Fic & Art: Chimera - 3/4
Title: Chimera: A Breath of Fire
Author/Artist: bauble & enoughglitter
Rating: NC-17
Team: Angst
Prompt: lies, sex
Warnings: Prostitution
Word Count: 2,500 words
Summary: Alternate Reality where Eames is a dream!hooker and Arthur is the client that keeps coming back. Set within the world of Inception, but diverging from the events of canon. Third chapter in a 4 part WIP.
Chapter 1: Lioness Passant
Chapter 2: The Goat
“We meet again,” Arthur says. He lifts the spoon he was stirring in his coffee and places it delicately on the saucer underneath his china teacup.
They’re sitting on a picturesque set of wrought-iron chairs at the top of a very tall hill. The Tuscan countryside is spread out below them, rolling green punctuated with cypresses and crepuscular rays of light. It’s a sunrise, Eames decides, and suddenly the dream seems brighter.
“Because you keep rejecting the perfectly capable prostitutes I send your way,” Eames replies, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’d think that after the first three times, someone would take a hint.”
“I don’t want them,” Arthur says, as infuriatingly calm and sure as always. “I want you.”
“And you’re not accustomed to not getting what you want, are you?”
“No, I’m not,” Arthur says with a conspiratorial smile that’s probably melted scores of unsuspecting hearts. “Are you going to hold it against me if I don’t want to start now?”
Eames looks away, refusing to be charmed. “I don’t do regulars. It’s not personal.” That second part’s a lie, but thankfully lying is one of the things Eames does do, and well.
“You know, a friend of mine comes to your agency. Often. He’s how I found out about the whole business of dream prostitution to begin with. Told me I could try it once, but to never do it twice because it’s too easy to get sucked in. To lose track of what’s real and what’s not.” Arthur snorts softly. “Hypocrite.”
“So that’s what brought you here, then? Referral from a friend?” Eames raises an eyebrow. “Have I met him?”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. He came to you guys looking for something specific,” Arthur says. “You don’t do specific, right?”
“It’s not about specificity, per se.” Eames lifts one shoulder. “I take on the people who claim they don’t know what they want and ferret out whatever it is they’re searching for. But everyone always knows, deep down--I merely articulate it so they don’t have to.”
Arthur sits back, his expression thoughtful. “I didn’t think anyone could be as good as my friend claimed. And I was right-except for you.”
“My my, you do know how to make a girl feel special.” Eames leans forward, offering an excellent view of the cleavage of Persian 30-something woman he’s wearing. He’s tired of the questions and ready for the sex-which is usually more straightforward and less likely to head in troubling directions.
Arthur looks, but isn’t distracted. Eames frowns a little at that. “I was wondering if I could ask you a question.”
“You can do whatever you want,” Eames says it lightly, but there’s something in Arthur’s tone, something weighty beyond yet another lunge or parry in their sparring. Eames readies himself; perhaps today is the day he will finally hear the secret so terrible it’s taken months for Arthur to grow comfortable enough to reveal. A sex act, or something that’s nothing to do with sex at all. “You always do, anyway.”
Arthur cocks his head to one side. “How did you get into doing this?”
Eames starts for a split-second, but recovers quickly; he doesn’t think Arthur notices. “Why, are you looking to save me from the tragic past that’s driven me down the path of selling my mind and body for money?”
“Save you?” Arthur chuckles. “I’d like to see someone try. I’m not interested in damsels in distress. I’m just--”
“Curious, yes?” Eames shrugs. “Unfortunately, the story’s really quite dull. Scion came and offered a job. I took it, and I’ve been plying my trade here ever since.”
“Except that’s not even half the story.” Arthur studies Eames in a way that reminds them of when they first met: calculating, shrewd, doggedly determined. “How you got into dreamshare, how you became so good at what you do.”
“And what if I were to turn the question on you?” Eames counters. “Would you be so forthcoming?”
“We both know there’s nothing about my past you haven’t already figured out. Your job is to figure it out.” Arthur spreads his hands in front of him, palms up. “I’m ex-military. I worked in an experimental dreamshare program until it was dissolved, leading everyone involved to be discharged under strict gag orders. I tried to go back to normality, tried to live the straight and narrow-but what’s the mundane compared to the fantastic, to the impossible made possible? Who could stay away once they’ve had a taste?”
“You’ve stripped away the mystery, Arthur,” Eames says, voice light as he stands up. “I’m afraid you’re simply not half as fun anymore.”
Arthur leans across the table to catch Eames’ wrist. “You are part of the fantastic, the impossible made possible. That’s why I keep coming back.”
Eames looks down at his hand. “Little old me?”
“You.” Arthur’s fingers skim up Eames’ arm to his elbow, then his shoulder. “That’s what I want. That’s why I keep coming back. I want to see you.”
Eames smiles genially, blandly. “This is me.”
“The real you. Not Eve, not Adam, not another one of your creations.” Arthur stands as well. “I want the reflection you see in the mirror when you’re awake.”
“What’s the mundane compared to the fantastic?” Eames peers up at Arthur through his lashes. “Sad, boring reality compared to perfection?”
“I don’t know.” Arthur cups Eames’ jaw. “I guess that’s what I want to find out.”
Eames doesn’t know why he does it. Or, more accurately-he doesn’t want to know why he does it-but he’s learned over the years that past a certain point, wondering why doesn’t help anyone. A bullet discharged can never be recalled to the way it was, where it was, before it lodged deep in someone’s kidney, their liver, their heart.
Eames cycles through three forgeries before shifting, lightning-fast, to his true self. But all it takes is that momentary flicker and Arthur knows.
“This is you,” Arthur says, voice hushed as he takes Eames’ face into his hands. Arthur’s hands are rough, and even though Eames knows there shouldn’t be a difference between the way they feel on the skin of a forgery as opposed to his own, there’s an almost visceral jolt that accompanies every sketch of Arthur’s thumb against Eames’ stubble, every twitch of his index finger next to Eames’ lip.
Eames waits while Arthur steps back, circles and examines him from every angle. As the study drags on, Eames finally says in something alarmingly close to his own voice and accent, “Well? How does the mundane measure up?”
Arthur smiles, and ceases his pacing. “You are extraordinary. But you already know that.” He puts a possessive arm around Eames’ waist and pulls him in for a kiss, bearing him down onto the ground, which has changed from grassy hillside to the firm mattress of a king-sized bed.
When they pull away between kisses for breath, Arthur gestures at the sleek studio apartment surrounding them and says, “My place. You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”
Eames gives the apartment a discreet scan and notes the elegant steel bookshelf, rows and rows of books with blurred-out titles; the chrome fruit bowl on the coffee table, filled to the brim with apples; the framed photo of two women with similar coloring and facial features to Arthur on the nightstand.
“And here I thought I knew everything I needed to already.” Eames reaches down to squeeze Arthur’s prick through his trousers.
“I’m a complicated man,” Arthur says as he straddles Eames’ hips. “Or haven’t you heard?”
“Shouldn’t believe everything you hear nowadays.” Eames rolls them both over so Arthur’s lying on his back. A thought later and Arthur’s naked, dick curving upwards to flop gently against his stomach.
“That’s not very fair.” Arthur plucks at Eames’ T-shirt collar in protest, but seems to lose interest in objecting when Eames ducks down to lick the head of his cock. Eames lavishes his cock with a few more licks-at the base near the balls, the underside of the shaft, the slit. After he’s teased enough to sufficiently show off the virtues of his mouth, he takes Arthur’s dick in all the way.
Arthur’s got a good dick: clean, not too large or embarrassingly small, no odd growths, decent shape with a bit of a curve to the left. It’s not difficult to go down on him, not difficult to moan and suck like he’s greedy for it. Eames waits until Arthur’s pushing towards the edge of orgasm to pull off, earning him a frustrated groan and thrust up.
Before he can get too cranky, however, Eames settles astride Arthur’s lap and licks his lips. Attention recaptured, Eames reaches down to pull his shirt up over his head, arching his back and stretching a little more than strictly necessary as he does so. Once the shirt’s been tossed in a corner, Eames takes Arthur’s hand, guides it to the bulge in Eames’ trousers and says in a low, throaty voice, “Will you do the honors?”
Arthur sucks in a shaky breath before undoing the fly and pulling Eames’ prick out gently. Eames crawls forward to rub his length against Arthur’s abdomen as he slides out of his trousers, and then makes them disappear completely while Arthur goes to work biting and sucking at his neck.
Eames sits back to let Arthur take in the view for a moment before sinking onto his dick with an ease and fluidity only possible in dreams. He moans and arches his back when he’s fully seated, undulating his hips at a pace designed to keep Arthur happy but not rushed.
Arthur’s hands come up to move restlessly over Eames’ hips, as if torn between the desire to wrest control away or allow it to be taken from him. Arthur finally settles on jerking Eames off, wrist moving in smooth counterpoint to Eames’ rocking.
Eames smiles down at Arthur-feeling, perhaps, fond-and picks up the pace, working Arthur hard until he’s gasping, “Come on, I wanna see. I wanna see you come.”
Eames has come countless times in dreams, and can do it practically on demand. Obviously, some situations require more effort to summon up the proper frame of mind, but for the most part it’s just another series of muscle contractions dressed up with varying amounts of fluid excretion, depending on client preferences. But with some clients-the more interesting ones, the more skilled, the ones that cross the line from mediocre-looking into attractive-it almost feels less like work. With Arthur, it’s become something like easy habit.
Eames comes with a little more semen than usual for theatricality’s sake. Arthur’s not terribly fond of jizz getting everywhere and making him messy, so Eames is sure to direct it up, landing primarily in his own chest hair, with a few stray drops reaching his chin and mouth. Eames swipes his lower lip with his tongue and Arthur moans. He comes a few thrusts and a grunt later.
Once Arthur’s body goes slack and relaxed, Eames rolls onto the bed, clean but for a slight sheen of sweat to highlight the definition of his body. He leaves his hair sex-rumpled and lips reddened.
Arthur opens his eyes a few minutes later and grins lazily, seeming to appreciate the view. “Want something to drink? I should be fully stocked here.”
“I’ll have one of whatever you have,” Eames replies, hoping it’s something he can drink without gagging.
“Water then.” Two bottles appear on the bed. “I had this one ex, he used to always crave soda after sex. On the nights he could actually make it to the kitchen, he’d drink a whole can and be burping all night. Used to drive me crazy.”
Eames chuckles as he uncaps his bottle. “Horror of horrors.”
“It was. Anyway.” Arthur props himself up on one elbow. “Want the grand tour?”
Eames lifts an eyebrow. “But of course.”
“Over there is the kitchen.” Arthur points to each part of the room. “That’s the dining area, which conveniently doubles as the living area and the foyer and the study. There’s my closet, and that’s the bathroom. Et voila. You have just experienced the dazzling wonder of my palatial home.”
Eames tosses the empty water bottle over the side of the bed and then props himself up on one elbow. “It’s a vast lair indeed.”
“You make it sound like I might be up to no good here.”
Eames raises his eyebrows. “Am I wrong?”
“I don’t have a shark that shoots death-rays, if that’s what you’re asking.” Arthur smiles, wide and easy, as he touches Eames’ chest in a manner that’s more affectionate than sexual.
“That wasn’t quite the naughty thing I was imagining, no.” Eames leans into Arthur’s touch, bends down to nip his earlobe.
Arthur laughs, makes a comment about the prevalence of sharks in dens of iniquity, and Eames replies almost nonsensically to make Arthur laugh again. They continue talking, with Eames in his own skin in this recreation of Arthur’s home, listening while Arthur tells stories about his life, his family, his past. Eames watches the animated expressions of his face, the way his hands sketch out elegant shapes in the air, and it’s companionable, relaxing. Fun.
Many of the clients Eames works with are handsome-some are even intelligent and have personalities that resemble something approaching likable. It’s all too easy to feel connected to someone when probing their most intimate fantasies, seeing them at their most vulnerable. Even easier when you’re pretending to be someone they’ve spent their whole life searching for. The lines between self-delusion and reality can become blurred-and not just on the client’s side.
Which is why he doesn’t do regulars, doesn’t let his clients meet him as ‘Eames.’ There are walls, barriers to remind him that this is all an elaborate game of mind and money.
But now, with Arthur ducking his head and smiling, warm voice threatening to light a spark somewhere Eames had thought he’d left guarded and unreachable, he’s starting to realize that his supposedly unassailable walls were always nothing but wavy lines in the sand. Shallow, fragile-washed away with a current that’s already come and gone.
* * * * * *
“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” Eames says when he wakes up, the smell of Arthur’s hair lingering in his nostrils.
Yusuf looks up from where he’s winding up the PASIV tubing. He doesn’t seem surprised. “Then don’t.”
“Just that easy, is it?”
Yusuf inclines his head to one side, affable charm to mask a poison-dipped dagger of a mind. They’re not friends, not really, but Eames sometimes wonders what it’d be like to have Yusuf as an enemy. He hopes the day never comes where he has to find out. “Could be.”
And so it is. The next evening, after Eames has finished packing his clothes and his meager possessions into a bag, he finds an old, disused PASIV under his bed along with a single vial of Somnacin. The PASIV is outdated, several of the pieces are broken or missing, and there’s only tubing enough to connect to one person. But for all that-it’s a start.
Eames walks out of the Scion complex and doesn’t look back.
Author/Artist: bauble & enoughglitter
Rating: NC-17
Team: Angst
Prompt: lies, sex
Warnings: Prostitution
Word Count: 2,500 words
Summary: Alternate Reality where Eames is a dream!hooker and Arthur is the client that keeps coming back. Set within the world of Inception, but diverging from the events of canon. Third chapter in a 4 part WIP.
Chapter 1: Lioness Passant
Chapter 2: The Goat
“We meet again,” Arthur says. He lifts the spoon he was stirring in his coffee and places it delicately on the saucer underneath his china teacup.
They’re sitting on a picturesque set of wrought-iron chairs at the top of a very tall hill. The Tuscan countryside is spread out below them, rolling green punctuated with cypresses and crepuscular rays of light. It’s a sunrise, Eames decides, and suddenly the dream seems brighter.
“Because you keep rejecting the perfectly capable prostitutes I send your way,” Eames replies, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’d think that after the first three times, someone would take a hint.”
“I don’t want them,” Arthur says, as infuriatingly calm and sure as always. “I want you.”
“And you’re not accustomed to not getting what you want, are you?”
“No, I’m not,” Arthur says with a conspiratorial smile that’s probably melted scores of unsuspecting hearts. “Are you going to hold it against me if I don’t want to start now?”
Eames looks away, refusing to be charmed. “I don’t do regulars. It’s not personal.” That second part’s a lie, but thankfully lying is one of the things Eames does do, and well.
“You know, a friend of mine comes to your agency. Often. He’s how I found out about the whole business of dream prostitution to begin with. Told me I could try it once, but to never do it twice because it’s too easy to get sucked in. To lose track of what’s real and what’s not.” Arthur snorts softly. “Hypocrite.”
“So that’s what brought you here, then? Referral from a friend?” Eames raises an eyebrow. “Have I met him?”
“Maybe, but I don’t think so. He came to you guys looking for something specific,” Arthur says. “You don’t do specific, right?”
“It’s not about specificity, per se.” Eames lifts one shoulder. “I take on the people who claim they don’t know what they want and ferret out whatever it is they’re searching for. But everyone always knows, deep down--I merely articulate it so they don’t have to.”
Arthur sits back, his expression thoughtful. “I didn’t think anyone could be as good as my friend claimed. And I was right-except for you.”
“My my, you do know how to make a girl feel special.” Eames leans forward, offering an excellent view of the cleavage of Persian 30-something woman he’s wearing. He’s tired of the questions and ready for the sex-which is usually more straightforward and less likely to head in troubling directions.
Arthur looks, but isn’t distracted. Eames frowns a little at that. “I was wondering if I could ask you a question.”
“You can do whatever you want,” Eames says it lightly, but there’s something in Arthur’s tone, something weighty beyond yet another lunge or parry in their sparring. Eames readies himself; perhaps today is the day he will finally hear the secret so terrible it’s taken months for Arthur to grow comfortable enough to reveal. A sex act, or something that’s nothing to do with sex at all. “You always do, anyway.”
Arthur cocks his head to one side. “How did you get into doing this?”
Eames starts for a split-second, but recovers quickly; he doesn’t think Arthur notices. “Why, are you looking to save me from the tragic past that’s driven me down the path of selling my mind and body for money?”
“Save you?” Arthur chuckles. “I’d like to see someone try. I’m not interested in damsels in distress. I’m just--”
“Curious, yes?” Eames shrugs. “Unfortunately, the story’s really quite dull. Scion came and offered a job. I took it, and I’ve been plying my trade here ever since.”
“Except that’s not even half the story.” Arthur studies Eames in a way that reminds them of when they first met: calculating, shrewd, doggedly determined. “How you got into dreamshare, how you became so good at what you do.”
“And what if I were to turn the question on you?” Eames counters. “Would you be so forthcoming?”
“We both know there’s nothing about my past you haven’t already figured out. Your job is to figure it out.” Arthur spreads his hands in front of him, palms up. “I’m ex-military. I worked in an experimental dreamshare program until it was dissolved, leading everyone involved to be discharged under strict gag orders. I tried to go back to normality, tried to live the straight and narrow-but what’s the mundane compared to the fantastic, to the impossible made possible? Who could stay away once they’ve had a taste?”
“You’ve stripped away the mystery, Arthur,” Eames says, voice light as he stands up. “I’m afraid you’re simply not half as fun anymore.”
Arthur leans across the table to catch Eames’ wrist. “You are part of the fantastic, the impossible made possible. That’s why I keep coming back.”
Eames looks down at his hand. “Little old me?”
“You.” Arthur’s fingers skim up Eames’ arm to his elbow, then his shoulder. “That’s what I want. That’s why I keep coming back. I want to see you.”
Eames smiles genially, blandly. “This is me.”
“The real you. Not Eve, not Adam, not another one of your creations.” Arthur stands as well. “I want the reflection you see in the mirror when you’re awake.”
“What’s the mundane compared to the fantastic?” Eames peers up at Arthur through his lashes. “Sad, boring reality compared to perfection?”
“I don’t know.” Arthur cups Eames’ jaw. “I guess that’s what I want to find out.”
Eames doesn’t know why he does it. Or, more accurately-he doesn’t want to know why he does it-but he’s learned over the years that past a certain point, wondering why doesn’t help anyone. A bullet discharged can never be recalled to the way it was, where it was, before it lodged deep in someone’s kidney, their liver, their heart.
Eames cycles through three forgeries before shifting, lightning-fast, to his true self. But all it takes is that momentary flicker and Arthur knows.
“This is you,” Arthur says, voice hushed as he takes Eames’ face into his hands. Arthur’s hands are rough, and even though Eames knows there shouldn’t be a difference between the way they feel on the skin of a forgery as opposed to his own, there’s an almost visceral jolt that accompanies every sketch of Arthur’s thumb against Eames’ stubble, every twitch of his index finger next to Eames’ lip.
Eames waits while Arthur steps back, circles and examines him from every angle. As the study drags on, Eames finally says in something alarmingly close to his own voice and accent, “Well? How does the mundane measure up?”
Arthur smiles, and ceases his pacing. “You are extraordinary. But you already know that.” He puts a possessive arm around Eames’ waist and pulls him in for a kiss, bearing him down onto the ground, which has changed from grassy hillside to the firm mattress of a king-sized bed.
When they pull away between kisses for breath, Arthur gestures at the sleek studio apartment surrounding them and says, “My place. You show me yours, and I’ll show you mine.”
Eames gives the apartment a discreet scan and notes the elegant steel bookshelf, rows and rows of books with blurred-out titles; the chrome fruit bowl on the coffee table, filled to the brim with apples; the framed photo of two women with similar coloring and facial features to Arthur on the nightstand.
“And here I thought I knew everything I needed to already.” Eames reaches down to squeeze Arthur’s prick through his trousers.
“I’m a complicated man,” Arthur says as he straddles Eames’ hips. “Or haven’t you heard?”
“Shouldn’t believe everything you hear nowadays.” Eames rolls them both over so Arthur’s lying on his back. A thought later and Arthur’s naked, dick curving upwards to flop gently against his stomach.
“That’s not very fair.” Arthur plucks at Eames’ T-shirt collar in protest, but seems to lose interest in objecting when Eames ducks down to lick the head of his cock. Eames lavishes his cock with a few more licks-at the base near the balls, the underside of the shaft, the slit. After he’s teased enough to sufficiently show off the virtues of his mouth, he takes Arthur’s dick in all the way.
Arthur’s got a good dick: clean, not too large or embarrassingly small, no odd growths, decent shape with a bit of a curve to the left. It’s not difficult to go down on him, not difficult to moan and suck like he’s greedy for it. Eames waits until Arthur’s pushing towards the edge of orgasm to pull off, earning him a frustrated groan and thrust up.
Before he can get too cranky, however, Eames settles astride Arthur’s lap and licks his lips. Attention recaptured, Eames reaches down to pull his shirt up over his head, arching his back and stretching a little more than strictly necessary as he does so. Once the shirt’s been tossed in a corner, Eames takes Arthur’s hand, guides it to the bulge in Eames’ trousers and says in a low, throaty voice, “Will you do the honors?”
Arthur sucks in a shaky breath before undoing the fly and pulling Eames’ prick out gently. Eames crawls forward to rub his length against Arthur’s abdomen as he slides out of his trousers, and then makes them disappear completely while Arthur goes to work biting and sucking at his neck.
Eames sits back to let Arthur take in the view for a moment before sinking onto his dick with an ease and fluidity only possible in dreams. He moans and arches his back when he’s fully seated, undulating his hips at a pace designed to keep Arthur happy but not rushed.
Arthur’s hands come up to move restlessly over Eames’ hips, as if torn between the desire to wrest control away or allow it to be taken from him. Arthur finally settles on jerking Eames off, wrist moving in smooth counterpoint to Eames’ rocking.
Eames smiles down at Arthur-feeling, perhaps, fond-and picks up the pace, working Arthur hard until he’s gasping, “Come on, I wanna see. I wanna see you come.”
Eames has come countless times in dreams, and can do it practically on demand. Obviously, some situations require more effort to summon up the proper frame of mind, but for the most part it’s just another series of muscle contractions dressed up with varying amounts of fluid excretion, depending on client preferences. But with some clients-the more interesting ones, the more skilled, the ones that cross the line from mediocre-looking into attractive-it almost feels less like work. With Arthur, it’s become something like easy habit.
Eames comes with a little more semen than usual for theatricality’s sake. Arthur’s not terribly fond of jizz getting everywhere and making him messy, so Eames is sure to direct it up, landing primarily in his own chest hair, with a few stray drops reaching his chin and mouth. Eames swipes his lower lip with his tongue and Arthur moans. He comes a few thrusts and a grunt later.
Once Arthur’s body goes slack and relaxed, Eames rolls onto the bed, clean but for a slight sheen of sweat to highlight the definition of his body. He leaves his hair sex-rumpled and lips reddened.
Arthur opens his eyes a few minutes later and grins lazily, seeming to appreciate the view. “Want something to drink? I should be fully stocked here.”
“I’ll have one of whatever you have,” Eames replies, hoping it’s something he can drink without gagging.
“Water then.” Two bottles appear on the bed. “I had this one ex, he used to always crave soda after sex. On the nights he could actually make it to the kitchen, he’d drink a whole can and be burping all night. Used to drive me crazy.”
Eames chuckles as he uncaps his bottle. “Horror of horrors.”
“It was. Anyway.” Arthur props himself up on one elbow. “Want the grand tour?”
Eames lifts an eyebrow. “But of course.”
“Over there is the kitchen.” Arthur points to each part of the room. “That’s the dining area, which conveniently doubles as the living area and the foyer and the study. There’s my closet, and that’s the bathroom. Et voila. You have just experienced the dazzling wonder of my palatial home.”
Eames tosses the empty water bottle over the side of the bed and then props himself up on one elbow. “It’s a vast lair indeed.”
“You make it sound like I might be up to no good here.”
Eames raises his eyebrows. “Am I wrong?”
“I don’t have a shark that shoots death-rays, if that’s what you’re asking.” Arthur smiles, wide and easy, as he touches Eames’ chest in a manner that’s more affectionate than sexual.
“That wasn’t quite the naughty thing I was imagining, no.” Eames leans into Arthur’s touch, bends down to nip his earlobe.
Arthur laughs, makes a comment about the prevalence of sharks in dens of iniquity, and Eames replies almost nonsensically to make Arthur laugh again. They continue talking, with Eames in his own skin in this recreation of Arthur’s home, listening while Arthur tells stories about his life, his family, his past. Eames watches the animated expressions of his face, the way his hands sketch out elegant shapes in the air, and it’s companionable, relaxing. Fun.
Many of the clients Eames works with are handsome-some are even intelligent and have personalities that resemble something approaching likable. It’s all too easy to feel connected to someone when probing their most intimate fantasies, seeing them at their most vulnerable. Even easier when you’re pretending to be someone they’ve spent their whole life searching for. The lines between self-delusion and reality can become blurred-and not just on the client’s side.
Which is why he doesn’t do regulars, doesn’t let his clients meet him as ‘Eames.’ There are walls, barriers to remind him that this is all an elaborate game of mind and money.
But now, with Arthur ducking his head and smiling, warm voice threatening to light a spark somewhere Eames had thought he’d left guarded and unreachable, he’s starting to realize that his supposedly unassailable walls were always nothing but wavy lines in the sand. Shallow, fragile-washed away with a current that’s already come and gone.
* * * * * *
“I don’t think I can do this anymore,” Eames says when he wakes up, the smell of Arthur’s hair lingering in his nostrils.
Yusuf looks up from where he’s winding up the PASIV tubing. He doesn’t seem surprised. “Then don’t.”
“Just that easy, is it?”
Yusuf inclines his head to one side, affable charm to mask a poison-dipped dagger of a mind. They’re not friends, not really, but Eames sometimes wonders what it’d be like to have Yusuf as an enemy. He hopes the day never comes where he has to find out. “Could be.”
And so it is. The next evening, after Eames has finished packing his clothes and his meager possessions into a bag, he finds an old, disused PASIV under his bed along with a single vial of Somnacin. The PASIV is outdated, several of the pieces are broken or missing, and there’s only tubing enough to connect to one person. But for all that-it’s a start.
Eames walks out of the Scion complex and doesn’t look back.