Fic: A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall, 10/10 [Inception]
Title: A Hard Rain's Gonna Fall (10/10)
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, unrequited Robert/Arthur, past Cobb/Mal, hinted Robert/Ariadne, Browning, Saito
Rating: R
Word Count: 5,669
Disclaimer: Mr. Nolan owns it all
Warnings: Violence (graphic torture), strong language, sexual content, character death
Summary: In the aftermath of World War III and the Second Civil War of the United States, the members of the dream sharing industry have been turned into fugitives, driven underground and into hiding in order to escape assassination by Fischer Industries USA - except for one, the former leading point man in the business, who has turned traitor against the fugitives Dom Cobb, Public Enemy Number one; and the infamous Eames, leader of the Resistance.
Author's Note: Written for inception_bang . Endless thanks to my wonderful beta, niftywithan who worked tirelessly in looking over drafts, and to my dear celestineangel , without whose wonderful help (read: guidance, advice, cheerleading) this labor of love would not exist. You two are absolutely amazing!! ♥ ♥ ♥
July 24, 2020
Cabo, San Lucas
10:07 PM
“Ah, you must be William.”
He turns, startled by the appearance of the elegant, shapely woman propping a curvy hip on the wooden barstool next to his, a small smirk curving red lips. Bringing the tumbler to his lips, Eames takes a sip of the rapidly cooling gin - mother’s ruin, a voice in the back of his mind hisses rather viciously - and tries not to think about how long it’s been since anyone called him that. “Must I be?” he drawls, playing for nonchalance and scanning the lobby of the hotel as he appraises the woman out of the corner of his eye.
She’s quite nicely proportioned, to be honest, and that accent is Parisian, of that much he’s certain. Dark hair curls softly around her face, highlighting elegantly arching brows, a delicate neck slopes down into bare shoulders disappearing under the white cotton of a sundress - his eyes snap away from going anywhere else, however, when he catches the glint of gold on her ring finger. Ah, taken already then, and Eames for one isn’t that type of bastard.
“Thinking of using me as a template for one of your forgeries, Mr. Eames?”
His gaze lifts to her face, and he narrows his eyes speculatively as he turns to fully face her. She has his full attention now, this stranger who knows more about him than he does her, including his real name - a disconcerting notion, for it isn’t something that happens often - and then his lips curve into a disarming grin, all boyish charm and suave sophistication. “Certainly a lovely creature such as yourself should be flattered, Madame,” he murmurs with a jaunty wink, ducking his head as he catches a slim hand and brings it to his lips.
She laughs then, and the sound that escapes her mouth is very much like everything else about her - delicate but elegant, effortlessly charming but with just a note of reserve, as if she knows every play in the book, every trick Eames has up his sleeve, and then some. “Oh, you are a scoundrel.” Strangely enough, she sounds delighted as she gracefully pulls her hand away in a manner that is neither indulgent nor impolite, and appraises him for a moment, her eyes sweeping up and down his form critically. “I can see why he likes you.”
Eames’ brow furrows. “Pardon?” he asks bluntly, then grimaces. Oh, how eloquent. “I’m afraid I haven’t the foggiest as to who you mean.”
Amusement glimmers in her blue eyes. “Arthur, of course.”
At that, Eames’ back snaps straight, his fingers involuntarily tighten on the glass in his hand, and he blinks rapidly, once, twice. Caught. He makes an effort to appear unaffected by her words, to act as if he hasn’t been keeping track of how long it’s been since he last saw the man in question (five months, two weeks, and thirty-six hours since the Marcobs job in bloody Siberia), trying to pretend that he didn’t drop everything to take the first flight to Cabo after hearing through the grapevine that Arthur was to be there.
He turns his gaze away, his shirt sticking uncomfortably to his back in the blasted heat, and he says nothing in reply. What is there to say? He continues to watch strangers wander in and out of the lobby, eyes flicking back and forth amongst the mass of tanned and sunburned tourists, searching for a head of dark hair, a pair of sharp eyes, and a sinfully tailored suit - he assumes Arthur would still wear such an ensemble even here; it’s practically his second skin - just as he’s been doing for the past four hours.
“I am fond of him, you know,” the woman says casually, but she’s still studying him intently, lips pursed, as if trying to decide something monumental. “He is terribly bright, but so very young.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Dom tells me I worry too much.”
Dom. Dominic Cobb. Eames remembers hearing of how the former leading government scientists in the dream-sharing enterprise managed to snap up the best point man in the business, and he raises an eyebrow. He’s worked a few jobs with Cobb, even, but this is his first time meeting the missus. “Mrs. Cobb then, is it?”
“Mal, please.” She flashes a smile, a set of white teeth crushing down on the maraschino cherry from the drink he hadn’t even noticed her ordering, and leans forward, bringing with her the scent of vanilla and jasmine. “Should I be worried about trusting you with Arthur?”
Eames has the feeling he should choose his next words very carefully, and does so. “I certainly hope that shan’t be the case,” he says softly, quashing down any ire he might have felt at being so bluntly questioned about his relationship (if it can be classified as such) with the point man. But behind Mal’s clear blue eyes, he can see a genuine affection for Arthur in addition to the worry she professes, and that keeps Eames’ tongue in check, his response honest. “I’m extremely fond of Arthur as well.”
For a moment, there is nothing save for the muted hubbub of the hotel lobby and the conversations of other patrons around them at the bar and adjoining restaurant. Mal’s eyes search Eames’ face for a moment longer, then her smile softens into something warm and affectionate. “I see he has good taste, our Arthur,” she murmurs, patting his cheek gently, then slips off the barstool and turns to go. “Bonne chance, mon cher.”
His hand immediately goes to his breast pocket, because as light-fingered as Mal may be, Eames didn’t get time in the U.S. Military for nothing; he pulls out a flat piece of plastic, no larger than a credit card - a room key. His eyes meet Mal’s and she smiles at him as if she knows something he doesn’t. “Be good to him, yes?”
With that she’s gone, weaving in and out of the mass of people, disappearing into the crowd just as quickly as she appeared.
Eames stares down at the piece of plastic, flipping it over his fingers. He puts down some bills for the bartender, and takes the last sip of his drink. The ice has melted, and the gin is warm.
* - * - *
June 5, 2028
Still raining.
We’ve been stuck in what looks like an old gas station, one of the few that weren’t blown up years ago. The others managed to siphon about half a tank full.
Arthur’s taken an unexpected turn for the worse - way worse - and it’s like the elephant in the room that no one wants to talk about. Cobb gave him the last of the morphine today, but everyone knows that won’t be enough to tide him over for long. I have no idea why the pain’s suddenly gotten so bad for him.
Although, given the way he looks (or refuses to look) at Eames now, it’s not too difficult a mystery to puzzle out.
* - * - *
They’ve strapped her down, locked and bolted the door, and thrown away the key, trying to ignore her screams - for her husband, for her children, against those who infected her mind and something about a train, a train that will take all of them far, far away -
“It’s because you don’t know you’re DREAMING!”
She took out at least twenty of their best men before she went down. Two more lost an eye and one unfortunate fellow now only has half an ear.
They try to placate her with pictures of her husband, of her children, and of Captain Davidson (to whom she was apparently very close), with empty reassurances and meaningless words. The poor rookie tasked with bringing said peace offering into the room got his throat torn out in ten seconds.
“Those aren’t my children! Don’t you think I would know the difference?!”
It’s a pity Mr. Browning failed to give the order for the kill shot when he had the chance, as that would have been the simplest solution to the problem. Now that no one dares to set foot into the room, the only option remaining is to have the woman gassed to death.
Apparently though, Mr. Browning has too much on his plate to deal with the crazy woman in the basement just yet. Word is that Maurice Fischer himself is having some problems across the pond with charges of fraud, misappropriation of funds, crimes against humanity, and so much more. The accuser identifies himself as Saito, the head of Fischer Industries’ main “competitor”, who claims to have proof of such damning allegations; he claims to have evidence in the form of something called Project Extraction, delivered from Fischer Industries USA itself by one Captain Davidson.
All secrets get discovered sometime, even those that are locked away and seemingly forgotten.
* - * - *
Arthur winces ever so slightly as he steps down upon a particularly sharp edge of broken concrete, trying to ignore the dull ache radiating upwards from the soles of his feet. Most of his injuries have been on the mend, despite the constant travel and the lack of anesthetics, thanks to Cobb’s careful insistence on checking and redressing the wounds. The trauma and psychosomatic pain, however, are slightly more difficult to take in stride.
He bears it though, with a grimly clenched jaw as he finishes pacing the west side of the perimeter of their temporary campsite, taking his shift on night watch, before he turns around and walks back toward the smoldering fire, built from a few scraps of paper brought along from the library they’d stayed in a couple of nights ago. The embers offer little light, but Arthur doesn’t need much more than that to peer through the darkness, eyes moving over the different individuals in their ragtag band of fugitives.
A small smile touches his lips as he takes in the sight of the couple huddled together for warmth, their heads bent close, Robert’s cheek resting gently atop Ariadne’s dark brown locks: a picture perfect moment.
Robert is a good man - actually, really good, not merely one who thinks of himself as such, or who does philanthropic things in order to try impressing others. Most sheltered brats are spoiled, and certainly wouldn’t last a day out in this mess of a real world. Robert hasn’t changed in the least from when Arthur last saw him in the glass labyrinthine depths of Fischer Industries. He looks a bit worse for the wear, certainly, but he’s still selfless and needy at the same time - an understandable paradox, for someone who grew up as deprived of love and attention as the young Fischer heir. And Ariadne - sweet, curious, uncommonly caring Ariadne - is a survivor who has, beyond all odds, remained untouched by bitterness or resentment, and remains simply lovely.
They will make a good match, a perfect blend of strength and kindness that strikes a precarious balance between give and take. Robert’s found someone else who is much better than his Captain Davidson, and that someone else just so happens to be Ariadne, who is almost too good for anyone at all. The way they shiver makes him frown though, as does the gauntness of Ariadne’s cheeks. They’re really running out of supplies, and even with most everyone trying to be discreet about giving her most of the food and water, it’s still not enough.
Michelle leans against the Jeep’s rear wheel, her shotgun resting in her lap, ready for anything. Arthur studies her quietly for a moment, the frown that creases her features even in sleep, the jacket that has partially slipped from one shoulder, revealing the white scar that twists its way up her arm, one that Arthur is sure his own will match, if the ugly open wound on his arm ever gets around to scarring over.
If Cobb were here, he’d look pretty much the same, sleeping, but with both firearm and trigger finger ready. He’s not, though; he left close to two hours ago, off to scope out the grounds, hunting for anything salvageable. They’re well in the Periphery now, and with the threat of Tourists looming over their heads, Eames had insisted on going along.
Arthur inhales deeply, struggling to swallow around the obstruction in his throat. There’s nothing there. He hasn’t eaten in days; they’re running low on food rations (and he’d slipped his portion in along with Robert’s share earlier) and he’s only had a couple of sips of water to ease his thirst, so there should be no good reason why he’s suddenly choking up.
Eames.
Eames, of suave charm and silver tongue, who looks nearly as good in a tuxedo at a fancy dinner party as he does shirtless in the middle of the Mojave Desert. Eames, the con man and international art forger serving time in the United States military for his crimes, who by all means should be concerned only with himself, but never leaves a man behind, who went back for Arthur even though he shouldn’t have. He should’ve finished The Program’s last damn war game just like Gordon and the others - but he stayed, wonders of wonders, he stayed, with Arthur.
Arthur closes his eyes, tilting his head back against the cool metal of the truck. He thinks of a low, velvety chuckle in his ear that makes his toes curl in his shoes, of a first heated kiss in the corner of a bathroom, of a dishonorable discharge and shared dreams and the letters he never wrote. He thinks of the dizzying scent of sandalwood and spice, of ruggedly attractive features and oh God, those unmistakable lips burning bruises into his neck and collarbone, of large, capable hands skimming his skin, conducting the orchestra of his body, making every nerve sing with fire and life.
Vivaldi playing in the background, the world exploding in a white of pleasure.
Words whispered in the afterglow meaning nothing and everything all at once.
I played piano as a child, for ten years, yeah. You know, you remind me of the first girl I ever fancied; Andrea Carter was her name. She punched me in the nose when I was eight. Roses, really? Bit old fashioned; I prefer sunflowers myself. Ah, now this is certainly interesting. You wouldn’t happen to be ticklish now, would you, Arthur? My word, this is delightful; you are indeed…
He thinks of strong arms ensconcing him in warmth and safety, of kissing the black swirls of ink on tanned skin and mouthing a silent love you, you insufferable bastard before drifting off to sleep. He thinks of telling himself to keep this moment forever: with Eames, in Cabo, forever.
Arthur forces his eyes open. He looks upon a world where Cabo doesn’t exist anymore, where Eames chose to stay in the United States despite the eruption of the Second Civil War instead of hightailing it back to his motherland, where Eames is now scarred but all the more beautiful because of it, where Eames now refuses to look at him and hasn’t said anything to him beyond no and kindly release me, Arthur, much less called him darling or love - oh, those stupid, stupid pet names Arthur once loathed, that he would now give anything to hear just one more time…
And now he can’t see the world anymore, blurred through a film of tears. Arthur turns away quickly when he thinks he sees movement out of the corner of his eye - too quickly though; his ankle twists in the mud underfoot and he slips, falling against the side of the truck, nearly all of his weight landing against his bandaged arm.
Pain claws a swipe of blurred colors across his vision; he barely registers a pair of strong arms catching him before there’s nothing more.
* - * - *
July 24, 2020
Cabo, San Lucas
10:29 PM
The key slides into the lock with a soft click and Eames hesitates only for a moment before he lets himself into the room, feet moving quietly over the peach-colored carpet. His eyes roam over the open balcony and gauzy white curtains billowing outwards and revealing swathes of the clear night sky, the cream-colored walls and what looks like a Gaugin adorning the space above the dresser. The bed stands front and center, covered in red silk sheets, and along the far wall, there stands a full bar, a half-filled glass of red wine sitting on the counter. Soft music plays on in the background, a duo of strings. Vivaldi, if he’s not mistaken.
Venturing farther into the room, Eames rounds a corner and finds himself staring down the shiny, polished barrel of a 9mm Heckler and Koch. “Well, this is a turn up,” he murmurs, raising both hands slightly before he has a chance to take a look at Arthur, really take a look at him. Then, he damn near swallows his tongue.
“Eames!” Arthur sounds surprised, but pleasantly so, and the gun lowers. “I had no idea you were in Cabo.” And as a point man who ought to know everything, Arthur doesn’t sound nearly as put out as he should. “Here for a job?”
“A job?” He’s talking about work, Eames realizes, and he nearly laughs aloud, because Arthur is standing right there, obviously fresh out of the shower and not in a three piece suit. He’s wearing only a pair of black silk boxers and a white towel around his neck, and they’re having a conversation about work. “Ah, not quite.”
Arthur frowns thoughtfully, absent-mindedly tapping the gun against one lean, muscled thigh as he studies Eames. A lock of dark hair, free from its gelled confines, curls loosely around his ear. “What’re you doing here, then?”
In an effort to remain a gentleman, Eames clears his throat and holds up the key card Mal had so freely given him at the bar, hoping that’ll be explanation enough, although it doesn’t exactly answer Arthur’s question.
“Mal?” Arthur asks with a short laugh, and he shakes his head. He sets the gun down on the bar top, and raises his eyebrows, seeking confirmation as he takes the towel from around his neck and reaches up, scrubbing it through his dark hair.
“Lovely woman,” Eames comments faintly, because it is so unfair that Arthur can stand there so nonchalantly, cheeks dimpling and underdressed in a way that’s positively indecent, looking more delectable than anyone has any business appearing. His eyes track a lone water droplet that slides down the curve of Arthur’s smooth jaw and down his neck, catching in the hollow of his collarbone, and Eames swallows, audibly.
“Eames? Eames. Eames!”
Eames’ eyes snap upwards. “Darling?” he says in return, for lack of any other response. This isn’t right; he supposed to have a snappy rejoinder on the tip of his tongue, a flirtatious comment at the ready, but he doesn’t. There’s still about five feet between the two of them, five feet too many.
Arthur smirks then, the bastard; the lovely, evil creature, he’s smirking, lips curving upwards in a manner that reminds Eames of moments stolen in the dark corners of a warehouse; of downright dirty and openmouthed kisses after the adrenaline rush of putting down more than a dozen projections; of frantic, fleeting touches in the aftermath of a job gone way south: fingers grazing pulse points, an ear pressed to a broad chest, a cool palm placed against a stubbled cheek. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Well, we can stand here making small talk all night, Mr. Eames,” Arthur drawls, and there is no way his voice can be that low; his pupils are blown wide in his dark eyes and his tongue darts out, swipes over his bottom lip. “Or, we can take note of the bed, the ten hours before my flight, the fact that you’re here, and proceed accordingly.”
Which, in Arthur-ese, translates to quit making me wait and get the fuck over here, you great idiot.
Eames can’t repress the growl that tears its way out of his chest and then those five feet are gone, and he has an armful of a poncy, clever, and bloody gorgeous point man, all lithe limbs and lean muscle, opening his mouth under the assault of lips and an insistent tongue. Arthur tastes faintly of cigarette smoke (must’ve been a bloody difficult job, then) and smoked salmon (Arthur prefers seafood to steak), the slight zesty blend of Pinot Noir (a difficult job with successful closure) and every forbidden fruit Eames has ever dreamed of.
Arthur whispers something in French against his neck, his fingers winding in Eames’ hair, teeth scraping lightly over the other man’s pulse point. As Eames responds by lifting him bodily and slamming him back against the wall, Arthur mewls, honest to God mewls, then makes another noise in the back of his throat that may or may not be a whine, and Eames would be gaping like a fish if his mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied. He wonders just exactly what other noises he can coax from Arthur, and as his fingers ink bruises into the other man’s skin, Eames bites down upon the curve of one bared clavicle and Arthur bucks against him with a shout.
“Mm, bit sensitive there, darling?”
Arthur’s eyes narrow. “Bed. You. Now,” he growls, in a voice that sends shivers up Eames’ spine, and then they’re both fumbling with Eames’ belt and zipper, fingers tangling together; Arthur grumbling under his breath against the sheer number of fucking buttons on Eames’ goddamn shirt, and Eames laughing in utter delight at his frustration.
The whole “falling into bed” part is uncoordinated and clumsy; Eames bangs his shin against a bedpost and mutters a curse against Arthur’s lips, and Arthur nearly knees him somewhere that would’ve been rather unpleasant. Somehow, the coverlet gets stripped entirely off the mattress and one of the pillows gets halfway across the room; the Smith and Wesson Arthur keeps under the other pillow ends up wedged underneath the mattress. But they know each other so well that they touch like old lovers and even older friends, and it’s perfect, so bloody perfect.
The music builds to a crescendo as tongues tangle and clash, each fighting for dominance; the bows fly over strings and the violins might even be breaking with the intensity of it all, but even if the world were to end that very moment, neither man would have noticed.
* - * - *
June 8, 2028
We’ve left the Jeep and the truck behind, and we’re on foot now. My boots aren’t holding up too well, and poor Robert’s Italian shoes are completely falling apart. He’ll never ask Michelle or the others if we can stop to hunt for a new pair though, so I’ll have to bring it up with Eames later. We’re moving through what looks like it used to be a suburban neighborhood, broken down picket fences, huge plots of (now dead) land, and all.
It’s been two days since anyone’s last eaten anything, and it’s starting to take its toll; we’re moving at such a slow pace that I guess it’s only by pure luck that we haven’t had any run ins with Tourists yet.
I spoke to Eames earlier (about Arthur, of course) and there was a lot of yelling, and - okay, there were a lot of angry hand gestures, but in the end, I guess I can see where he’s coming from. Truth be told, I don’t know everything about Arthur or Eames or the history of their relationship together, so I guess I can’t be one to judge, but still…
Despite the Wars and how much time they’ve spent apart from each other, does it really matter, in the end, if things can’t go back to the way they used to be? Love isn’t a fixed constant; it’s constantly changing and evolving, becoming something better. How can Eames know if what he and Arthur had is lost if he doesn’t even try to-
Damn pen. Stupid thing is running out of ink…
* - * - *
July 25, 2020
Cabo, San Lucas
2:33 AM
He wakes to Arthur curled into his embrace, face tucked into the crook of his neck, lips soft against his skin, hair tumbling loosely over his forehead in soft, dark waves.
With a small smile, Eames tightens his arm around the other man’s slim waist, fingers trailing up lightly along the curve of Arthur’s spine, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead as he wonders what in the world he’s done to deserve having this beautiful man even glance his way, much less want him. And as he reaches for his totem, Arthur’s brow creases and he throws a possessive arm over Eames’ chest, snuggling in closer. Eames lets him as he flips the poker chip over his knuckles, and tells himself fiercely that he better not fuck this up, because this is something real and good, and something that he doesn’t ever want to lose.
Two hours and forty-one minutes later, Arthur will wake up, look to the man sleeping beside him, reach for his own totem under the pillow, and think the same.
As it turns out, neither of them have to say the wrong word or throw the first punch or be the first to sever ties; there’s no time for either man to do so, because everything goes to Hell that very day in the ruin of a red dawn, Armageddon in the form of a nuclear war, and the end of all things.
* - * - *
They took her totem away, slashed and burned the endless meadow that was her mind, ripping up all the wildflowers by the roots and leaving behind nothing but scorched black earth and dust to be lifted away by the wind blowing across the barren land. Then, they tell her she is dreaming. That her world isn’t real, and that the only way to wake up is to die, and then they ask her to help them save all the other dream-sharers out there in the world, to help wake them up, because she is the only one who knows the truth. So she complies, killing them because she loves dreaming and those who once shared such a wonderful give with her. She kills her father first, and she thinks of killing her husband next, but Dom has disappeared.
Here’s a riddle for you: you’re waiting for a train.
And then Arthur shows up, her dear friend, her darling chéri who looks like the hurts of the world have been carved into his face, who never loosens his collar or takes off those black leather gloves, who never smiles anymore and works the nights away instead of sleeping. And she can’t kill him, no matter how many times she tries to put a bullet in his head to wake him up, she can’t.
So she surrounds him with train tracks, so that she won’t have to be the one to kill him.
But what if the train comes and goes, and you forget to get on?
But then Arthur is gone as well, stolen away in the middle of the night. Her mind splinters just a little more, a glass prism fracturing the light, shattering, and she forgets where she laid the tracks, so she lays some more down on the crushed stone ballast, careful with each flat-bottomed steel rail supported on timber, welding them together and driving spikes through each section.
Tracks wrapped in brown package paper labeled C-4 laid all around the concrete ballast of Fischer Industries USA headquarters, flat-bottomed steel rails in the form of timers with blinking red digits, all welded together with interlacing multi-colored wires and electrical current switchboards for spikes.
There is close to nothing left of the woman she used to be; she is only an echo of her former self, a Shade. And she is dying now, here in this little room that is all walls and floor and ceiling and no way out. But Mal smiles, knowing that when the train pulls into the station, she will die, and then she will wake up.
They all will.
- - - - -
Time runs out, all the clocks stop, and Fischer Industries USA explodes in a shower of glass and twisted steel, concrete flying everywhere amidst shattered dreams.
* - * - *
Arthur wakes with a start.
It’s so simple a thing, really, to blink one’s eyes open, to allow the visual field to focus, to let the mind readjust to the here and now, the physical and the real. Cerebral blood flow increases to the brainstem and thalamus in the light of conscious awareness, and any remaining wisps of dreams - be they pleasant or not so much - dissipate, only to be recalled as brief flashes of images out of context, a vague memory that makes no sense at all.
What is not so simple is finding one’s entire visual field obscured by white nothingness as every single nerve receptor in one’s entire frame shrieks out a babel of pain. Having the skin flayed from your flesh is in no way comparable to a bullet imbedded in soft tissue or a broken bone, or even a stab wound, and right now, Arthur isn’t particularly concerned with anything beyond the fact that it fucking hurts.
Something cool and circular presses gently yet insistently against his lips - the mouth of a canteen - and he jerks away with a noise that might as well could have been a moan as much as a shout of protest.
He’s lost track of where it starts and where it ends probably because it doesn’t end; he’s caught up in an endless cycle of it and the brief respites are almost as terrible as the torture sessions themselves, the silence eaten up by the screams he no longer has the breath to articulate. Ripped apart and stripped bare, his skin and flesh gives way like paper as they beat and burn and skin him alive, and as they jeer at him he writhes and twists and sobs, asking and begging for Eames, please, Eames.
The next time his cracked and bleeding lips part to give silent voice to the pain, he gags on the disgusting fluid Gordon forces down his throat, thick and viscous and oily.
Hands push at him now and, weak though he may be, Arthur has always been a fighter, so he pushes back. It’s a bad decision though; his arm twinges painfully and he can’t suppress the rather pathetic sob that tears its way out of his throat. The pressure disappears then, and then hands are gently smoothing over his hair, catching on dark strands still slightly damp from rain and curling loosely around his face, then slide down to cradle either side of his face. “Don’t fight me, Arthur,” comes a voice, rough and pained and familiar. “You’re all right.”
Eames? Arthur tries to ask - tries, being the operative word. The word comes out more like a whimper, and the only thing he can think of is that he’s dreaming, he has to be. As his vision clears though, sure enough, there is a pair of very familiar blue eyes hovering half an inch away from his face. But that only sends his fingers searching for his totem; this can’t be real, because Eames said no, and Eames doesn’t want him, but oh God, Arthur doesn’t want to wake up, please, not yet.
Eames takes a hand away from his face and Arthur watches, dumbfounded, as the other man’s hand descends gently upon the dirty bandages swathing his shoulder, fingers that have known the paintbrush and firearms alike now gently, oh so gently unwrapping the strips of cloth. And when those lips brush tenderly against the semi-scarred wound, Arthur gasps, jerking at the spark of contact. “B-but…” he stutters, throat jerking up and down and making odd noises. “I thought you said…”
“I was wrong,” Eames strokes a thumb over Arthur’s cheekbone in a futile attempt to wipe away the dirt smeared there. There’s both apology and hesitation in his tone, as if he’s the one who’s afraid of being spurned. “Because I’m a bloody fool.”
But he’s not a fool. Eames is far more clever than most people give him credit for, and Arthur knows that he will never, ever deserve this man who took dishonorable discharge for him, because Eames is brave and kind and far more generous than anyone ought to be, and Arthur is not-
“Oh, hush, darling,” Eames whispers, and one hand goes around to cup the back of Arthur’s neck as he presses their foreheads together. “I’m here. We’re alright.”
With Eames more or less kneeling over him as he sits with his back against the wall, the angle is a bit awkward, but Arthur is far beyond caring. Turning his head, he hides his face in the crook of Eames’ neck, wrapping his functioning arm around Eames’ back and tugging him closer, fingers gripping the folds of the other man’s jacket so hard that his knuckles turn white. He’s half-terrified that if he lets go, Eames will disappear.
Eames’ grasp is equally desperate and just as tight, the fingers of one hand winding through Arthur’s hair, cracked lips moving as he mouths silent words against Arthur’s temple. And they stay like that for just a little while, crouched there among the ashes and ruin, just breathing each other in.
* - * - *
Epilogue
Characters/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, unrequited Robert/Arthur, past Cobb/Mal, hinted Robert/Ariadne, Browning, Saito
Rating: R
Word Count: 5,669
Disclaimer: Mr. Nolan owns it all
Warnings: Violence (graphic torture), strong language, sexual content, character death
Summary: In the aftermath of World War III and the Second Civil War of the United States, the members of the dream sharing industry have been turned into fugitives, driven underground and into hiding in order to escape assassination by Fischer Industries USA - except for one, the former leading point man in the business, who has turned traitor against the fugitives Dom Cobb, Public Enemy Number one; and the infamous Eames, leader of the Resistance.
Author's Note: Written for inception_bang . Endless thanks to my wonderful beta, niftywithan who worked tirelessly in looking over drafts, and to my dear celestineangel , without whose wonderful help (read: guidance, advice, cheerleading) this labor of love would not exist. You two are absolutely amazing!! ♥ ♥ ♥
July 24, 2020
Cabo, San Lucas
10:07 PM
“Ah, you must be William.”
He turns, startled by the appearance of the elegant, shapely woman propping a curvy hip on the wooden barstool next to his, a small smirk curving red lips. Bringing the tumbler to his lips, Eames takes a sip of the rapidly cooling gin - mother’s ruin, a voice in the back of his mind hisses rather viciously - and tries not to think about how long it’s been since anyone called him that. “Must I be?” he drawls, playing for nonchalance and scanning the lobby of the hotel as he appraises the woman out of the corner of his eye.
She’s quite nicely proportioned, to be honest, and that accent is Parisian, of that much he’s certain. Dark hair curls softly around her face, highlighting elegantly arching brows, a delicate neck slopes down into bare shoulders disappearing under the white cotton of a sundress - his eyes snap away from going anywhere else, however, when he catches the glint of gold on her ring finger. Ah, taken already then, and Eames for one isn’t that type of bastard.
“Thinking of using me as a template for one of your forgeries, Mr. Eames?”
His gaze lifts to her face, and he narrows his eyes speculatively as he turns to fully face her. She has his full attention now, this stranger who knows more about him than he does her, including his real name - a disconcerting notion, for it isn’t something that happens often - and then his lips curve into a disarming grin, all boyish charm and suave sophistication. “Certainly a lovely creature such as yourself should be flattered, Madame,” he murmurs with a jaunty wink, ducking his head as he catches a slim hand and brings it to his lips.
She laughs then, and the sound that escapes her mouth is very much like everything else about her - delicate but elegant, effortlessly charming but with just a note of reserve, as if she knows every play in the book, every trick Eames has up his sleeve, and then some. “Oh, you are a scoundrel.” Strangely enough, she sounds delighted as she gracefully pulls her hand away in a manner that is neither indulgent nor impolite, and appraises him for a moment, her eyes sweeping up and down his form critically. “I can see why he likes you.”
Eames’ brow furrows. “Pardon?” he asks bluntly, then grimaces. Oh, how eloquent. “I’m afraid I haven’t the foggiest as to who you mean.”
Amusement glimmers in her blue eyes. “Arthur, of course.”
At that, Eames’ back snaps straight, his fingers involuntarily tighten on the glass in his hand, and he blinks rapidly, once, twice. Caught. He makes an effort to appear unaffected by her words, to act as if he hasn’t been keeping track of how long it’s been since he last saw the man in question (five months, two weeks, and thirty-six hours since the Marcobs job in bloody Siberia), trying to pretend that he didn’t drop everything to take the first flight to Cabo after hearing through the grapevine that Arthur was to be there.
He turns his gaze away, his shirt sticking uncomfortably to his back in the blasted heat, and he says nothing in reply. What is there to say? He continues to watch strangers wander in and out of the lobby, eyes flicking back and forth amongst the mass of tanned and sunburned tourists, searching for a head of dark hair, a pair of sharp eyes, and a sinfully tailored suit - he assumes Arthur would still wear such an ensemble even here; it’s practically his second skin - just as he’s been doing for the past four hours.
“I am fond of him, you know,” the woman says casually, but she’s still studying him intently, lips pursed, as if trying to decide something monumental. “He is terribly bright, but so very young.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Dom tells me I worry too much.”
Dom. Dominic Cobb. Eames remembers hearing of how the former leading government scientists in the dream-sharing enterprise managed to snap up the best point man in the business, and he raises an eyebrow. He’s worked a few jobs with Cobb, even, but this is his first time meeting the missus. “Mrs. Cobb then, is it?”
“Mal, please.” She flashes a smile, a set of white teeth crushing down on the maraschino cherry from the drink he hadn’t even noticed her ordering, and leans forward, bringing with her the scent of vanilla and jasmine. “Should I be worried about trusting you with Arthur?”
Eames has the feeling he should choose his next words very carefully, and does so. “I certainly hope that shan’t be the case,” he says softly, quashing down any ire he might have felt at being so bluntly questioned about his relationship (if it can be classified as such) with the point man. But behind Mal’s clear blue eyes, he can see a genuine affection for Arthur in addition to the worry she professes, and that keeps Eames’ tongue in check, his response honest. “I’m extremely fond of Arthur as well.”
For a moment, there is nothing save for the muted hubbub of the hotel lobby and the conversations of other patrons around them at the bar and adjoining restaurant. Mal’s eyes search Eames’ face for a moment longer, then her smile softens into something warm and affectionate. “I see he has good taste, our Arthur,” she murmurs, patting his cheek gently, then slips off the barstool and turns to go. “Bonne chance, mon cher.”
His hand immediately goes to his breast pocket, because as light-fingered as Mal may be, Eames didn’t get time in the U.S. Military for nothing; he pulls out a flat piece of plastic, no larger than a credit card - a room key. His eyes meet Mal’s and she smiles at him as if she knows something he doesn’t. “Be good to him, yes?”
With that she’s gone, weaving in and out of the mass of people, disappearing into the crowd just as quickly as she appeared.
Eames stares down at the piece of plastic, flipping it over his fingers. He puts down some bills for the bartender, and takes the last sip of his drink. The ice has melted, and the gin is warm.
* - * - *
June 5, 2028
Still raining.
We’ve been stuck in what looks like an old gas station, one of the few that weren’t blown up years ago. The others managed to siphon about half a tank full.
Arthur’s taken an unexpected turn for the worse - way worse - and it’s like the elephant in the room that no one wants to talk about. Cobb gave him the last of the morphine today, but everyone knows that won’t be enough to tide him over for long. I have no idea why the pain’s suddenly gotten so bad for him.
Although, given the way he looks (or refuses to look) at Eames now, it’s not too difficult a mystery to puzzle out.
* - * - *
They’ve strapped her down, locked and bolted the door, and thrown away the key, trying to ignore her screams - for her husband, for her children, against those who infected her mind and something about a train, a train that will take all of them far, far away -
“It’s because you don’t know you’re DREAMING!”
She took out at least twenty of their best men before she went down. Two more lost an eye and one unfortunate fellow now only has half an ear.
They try to placate her with pictures of her husband, of her children, and of Captain Davidson (to whom she was apparently very close), with empty reassurances and meaningless words. The poor rookie tasked with bringing said peace offering into the room got his throat torn out in ten seconds.
“Those aren’t my children! Don’t you think I would know the difference?!”
It’s a pity Mr. Browning failed to give the order for the kill shot when he had the chance, as that would have been the simplest solution to the problem. Now that no one dares to set foot into the room, the only option remaining is to have the woman gassed to death.
Apparently though, Mr. Browning has too much on his plate to deal with the crazy woman in the basement just yet. Word is that Maurice Fischer himself is having some problems across the pond with charges of fraud, misappropriation of funds, crimes against humanity, and so much more. The accuser identifies himself as Saito, the head of Fischer Industries’ main “competitor”, who claims to have proof of such damning allegations; he claims to have evidence in the form of something called Project Extraction, delivered from Fischer Industries USA itself by one Captain Davidson.
All secrets get discovered sometime, even those that are locked away and seemingly forgotten.
* - * - *
Arthur winces ever so slightly as he steps down upon a particularly sharp edge of broken concrete, trying to ignore the dull ache radiating upwards from the soles of his feet. Most of his injuries have been on the mend, despite the constant travel and the lack of anesthetics, thanks to Cobb’s careful insistence on checking and redressing the wounds. The trauma and psychosomatic pain, however, are slightly more difficult to take in stride.
He bears it though, with a grimly clenched jaw as he finishes pacing the west side of the perimeter of their temporary campsite, taking his shift on night watch, before he turns around and walks back toward the smoldering fire, built from a few scraps of paper brought along from the library they’d stayed in a couple of nights ago. The embers offer little light, but Arthur doesn’t need much more than that to peer through the darkness, eyes moving over the different individuals in their ragtag band of fugitives.
A small smile touches his lips as he takes in the sight of the couple huddled together for warmth, their heads bent close, Robert’s cheek resting gently atop Ariadne’s dark brown locks: a picture perfect moment.
Robert is a good man - actually, really good, not merely one who thinks of himself as such, or who does philanthropic things in order to try impressing others. Most sheltered brats are spoiled, and certainly wouldn’t last a day out in this mess of a real world. Robert hasn’t changed in the least from when Arthur last saw him in the glass labyrinthine depths of Fischer Industries. He looks a bit worse for the wear, certainly, but he’s still selfless and needy at the same time - an understandable paradox, for someone who grew up as deprived of love and attention as the young Fischer heir. And Ariadne - sweet, curious, uncommonly caring Ariadne - is a survivor who has, beyond all odds, remained untouched by bitterness or resentment, and remains simply lovely.
They will make a good match, a perfect blend of strength and kindness that strikes a precarious balance between give and take. Robert’s found someone else who is much better than his Captain Davidson, and that someone else just so happens to be Ariadne, who is almost too good for anyone at all. The way they shiver makes him frown though, as does the gauntness of Ariadne’s cheeks. They’re really running out of supplies, and even with most everyone trying to be discreet about giving her most of the food and water, it’s still not enough.
Michelle leans against the Jeep’s rear wheel, her shotgun resting in her lap, ready for anything. Arthur studies her quietly for a moment, the frown that creases her features even in sleep, the jacket that has partially slipped from one shoulder, revealing the white scar that twists its way up her arm, one that Arthur is sure his own will match, if the ugly open wound on his arm ever gets around to scarring over.
If Cobb were here, he’d look pretty much the same, sleeping, but with both firearm and trigger finger ready. He’s not, though; he left close to two hours ago, off to scope out the grounds, hunting for anything salvageable. They’re well in the Periphery now, and with the threat of Tourists looming over their heads, Eames had insisted on going along.
Arthur inhales deeply, struggling to swallow around the obstruction in his throat. There’s nothing there. He hasn’t eaten in days; they’re running low on food rations (and he’d slipped his portion in along with Robert’s share earlier) and he’s only had a couple of sips of water to ease his thirst, so there should be no good reason why he’s suddenly choking up.
Eames.
Eames, of suave charm and silver tongue, who looks nearly as good in a tuxedo at a fancy dinner party as he does shirtless in the middle of the Mojave Desert. Eames, the con man and international art forger serving time in the United States military for his crimes, who by all means should be concerned only with himself, but never leaves a man behind, who went back for Arthur even though he shouldn’t have. He should’ve finished The Program’s last damn war game just like Gordon and the others - but he stayed, wonders of wonders, he stayed, with Arthur.
Arthur closes his eyes, tilting his head back against the cool metal of the truck. He thinks of a low, velvety chuckle in his ear that makes his toes curl in his shoes, of a first heated kiss in the corner of a bathroom, of a dishonorable discharge and shared dreams and the letters he never wrote. He thinks of the dizzying scent of sandalwood and spice, of ruggedly attractive features and oh God, those unmistakable lips burning bruises into his neck and collarbone, of large, capable hands skimming his skin, conducting the orchestra of his body, making every nerve sing with fire and life.
Vivaldi playing in the background, the world exploding in a white of pleasure.
Words whispered in the afterglow meaning nothing and everything all at once.
I played piano as a child, for ten years, yeah. You know, you remind me of the first girl I ever fancied; Andrea Carter was her name. She punched me in the nose when I was eight. Roses, really? Bit old fashioned; I prefer sunflowers myself. Ah, now this is certainly interesting. You wouldn’t happen to be ticklish now, would you, Arthur? My word, this is delightful; you are indeed…
He thinks of strong arms ensconcing him in warmth and safety, of kissing the black swirls of ink on tanned skin and mouthing a silent love you, you insufferable bastard before drifting off to sleep. He thinks of telling himself to keep this moment forever: with Eames, in Cabo, forever.
Arthur forces his eyes open. He looks upon a world where Cabo doesn’t exist anymore, where Eames chose to stay in the United States despite the eruption of the Second Civil War instead of hightailing it back to his motherland, where Eames is now scarred but all the more beautiful because of it, where Eames now refuses to look at him and hasn’t said anything to him beyond no and kindly release me, Arthur, much less called him darling or love - oh, those stupid, stupid pet names Arthur once loathed, that he would now give anything to hear just one more time…
And now he can’t see the world anymore, blurred through a film of tears. Arthur turns away quickly when he thinks he sees movement out of the corner of his eye - too quickly though; his ankle twists in the mud underfoot and he slips, falling against the side of the truck, nearly all of his weight landing against his bandaged arm.
Pain claws a swipe of blurred colors across his vision; he barely registers a pair of strong arms catching him before there’s nothing more.
* - * - *
July 24, 2020
Cabo, San Lucas
10:29 PM
The key slides into the lock with a soft click and Eames hesitates only for a moment before he lets himself into the room, feet moving quietly over the peach-colored carpet. His eyes roam over the open balcony and gauzy white curtains billowing outwards and revealing swathes of the clear night sky, the cream-colored walls and what looks like a Gaugin adorning the space above the dresser. The bed stands front and center, covered in red silk sheets, and along the far wall, there stands a full bar, a half-filled glass of red wine sitting on the counter. Soft music plays on in the background, a duo of strings. Vivaldi, if he’s not mistaken.
Venturing farther into the room, Eames rounds a corner and finds himself staring down the shiny, polished barrel of a 9mm Heckler and Koch. “Well, this is a turn up,” he murmurs, raising both hands slightly before he has a chance to take a look at Arthur, really take a look at him. Then, he damn near swallows his tongue.
“Eames!” Arthur sounds surprised, but pleasantly so, and the gun lowers. “I had no idea you were in Cabo.” And as a point man who ought to know everything, Arthur doesn’t sound nearly as put out as he should. “Here for a job?”
“A job?” He’s talking about work, Eames realizes, and he nearly laughs aloud, because Arthur is standing right there, obviously fresh out of the shower and not in a three piece suit. He’s wearing only a pair of black silk boxers and a white towel around his neck, and they’re having a conversation about work. “Ah, not quite.”
Arthur frowns thoughtfully, absent-mindedly tapping the gun against one lean, muscled thigh as he studies Eames. A lock of dark hair, free from its gelled confines, curls loosely around his ear. “What’re you doing here, then?”
In an effort to remain a gentleman, Eames clears his throat and holds up the key card Mal had so freely given him at the bar, hoping that’ll be explanation enough, although it doesn’t exactly answer Arthur’s question.
“Mal?” Arthur asks with a short laugh, and he shakes his head. He sets the gun down on the bar top, and raises his eyebrows, seeking confirmation as he takes the towel from around his neck and reaches up, scrubbing it through his dark hair.
“Lovely woman,” Eames comments faintly, because it is so unfair that Arthur can stand there so nonchalantly, cheeks dimpling and underdressed in a way that’s positively indecent, looking more delectable than anyone has any business appearing. His eyes track a lone water droplet that slides down the curve of Arthur’s smooth jaw and down his neck, catching in the hollow of his collarbone, and Eames swallows, audibly.
“Eames? Eames. Eames!”
Eames’ eyes snap upwards. “Darling?” he says in return, for lack of any other response. This isn’t right; he supposed to have a snappy rejoinder on the tip of his tongue, a flirtatious comment at the ready, but he doesn’t. There’s still about five feet between the two of them, five feet too many.
Arthur smirks then, the bastard; the lovely, evil creature, he’s smirking, lips curving upwards in a manner that reminds Eames of moments stolen in the dark corners of a warehouse; of downright dirty and openmouthed kisses after the adrenaline rush of putting down more than a dozen projections; of frantic, fleeting touches in the aftermath of a job gone way south: fingers grazing pulse points, an ear pressed to a broad chest, a cool palm placed against a stubbled cheek. “Well?”
“Well, what?”
“Well, we can stand here making small talk all night, Mr. Eames,” Arthur drawls, and there is no way his voice can be that low; his pupils are blown wide in his dark eyes and his tongue darts out, swipes over his bottom lip. “Or, we can take note of the bed, the ten hours before my flight, the fact that you’re here, and proceed accordingly.”
Which, in Arthur-ese, translates to quit making me wait and get the fuck over here, you great idiot.
Eames can’t repress the growl that tears its way out of his chest and then those five feet are gone, and he has an armful of a poncy, clever, and bloody gorgeous point man, all lithe limbs and lean muscle, opening his mouth under the assault of lips and an insistent tongue. Arthur tastes faintly of cigarette smoke (must’ve been a bloody difficult job, then) and smoked salmon (Arthur prefers seafood to steak), the slight zesty blend of Pinot Noir (a difficult job with successful closure) and every forbidden fruit Eames has ever dreamed of.
Arthur whispers something in French against his neck, his fingers winding in Eames’ hair, teeth scraping lightly over the other man’s pulse point. As Eames responds by lifting him bodily and slamming him back against the wall, Arthur mewls, honest to God mewls, then makes another noise in the back of his throat that may or may not be a whine, and Eames would be gaping like a fish if his mouth wasn’t otherwise occupied. He wonders just exactly what other noises he can coax from Arthur, and as his fingers ink bruises into the other man’s skin, Eames bites down upon the curve of one bared clavicle and Arthur bucks against him with a shout.
“Mm, bit sensitive there, darling?”
Arthur’s eyes narrow. “Bed. You. Now,” he growls, in a voice that sends shivers up Eames’ spine, and then they’re both fumbling with Eames’ belt and zipper, fingers tangling together; Arthur grumbling under his breath against the sheer number of fucking buttons on Eames’ goddamn shirt, and Eames laughing in utter delight at his frustration.
The whole “falling into bed” part is uncoordinated and clumsy; Eames bangs his shin against a bedpost and mutters a curse against Arthur’s lips, and Arthur nearly knees him somewhere that would’ve been rather unpleasant. Somehow, the coverlet gets stripped entirely off the mattress and one of the pillows gets halfway across the room; the Smith and Wesson Arthur keeps under the other pillow ends up wedged underneath the mattress. But they know each other so well that they touch like old lovers and even older friends, and it’s perfect, so bloody perfect.
The music builds to a crescendo as tongues tangle and clash, each fighting for dominance; the bows fly over strings and the violins might even be breaking with the intensity of it all, but even if the world were to end that very moment, neither man would have noticed.
* - * - *
June 8, 2028
We’ve left the Jeep and the truck behind, and we’re on foot now. My boots aren’t holding up too well, and poor Robert’s Italian shoes are completely falling apart. He’ll never ask Michelle or the others if we can stop to hunt for a new pair though, so I’ll have to bring it up with Eames later. We’re moving through what looks like it used to be a suburban neighborhood, broken down picket fences, huge plots of (now dead) land, and all.
It’s been two days since anyone’s last eaten anything, and it’s starting to take its toll; we’re moving at such a slow pace that I guess it’s only by pure luck that we haven’t had any run ins with Tourists yet.
I spoke to Eames earlier (about Arthur, of course) and there was a lot of yelling, and - okay, there were a lot of angry hand gestures, but in the end, I guess I can see where he’s coming from. Truth be told, I don’t know everything about Arthur or Eames or the history of their relationship together, so I guess I can’t be one to judge, but still…
Despite the Wars and how much time they’ve spent apart from each other, does it really matter, in the end, if things can’t go back to the way they used to be? Love isn’t a fixed constant; it’s constantly changing and evolving, becoming something better. How can Eames know if what he and Arthur had is lost if he doesn’t even try to-
Damn pen. Stupid thing is running out of ink…
* - * - *
July 25, 2020
Cabo, San Lucas
2:33 AM
He wakes to Arthur curled into his embrace, face tucked into the crook of his neck, lips soft against his skin, hair tumbling loosely over his forehead in soft, dark waves.
With a small smile, Eames tightens his arm around the other man’s slim waist, fingers trailing up lightly along the curve of Arthur’s spine, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead as he wonders what in the world he’s done to deserve having this beautiful man even glance his way, much less want him. And as he reaches for his totem, Arthur’s brow creases and he throws a possessive arm over Eames’ chest, snuggling in closer. Eames lets him as he flips the poker chip over his knuckles, and tells himself fiercely that he better not fuck this up, because this is something real and good, and something that he doesn’t ever want to lose.
Two hours and forty-one minutes later, Arthur will wake up, look to the man sleeping beside him, reach for his own totem under the pillow, and think the same.
As it turns out, neither of them have to say the wrong word or throw the first punch or be the first to sever ties; there’s no time for either man to do so, because everything goes to Hell that very day in the ruin of a red dawn, Armageddon in the form of a nuclear war, and the end of all things.
* - * - *
They took her totem away, slashed and burned the endless meadow that was her mind, ripping up all the wildflowers by the roots and leaving behind nothing but scorched black earth and dust to be lifted away by the wind blowing across the barren land. Then, they tell her she is dreaming. That her world isn’t real, and that the only way to wake up is to die, and then they ask her to help them save all the other dream-sharers out there in the world, to help wake them up, because she is the only one who knows the truth. So she complies, killing them because she loves dreaming and those who once shared such a wonderful give with her. She kills her father first, and she thinks of killing her husband next, but Dom has disappeared.
Here’s a riddle for you: you’re waiting for a train.
And then Arthur shows up, her dear friend, her darling chéri who looks like the hurts of the world have been carved into his face, who never loosens his collar or takes off those black leather gloves, who never smiles anymore and works the nights away instead of sleeping. And she can’t kill him, no matter how many times she tries to put a bullet in his head to wake him up, she can’t.
So she surrounds him with train tracks, so that she won’t have to be the one to kill him.
But what if the train comes and goes, and you forget to get on?
But then Arthur is gone as well, stolen away in the middle of the night. Her mind splinters just a little more, a glass prism fracturing the light, shattering, and she forgets where she laid the tracks, so she lays some more down on the crushed stone ballast, careful with each flat-bottomed steel rail supported on timber, welding them together and driving spikes through each section.
Tracks wrapped in brown package paper labeled C-4 laid all around the concrete ballast of Fischer Industries USA headquarters, flat-bottomed steel rails in the form of timers with blinking red digits, all welded together with interlacing multi-colored wires and electrical current switchboards for spikes.
There is close to nothing left of the woman she used to be; she is only an echo of her former self, a Shade. And she is dying now, here in this little room that is all walls and floor and ceiling and no way out. But Mal smiles, knowing that when the train pulls into the station, she will die, and then she will wake up.
They all will.
- - - - -
Time runs out, all the clocks stop, and Fischer Industries USA explodes in a shower of glass and twisted steel, concrete flying everywhere amidst shattered dreams.
* - * - *
Arthur wakes with a start.
It’s so simple a thing, really, to blink one’s eyes open, to allow the visual field to focus, to let the mind readjust to the here and now, the physical and the real. Cerebral blood flow increases to the brainstem and thalamus in the light of conscious awareness, and any remaining wisps of dreams - be they pleasant or not so much - dissipate, only to be recalled as brief flashes of images out of context, a vague memory that makes no sense at all.
What is not so simple is finding one’s entire visual field obscured by white nothingness as every single nerve receptor in one’s entire frame shrieks out a babel of pain. Having the skin flayed from your flesh is in no way comparable to a bullet imbedded in soft tissue or a broken bone, or even a stab wound, and right now, Arthur isn’t particularly concerned with anything beyond the fact that it fucking hurts.
Something cool and circular presses gently yet insistently against his lips - the mouth of a canteen - and he jerks away with a noise that might as well could have been a moan as much as a shout of protest.
He’s lost track of where it starts and where it ends probably because it doesn’t end; he’s caught up in an endless cycle of it and the brief respites are almost as terrible as the torture sessions themselves, the silence eaten up by the screams he no longer has the breath to articulate. Ripped apart and stripped bare, his skin and flesh gives way like paper as they beat and burn and skin him alive, and as they jeer at him he writhes and twists and sobs, asking and begging for Eames, please, Eames.
The next time his cracked and bleeding lips part to give silent voice to the pain, he gags on the disgusting fluid Gordon forces down his throat, thick and viscous and oily.
Hands push at him now and, weak though he may be, Arthur has always been a fighter, so he pushes back. It’s a bad decision though; his arm twinges painfully and he can’t suppress the rather pathetic sob that tears its way out of his throat. The pressure disappears then, and then hands are gently smoothing over his hair, catching on dark strands still slightly damp from rain and curling loosely around his face, then slide down to cradle either side of his face. “Don’t fight me, Arthur,” comes a voice, rough and pained and familiar. “You’re all right.”
Eames? Arthur tries to ask - tries, being the operative word. The word comes out more like a whimper, and the only thing he can think of is that he’s dreaming, he has to be. As his vision clears though, sure enough, there is a pair of very familiar blue eyes hovering half an inch away from his face. But that only sends his fingers searching for his totem; this can’t be real, because Eames said no, and Eames doesn’t want him, but oh God, Arthur doesn’t want to wake up, please, not yet.
Eames takes a hand away from his face and Arthur watches, dumbfounded, as the other man’s hand descends gently upon the dirty bandages swathing his shoulder, fingers that have known the paintbrush and firearms alike now gently, oh so gently unwrapping the strips of cloth. And when those lips brush tenderly against the semi-scarred wound, Arthur gasps, jerking at the spark of contact. “B-but…” he stutters, throat jerking up and down and making odd noises. “I thought you said…”
“I was wrong,” Eames strokes a thumb over Arthur’s cheekbone in a futile attempt to wipe away the dirt smeared there. There’s both apology and hesitation in his tone, as if he’s the one who’s afraid of being spurned. “Because I’m a bloody fool.”
But he’s not a fool. Eames is far more clever than most people give him credit for, and Arthur knows that he will never, ever deserve this man who took dishonorable discharge for him, because Eames is brave and kind and far more generous than anyone ought to be, and Arthur is not-
“Oh, hush, darling,” Eames whispers, and one hand goes around to cup the back of Arthur’s neck as he presses their foreheads together. “I’m here. We’re alright.”
With Eames more or less kneeling over him as he sits with his back against the wall, the angle is a bit awkward, but Arthur is far beyond caring. Turning his head, he hides his face in the crook of Eames’ neck, wrapping his functioning arm around Eames’ back and tugging him closer, fingers gripping the folds of the other man’s jacket so hard that his knuckles turn white. He’s half-terrified that if he lets go, Eames will disappear.
Eames’ grasp is equally desperate and just as tight, the fingers of one hand winding through Arthur’s hair, cracked lips moving as he mouths silent words against Arthur’s temple. And they stay like that for just a little while, crouched there among the ashes and ruin, just breathing each other in.
* - * - *
Epilogue