and left.
JJ. What a stupid name to pick for the business. It didn't suit him. Eames scowled and went down to the next floor for a cigarette, so that Arthur wouldn't see him pacing and sweating and thinking furiously about how he was supposed to deal with this problem on top of everything else.
After work he and Cobb went to a bar to wile away the last hours before they could feasibly return to the hotel. They didn't talk about the job or Arthur. Eames decided he liked Cobb again.
He cut himself off after two beers, because he knew if he kept going, he wouldn't stop. So when they got back to the hotel, and Eames realized he'd forgotten to book his own hotel room and Cobb just sighed and opened the door, he was barely buzzed. That was how he knew beyond a doubt that something was wrong, when Cobb stepped inside, and Eames was standing too close and Cobb brushed past him, a fleeting contact (a threat, wildly thought in the back of his mind) and Eames didn't even know he was leaning dangerously, dizzily in until Cobb put a hand on his chest and pushed him back a step, gently but firmly.
“That's not okay,” he reminded Eames quietly.
“Fuck,” Eames said weakly. He slumped to the floor.
Cobb stepped wordlessly past him, giving him space, and switched on the lights, then watched him carefully to see what he'd do. The door was still open. So that Eames could make an escape if he wanted to? So that Cobb wouldn't have to be locked up with him? He couldn't guess.
“Something's wrong with me, Cobb,” he said with plain exhaustion. “I don't know what I'm doing. I got so much better than this, I swear I did. I haven't been like this in months. I don't know what's happening to me.”
He expected Cobb to throw him out or something. He knew all this was making Cobb more uncomfortable than he'd like to say. Instead, his employer took a seat on the bed.
“After Mal died,” he said quietly, looking down at his folded hands, “it was like there wasn't a part of my body that didn't physically hurt. I shouldn't have kept dreaming, but I did, and I let the situation get out of hand. The problem with dreamers is that we let our subconsciouses turn into living, breathing things, and when there's too much buried in there, it'll start to sneak up on you, even when you're awake. You lose control.”
“What am I supposed to do?” Eames asked tiredly. Cobb shrugged.
“The alternative is to stop dreaming.”
Eames thought about JJ. Then he thought about how much he loved his job, how every time he met a new person he had analyzed in seconds their facial structure and the way they spoke and smiled and moved, how forging came as naturally to him as breathing.
“I don't think I can do that,” he said.
“I couldn't, either.” Cobb smiled sadly. “I don't know what else to tell you, Eames. I don't know what you need, and even if I did, I don't think I'd be the person to give it to you.” He shook his head and said, “I can call the front desk and book you another room, if you want.”
Eames nodded. It hadn't hit him until Cobb had brushed him that he still didn't trust men -- not even one he'd known for years. Arthur had seemed safe for awhile, but not anymore, and Cobb -- Cobb was virtually an unknown, now. He might not necessarily hurt Eames, but there were a thousand tiny things the extractor could do to trigger him and not even realize, and Eames was starting to live in fear of the next trigger. He could no longer know how he'd react. He was regressing, the very thing he'd been so afraid of.
When the room was booked, Eames fetched his key card from the front desk and took his luggage from Cobb's room to his own. He switched the lights on and immediately hated it. It was every fucking hotel room and every fucking bed he'd ever been stretched over and raped on in his dreamscape.
He had to get some sleep before he collapsed.
He turned around in the doorway and left the room.
It was surprisingly easy to break into Arthur's room. Eames was extremely cautious sneaking across the room, because he didn't want to wake Arthur up -- that would have been too hard to face. Instead, he crept over to the PD, a flicker of silver in the sliver of light cast through the door, and took it. He went back to his own room.
At least it was sleep.
That was what he told himself.
He stretched out on the floor because he couldn't make himself vulnerable on the bed, and pressed the trigger button. The PASIV gave a comforting wheeze, and he slumped against the carpet.
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