The Boy Who Spoke With Ghosts (Chapter 4)
Title: The Boy Who Spoke With Ghosts
Parings: Eames/Arthur
Rating: R for graphic visuals.
Spoilers: Inception/Sixth Sense crossover. Major spoilers for both movies.
Word Count: 4000 ish
Notes: Based from this excellent prompt on the Kink Meme: Arthur's real name is Cole Sear. Bonus points for an "I see ---- people" that's not totally cracky.
Notes 2: I feel bad for those who are following my WIP journal. You've officially been spammed to death with this story. Sorry guys! ;D
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3
*****
Another day, another unused, out of the way warehouse to research and plan the next job. After carefully setting up his work space, plugging in his laptop and making sure everything was ergonomically correct, Arthur opened up the dossier to give another cursory read-through on their mark.
Something about the mark's name, however, niggled in his mind. He turned to Eames who was sprawled out on a nearby lawn chair, reading through his own folder. "Haven't you extracted on Ira Rudig before?"
"I don't believe so." But Arthur saw Eames' brows furrow as he glanced around towards other two team members who were talking across the room: the extractor, Soong, and a young female architect who hadn't been introduced. "I can't remember. I've never worked with Soong before. Have you?"
"No, I... Is this a dream?" Arthur asked, and it should have sounded ridiculous to his own ears, but the feeling that something was off was growing by the minute. A seed of an idea, now taking root.
Eames frowned at him, but reached into his pocket and withdrew a worn poker-chip. He brought it up, eyebrows furrowed as he studied it intently. "No..." but there was a question in the tone. "It seems we are awake."
Arthur peered around the warehouse. Everything was in place. Everything was as it should be.
But for the life of him, he couldn't remember how he had got there.
"I don't think we are," Arthur said, and before Eames could react he withdrew his gun and shot him once between the eyes. Then, he turned it on himself.
****
"I told you... Remember when I told you how this business can be unforgiving?" Eames gave a chuckle that turned into a wet, racking cough as he curled up in the passenger seat, the life bleeding out of him. "That was before Cobb, wasn't it? God, we were both so young."
Arthur's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Don't talk." He pressed down harder on the gas pedal, but car's little engine was roaring already. If he pushed the transmission any harder, it could burn out completely and leave them stranded.
Even with Eames bleeding from at least four different gunshot wounds, they couldn't afford to stop and find a doctor. They would catch up with them if they did.
"Don't stop," Eames told him, echoing his thoughts. A trickle of blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. "It'll be alright, darling. I'll be alright..."
Arthur racked his brains for an answer, a solution to get them out of this mess. There was nothing. "I know you will. Just... hang on, okay? I'll get you out of here." They were running. They had to run because if they were caught...
The road ahead of them was of bleak red desert. It stretched for miles without in every direction and as Eames' breath became shorter and shallower, all Arthur could think of was that it wasn't right...
Eames gave a sigh at the very last of it, and the world seemed to fracture in a million pieces all at once like a broken mirror. And as Arthur drove his car off of an abyss that had not been there a moment before, he realized that this, too, had been a dream.
****
Arthur screamed, the sound ripping his throat like ground-glass. He twisted, thrashed, but the pain wouldn't stop. It wouldn't--it wouldn't--itwouldn't--it--
"Stop!" a voice outside of him yelled. "I'll tell you everything... Oh God... Arthur, I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
*****
"We could try the Mr. Charles gambit," Soong the extractor suggested, flipping tapping the dossier in front of him. "Arthur has some experience with that. Don't you?"
All eyes in the meeting room turned towards him. Arthur blinked and glanced down at the thick folder of files in front of him. It was a team organization - everyone was here, everyone was waiting.
"I..." his eyes flicked around the room, landing on Eames who was flipping through his own dossier, his brows knit slightly.
"Arthur?" Soong prompted and Arthur started.
"Yes." He cleared his throat and turned his mind to the present. "But it's not my preferred method."
"Doesn't it involve telling the mark that he's dreaming?" Eames asked. He had an odd expression on his face and his eyes darted around the room and back to the folder in his lap as if he wasn't sure, exactly, what he was doing there, either.
Soong leaned forward in his chair. "Who did you do it to?" he asked.
Arthur shook his head, not answering, and glanced around. Something was wrong. He couldn't put his finger on it, but, something...
"Did it work?" Soong asked, intently.
Arthur started to answer, then hesitated. Through the back window he could see a pair of window washers maneuvering their platform down to their level. They were in a high-rise building - Arthur never conducted business in such a public location. Too risky.
What the hell was going on?
The others turned, following his gaze, and when the washer on the left swung into view, Soong let out a surprised yelp.
The window washer's head was caved in on one side, dark hair matted with blood and his eye socket smashed to a vertical slit. He was clearly not alive. And everyone could see him.
This was a dream
Arthur whipped around. "Eames!"
But the forger was already one step ahead of him and had his gun already out. Arthur saw a flash of the muzzle, and then-
*****
Arthur woke to the sound of a little girl's quiet sobbing.
"What the FUCK was that?"
Soong erupted from his reclined chair, looking ready to snort fire. He stalked over to where Arthur lay, bound hand and foot upon the floor. Fisting a handful of his hair, he tipped his head painfully up.
"Why the hell are you dreaming of zombies? You sick freak. You think this is a game?" He shook Arthur, eliciting a grunt of pain. "Huh? Do you?"
"Maybe... it means... I'm just not afraid of death," Arthur rasped.
Soong punched him hard in the stomach and dropped him, leaving Arthur wheezing.
Across dirty, dark shed Eames was in a similar position: bound and hooked up to a PASIV line. Unlike Arthur, though, he had been gagged. Soong and his gang of piss-poor extractors had quickly gotten tired of his running mouth.
The girl in the yellow dress sat by Eames, knees pulled up to her chest and crying, "Let him go. Let him go..."
Eames didn't react, only stared at Arthur and not in his daughter's direction at all. That was all the confirmation Arthur needed that they were truly, without a doubt, awake. Soong had taken their totems - those could not longer be trusted.
Arthur still had his ace up his sleeve, though. With the knowledge that only he knew - no one else could see ghosts, they had yet to break into his mind.
Not like they finally had with Eames.
"This isn't working," one of Soong's people, the woman architect, said. "He's still able to tell when he's dreaming. Those freaky projections must be reflecting that."
"It's time to stop playing nice," Soong growled and marched over to a desktop, grabbing something shiny and metallic. It was a syringe filled with amber liquid. "You see this?" he said, waiving it in Eames' face. "This is a sedative. If you try to shoot your little boyfriend out of the dream again, it'll drop his ass straight into limbo. Got it?"
Eames glared death up at him, but Soong snorted, uncaring, and walked over to Arthur.
Shit Arthur thought. He tried to struggle, but whoever had tied the ropes did a good job. He couldn't even feel his feet. "Hey," he said, as Soong grabbed his arm. "Hey, aren't you even going to sanitize that?"
Soong only smirked as he jabbed the needle viciously into the muscle of Arthur's arm.
He felt the effects almost immediately - a hazy, disconnected lethargy which ran through his veins. Arthur felt himself start to slump to one side and couldn't find the energy to pick himself back up again.
The girl's crying suddenly seemed loud in his ears along with Soong's voice as he said, "I don't care if you come back more insane than Dom Cobb. I'll drop you down to limbo again - as many times as I need before I get what I want. Do you understand?"
You get what you want from me and there's no reason to keep us alive, Arthur thought, or might have said... everything was fuzzy and indistinct. He was asleep before Soong engaged the PASIV again.
****
Arthur became aware of his surroundings slowly: his body heavy and comfortably warm. He could hear soft breathing right beside him, the weight of a body against his own, and realized that he was laying with another - close and slotted together like lovers.
"All right Arthur?" Eames' voice asked.
Arthur nodded. He didn't have the energy to move or untuck his head from where he knew he rested, right at the juncture of Eames' shoulder. It had to be the sedative, he realized, but couldn't find it in himself to care.
Eames' fingers trailed through his hair. "What do you remember?"
Arthur sighed. "Everything." Too many dreams to count. Useless totems.... The pain when Eames had not given them what they wanted.
Sighing again, Arthur forced his body into action. It was like trying to wade through hip-deep mud. He opened his eyes and was irritated to find he had been nosing against Eames' salmon pink and green shirt.
Eames smiled down at him, fond and sad. "And you remember why you mustn't die down here?"
"Yes. I'm not a child," he grumbled, and Eames' warm chuckle seemed to reverberate through his body..
Arthur wanted this moment to last. He wanted to lay there warm and safe until the PASIV's timer ran out. But they weren't safe, and he had to get up - had to get moving because right now, when extractors were in his head, all of his carefully hidden secrets were laid out, waiting to be picked through.
First things first.
Arthur shifted himself up and fisted Eames' god-awful shirt. He didn't have to look around to know where he was - the figure of the Virgin Mary sitting by their nest of blankets had a heavy base. He could probably bludgeon the other man to death with it. Probably.
His lips brushed against Eames' ear as he breathed, "Prove yourself to me."
He felt, more than saw the other man's lips curl slightly, and then it was Eames who moved, erasing the small distance between their bodies so that they were pressed chest to chest, hip to hip, leg to leg. Eames dipped his head and whispered against Arthur's lips. "That night I came to your hotel - all the best intentions, I might add - you threw a window blind at me .... without using your hands."
Arthur jerked back, narrowing his eyes. "I didn't throw it at you."
"It came open by itself, did it?" Eames grinned obnoxiously at him, but there was no more doubt. It was Eames. And he could tell in the amused glint in the other man's eye that Arthur had proven himself to him as well, by simple virtue of arguing back.
"Where are we?" Eames asked, taking in the sheets strung above them in a child's tent-fort. His gaze fell to the stolen religious statues, the candles.
Arthur had to fight the urge to close his eyes again. As a child, he had hidden in his hallway tent-fort when he needed a place to hide. It wasn't a surprise that his subconscious would bring him back here.
"My sanctuary," he said.
From what sounded like a few rooms away Arthur heard his mother call out. "Time to wake up! Breakfast is in ten minutes.”
“Alright, Ma. I’m up,” Arthur called back, then groaned when Eames grinned at him.
“We’re in your childhood home? How utterly charming,” he said, reaching over to pick up a statue of the Suffering Christ. “I didn’t know you’re Catholic.”
“I’m not. The priest in the church near was too blind to catch me stealing,” he muttered, lying back against the nest of pillows to stare up at the tent ceiling. “I can’t remember what Soong and his team want.” Too many dreams, too many scenarios where he thought what was real, wasn’t, and he was so, so tired.
Eames sobered. Replacing the statue, he laid back down next to him. “I don’t honestly know their endgame,” he said. “Soong wanted a client list from me.” He grimaced slightly, “However, when I finally gave them the information, they weren’t satisfied.”
The memories were fuzzy at best - that, Arthur knew, was a blessing - but it was enough to put two and two together. “They tortured me,” he said. “That’s when you told them.”
“Yes.”
Arthur rolled onto his side to face him. “You shouldn’t have done that - you knew it was a dream. It wasn’t real.”
Eames’ eyes flashed. “Yes, well since it worked so well the first time, I expect they’ll try the same thing again when they catch up to us. So do try to remember that when it’s me they’re dripping acid onto, yeah?”
“This isn’t a joke,” Arthur snapped. “We’re in my childhood home, my subconscious. They’re probably somewhere in town, reading me like a book. They won’t need to find us.”
“Surely, you’re militarized..."
Arthur looked away. "You need at least two people to militarize a mind. I don't allow people into my subconscious."
“But, those zombie projections-" Eames broke off when he saw the grim truth in Arthur’s face.
“It doesn’t matter,” Arthur said sitting up and raising the corner of sheet that served a doorway to the fort. “We need to get out of here and find my head of security.” He paused to glance back over his shoulder. “Whatever you see, just… stay calm, okay?”
Eames looked uneasy. “Darling, you’re starting to frighten me a bit.”
“They used to frighten me, too,” Arthur admitted, and held the sheet open wide enough to let them both out.
****
The hallway was smaller than Arthur remembered, or, more likely, he was taller. He and his mother had moved out of this town house when he was fourteen, when she had married his stepfather. It felt odd to walk there again and glance at framed photos that were set impossibly high up towards the ceiling - as if the proportions of his subconscious couldn’t quite gel actual memory with his adult-sized body.
Eames stuck close behind him, his expression cautious but not overtly concerned. That would change, Arthur feared, and shortly.
Pausing in front of the door to the kitchen, he took a quick calming breath before pushing it open.
He had been half afraid his own projection of Mal would be there waiting for them, or worse, the girl in the yellow dress. But the room was empty of ghosts, save for a balding man in a long over-coat who sat with his hands folded on the table.
“I had a feeling you would want to speak with me,” the man said, calmly.
“You’re right.” Arthur stepped aside to let Eames in and gestured to him. “Eames, this is Doctor Crowe.”
“Doctor?” Eames’s eyebrows lifted and he looked over the other man carefully as they shook hands. “MD, or…?”
Crowe smiled mildly. “PhD of child psychology.”
Eames turned back to Arthur. “You have your old therapist as your subconscious security?”
“You have a problem with that?” Arthur asked.
“It’s just a surprise, really.” Eames shrugged. “I was expecting someone more along the lines of Arnold Schwarzenegger or the man from Die Hard.”
A woman bustled into the kitchen as he spoke, her hair put up in rollers and tugging a ratty pink bathrobe around herself. She crossed the small room and went immediately to the cabinets, opening each one of them in turn. Arthur ignored her and hoped that Eames would follow his example.
“How are you?” Crowe asked, watching him carefully.
Arthur had to resist the urge to rub at his eyes. The sedative made it feel like he was wearing led weights on each of his limbs. “I’ve been better,” he admitted. “There are other dreamers lurking around in my mind. Can you tell where they are?”
“No,” Crowe said. “But you may receive some protection by the very nature of your projections. They are… pricklier than most.” He smiled, then fixed Arthur was a direct look. “I think it would be a good idea to tell Eames your secret.”
“Tell me what?“ Eames began, then jumped as the woman in the bathrobe abruptly slammed down an unopened box of pop-tarts in front of Arthur.
“No,” she growled, her head swiveling at an unnatural angle towards Eames. “Dinner is not ready.”
Eames’ mouth opened to reply, and then visibly halted as his eyes fell to the sight of long, vertical lines gouged deeply into the woman's wrists. They still bled, sluggishly.
Arthur shook his head at him, making the cut-off gesture. Mrs. Morris was a particularly troubled ghost on her bad days.
“You’re a horrible husband, Larry,” Mrs. Morris said, and stood with barely a glance towards Arthur. “Eat your pop-tarts, and no complaining. We’d have more food on the table if your father would get his lazy ass up and worked instead of drinking away all of the bill-money.” And she threw another venomous glare to Eames before she shuffled out.
Arthur let out a long sigh as he got up from the table, replacing the pop-tarts back in the cupboard and quietly closing each of the open drawers. “I don’t see what would be the point,” he said, returning back to the conversation as if nothing had happened. “It’s only a matter of time that Soong and his team find us here. We need to have a plan.”
“I’m thinking more in terms of your long term mental health,” Crowe answered. “Aside from your mother, Mal was the only person you could confide in, and her death affected you more than I think you know. You need to have someone close that you trust.”
Arthur paused, a hand on the cupboard as to his utter mortification he felt tears start to prick behind his eyes. He shook his head, trying to will them away: it had to be the sedative fucking with his emotions.
"Mal found out on accident," he said. "And I never told her everything."
Eames held up his hand as if he were a student in school. “I’m also concerned with your continued mental health and the team of extractors trying to run us down, but could we back up a bit?” He looked to Crowe. “Was that woman who came in earlier his mother?”
Crowe gave him a politely puzzled look. “Who?”
“Don’t bother. They can’t see each other,” Arthur muttered as he returned to the table. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. “They only see what they want to see."
“They?” Eames asked, looking between them.
Arthur didn’t reply. He didn’t want to have to go through this again, and knew what would happen: the coming denial, the look Eames would certainty give him... Like he was crazy. A freak. Mal had been the only one aside from his mother who had known, but she was dead and now even her ghost most likely was gone as well. Ariadne may have guessed his secret, but Arthur didn’t feel the same connection with her as he did with Eames.
“Cole,” Crowe said, gently. “If the worst should happen, he doesn’t deserve to be blindsided.”
Which was a point. If a projection of Eames' daughter were to show up…
Arthur raised his eyes to meet Eames’ curious gaze. "Those projections you've seen... the people who are injured and who don't act normally? Those aren't zombies."
"Oh?" Eames' face betrayed nothing.
“I see ghosts,” he said.
Eames started to smile, then stopped. A flicker of uncertainty in his light eyes. "You're putting me on."
Arthur slowly shook his head.
"You mean you dream of ghosts?" Eames asked. He looked towards Crowe as if seeking assistance. “You’re seeing shades in your dreams similarly to how Cobb did with Mal?”
"No, they aren’t those kind of projections.” Arthur paused, trying to find the best way to explain this, but his throat was suddenly thick. "I-I've always been able to see them. Every day. These projections," he gestured around to the room, to Crowe and the direction where Mrs. Morris had gone, "are a reflection of that."
"Right now," Crowe said, speaking up when Eames said nothing, "you're probably thinking he's suffering from a mental illness- schizophrenia or hallucinations. I can tell you he's not."
Eames turned to him, an easy target to vent at. "And I'm to take your word for it, seeing you're a psychologist?" he asked, voice clipped. He didn’t wait for Crowe to respond Arthur. “Darling… You're the last person I would have ever expected to tell me something like this."
“Don’t you think that was the point?” Arthur demanded.
Eames let out another long breath, and nodded to himself, fingers twitching as if he didn't know what to do with him. "Right, so I guess that solves that question. Your mind is not militarized, but in fact occupied by spirits of the dead you commonly see while awake. Is there anything else while we’re at it?"
“You see?” Arthur asked Crowe, “We’re wasting time with this.” And it hurt that Eames didn’t believe him, but what did he expect?
“Arthur-“ Eames began, then changed track with a glance to Crowe. “He called you Cole, yes?”
“Cole Arthur Sear,” Crowe confirmed. He seemed more or less unconcerned with the turn of events, but then again, psychologists usually didn’t take sides in couples arguments.
Eames gave a nod. “Cole,” he said, voice stronger. “Please understand that I’m concerned. We’ve been through a lot recently, and you especially.”
"You think I'm crazy, don't you?" Arthur said, clenching his hands under the table. "You think I'm a freak?"
"I think," Eames said, "That the mind can take funny turns to protect itself. You've seen it with Cobb."
"Who is the girl in the yellow dress, Eames?" Arthur asked, coldly. "About five years old. Blonde hair, your eyes. She’s your daughter, isn’t she?"
Eames' face went ashen. Different emotions flickered across his face at once: confusion, hurt, pain - deep pain. Then something hardened there, under the surface. He stood, and for the first time Arthur wondered if the other man was going to try to hit him. But Eames only said, lowly, "That's low, Arthur. That’s very, very low.”
"I'm sorry," and Arthur truly was, but Eames had to understand that this wasn't a ruse, that he might very well see things in Arthur's mind - things he didn't want to see.
He saw Eames clench his jaw. "Find out about her in one of your extensive background searches, did you?"
"No." Arthur said. He paused before he spoke again, taking a new track. "Sometimes," he said, "when someone is grieving and can't let the memory of a person go, like with how Cobb grieved over Mal. It can help anchor a restless spirit in this world. It gives them power. That day in the hotel room with that window blind... I told you that wasn't me, Eames. That was Mal."
Eames looked away, but not before Arthur saw a flicker of doubt cross his eyes.
Crowe suddenly stood and strode across the kitchen to the window which looked out to the street.
“What is it?” Arthur asked.
Pulling one of the curtains to the side, Crowe looked out the window. “Trouble.”
Chapter 5
Parings: Eames/Arthur
Rating: R for graphic visuals.
Spoilers: Inception/Sixth Sense crossover. Major spoilers for both movies.
Word Count: 4000 ish
Notes: Based from this excellent prompt on the Kink Meme: Arthur's real name is Cole Sear. Bonus points for an "I see ---- people" that's not totally cracky.
Notes 2: I feel bad for those who are following my WIP journal. You've officially been spammed to death with this story. Sorry guys! ;D
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3
*****
Another day, another unused, out of the way warehouse to research and plan the next job. After carefully setting up his work space, plugging in his laptop and making sure everything was ergonomically correct, Arthur opened up the dossier to give another cursory read-through on their mark.
Something about the mark's name, however, niggled in his mind. He turned to Eames who was sprawled out on a nearby lawn chair, reading through his own folder. "Haven't you extracted on Ira Rudig before?"
"I don't believe so." But Arthur saw Eames' brows furrow as he glanced around towards other two team members who were talking across the room: the extractor, Soong, and a young female architect who hadn't been introduced. "I can't remember. I've never worked with Soong before. Have you?"
"No, I... Is this a dream?" Arthur asked, and it should have sounded ridiculous to his own ears, but the feeling that something was off was growing by the minute. A seed of an idea, now taking root.
Eames frowned at him, but reached into his pocket and withdrew a worn poker-chip. He brought it up, eyebrows furrowed as he studied it intently. "No..." but there was a question in the tone. "It seems we are awake."
Arthur peered around the warehouse. Everything was in place. Everything was as it should be.
But for the life of him, he couldn't remember how he had got there.
"I don't think we are," Arthur said, and before Eames could react he withdrew his gun and shot him once between the eyes. Then, he turned it on himself.
****
"I told you... Remember when I told you how this business can be unforgiving?" Eames gave a chuckle that turned into a wet, racking cough as he curled up in the passenger seat, the life bleeding out of him. "That was before Cobb, wasn't it? God, we were both so young."
Arthur's grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Don't talk." He pressed down harder on the gas pedal, but car's little engine was roaring already. If he pushed the transmission any harder, it could burn out completely and leave them stranded.
Even with Eames bleeding from at least four different gunshot wounds, they couldn't afford to stop and find a doctor. They would catch up with them if they did.
"Don't stop," Eames told him, echoing his thoughts. A trickle of blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth. "It'll be alright, darling. I'll be alright..."
Arthur racked his brains for an answer, a solution to get them out of this mess. There was nothing. "I know you will. Just... hang on, okay? I'll get you out of here." They were running. They had to run because if they were caught...
The road ahead of them was of bleak red desert. It stretched for miles without in every direction and as Eames' breath became shorter and shallower, all Arthur could think of was that it wasn't right...
Eames gave a sigh at the very last of it, and the world seemed to fracture in a million pieces all at once like a broken mirror. And as Arthur drove his car off of an abyss that had not been there a moment before, he realized that this, too, had been a dream.
****
Arthur screamed, the sound ripping his throat like ground-glass. He twisted, thrashed, but the pain wouldn't stop. It wouldn't--it wouldn't--itwouldn't--it--
"Stop!" a voice outside of him yelled. "I'll tell you everything... Oh God... Arthur, I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
*****
"We could try the Mr. Charles gambit," Soong the extractor suggested, flipping tapping the dossier in front of him. "Arthur has some experience with that. Don't you?"
All eyes in the meeting room turned towards him. Arthur blinked and glanced down at the thick folder of files in front of him. It was a team organization - everyone was here, everyone was waiting.
"I..." his eyes flicked around the room, landing on Eames who was flipping through his own dossier, his brows knit slightly.
"Arthur?" Soong prompted and Arthur started.
"Yes." He cleared his throat and turned his mind to the present. "But it's not my preferred method."
"Doesn't it involve telling the mark that he's dreaming?" Eames asked. He had an odd expression on his face and his eyes darted around the room and back to the folder in his lap as if he wasn't sure, exactly, what he was doing there, either.
Soong leaned forward in his chair. "Who did you do it to?" he asked.
Arthur shook his head, not answering, and glanced around. Something was wrong. He couldn't put his finger on it, but, something...
"Did it work?" Soong asked, intently.
Arthur started to answer, then hesitated. Through the back window he could see a pair of window washers maneuvering their platform down to their level. They were in a high-rise building - Arthur never conducted business in such a public location. Too risky.
What the hell was going on?
The others turned, following his gaze, and when the washer on the left swung into view, Soong let out a surprised yelp.
The window washer's head was caved in on one side, dark hair matted with blood and his eye socket smashed to a vertical slit. He was clearly not alive. And everyone could see him.
This was a dream
Arthur whipped around. "Eames!"
But the forger was already one step ahead of him and had his gun already out. Arthur saw a flash of the muzzle, and then-
*****
Arthur woke to the sound of a little girl's quiet sobbing.
"What the FUCK was that?"
Soong erupted from his reclined chair, looking ready to snort fire. He stalked over to where Arthur lay, bound hand and foot upon the floor. Fisting a handful of his hair, he tipped his head painfully up.
"Why the hell are you dreaming of zombies? You sick freak. You think this is a game?" He shook Arthur, eliciting a grunt of pain. "Huh? Do you?"
"Maybe... it means... I'm just not afraid of death," Arthur rasped.
Soong punched him hard in the stomach and dropped him, leaving Arthur wheezing.
Across dirty, dark shed Eames was in a similar position: bound and hooked up to a PASIV line. Unlike Arthur, though, he had been gagged. Soong and his gang of piss-poor extractors had quickly gotten tired of his running mouth.
The girl in the yellow dress sat by Eames, knees pulled up to her chest and crying, "Let him go. Let him go..."
Eames didn't react, only stared at Arthur and not in his daughter's direction at all. That was all the confirmation Arthur needed that they were truly, without a doubt, awake. Soong had taken their totems - those could not longer be trusted.
Arthur still had his ace up his sleeve, though. With the knowledge that only he knew - no one else could see ghosts, they had yet to break into his mind.
Not like they finally had with Eames.
"This isn't working," one of Soong's people, the woman architect, said. "He's still able to tell when he's dreaming. Those freaky projections must be reflecting that."
"It's time to stop playing nice," Soong growled and marched over to a desktop, grabbing something shiny and metallic. It was a syringe filled with amber liquid. "You see this?" he said, waiving it in Eames' face. "This is a sedative. If you try to shoot your little boyfriend out of the dream again, it'll drop his ass straight into limbo. Got it?"
Eames glared death up at him, but Soong snorted, uncaring, and walked over to Arthur.
Shit Arthur thought. He tried to struggle, but whoever had tied the ropes did a good job. He couldn't even feel his feet. "Hey," he said, as Soong grabbed his arm. "Hey, aren't you even going to sanitize that?"
Soong only smirked as he jabbed the needle viciously into the muscle of Arthur's arm.
He felt the effects almost immediately - a hazy, disconnected lethargy which ran through his veins. Arthur felt himself start to slump to one side and couldn't find the energy to pick himself back up again.
The girl's crying suddenly seemed loud in his ears along with Soong's voice as he said, "I don't care if you come back more insane than Dom Cobb. I'll drop you down to limbo again - as many times as I need before I get what I want. Do you understand?"
You get what you want from me and there's no reason to keep us alive, Arthur thought, or might have said... everything was fuzzy and indistinct. He was asleep before Soong engaged the PASIV again.
****
Arthur became aware of his surroundings slowly: his body heavy and comfortably warm. He could hear soft breathing right beside him, the weight of a body against his own, and realized that he was laying with another - close and slotted together like lovers.
"All right Arthur?" Eames' voice asked.
Arthur nodded. He didn't have the energy to move or untuck his head from where he knew he rested, right at the juncture of Eames' shoulder. It had to be the sedative, he realized, but couldn't find it in himself to care.
Eames' fingers trailed through his hair. "What do you remember?"
Arthur sighed. "Everything." Too many dreams to count. Useless totems.... The pain when Eames had not given them what they wanted.
Sighing again, Arthur forced his body into action. It was like trying to wade through hip-deep mud. He opened his eyes and was irritated to find he had been nosing against Eames' salmon pink and green shirt.
Eames smiled down at him, fond and sad. "And you remember why you mustn't die down here?"
"Yes. I'm not a child," he grumbled, and Eames' warm chuckle seemed to reverberate through his body..
Arthur wanted this moment to last. He wanted to lay there warm and safe until the PASIV's timer ran out. But they weren't safe, and he had to get up - had to get moving because right now, when extractors were in his head, all of his carefully hidden secrets were laid out, waiting to be picked through.
First things first.
Arthur shifted himself up and fisted Eames' god-awful shirt. He didn't have to look around to know where he was - the figure of the Virgin Mary sitting by their nest of blankets had a heavy base. He could probably bludgeon the other man to death with it. Probably.
His lips brushed against Eames' ear as he breathed, "Prove yourself to me."
He felt, more than saw the other man's lips curl slightly, and then it was Eames who moved, erasing the small distance between their bodies so that they were pressed chest to chest, hip to hip, leg to leg. Eames dipped his head and whispered against Arthur's lips. "That night I came to your hotel - all the best intentions, I might add - you threw a window blind at me .... without using your hands."
Arthur jerked back, narrowing his eyes. "I didn't throw it at you."
"It came open by itself, did it?" Eames grinned obnoxiously at him, but there was no more doubt. It was Eames. And he could tell in the amused glint in the other man's eye that Arthur had proven himself to him as well, by simple virtue of arguing back.
"Where are we?" Eames asked, taking in the sheets strung above them in a child's tent-fort. His gaze fell to the stolen religious statues, the candles.
Arthur had to fight the urge to close his eyes again. As a child, he had hidden in his hallway tent-fort when he needed a place to hide. It wasn't a surprise that his subconscious would bring him back here.
"My sanctuary," he said.
From what sounded like a few rooms away Arthur heard his mother call out. "Time to wake up! Breakfast is in ten minutes.”
“Alright, Ma. I’m up,” Arthur called back, then groaned when Eames grinned at him.
“We’re in your childhood home? How utterly charming,” he said, reaching over to pick up a statue of the Suffering Christ. “I didn’t know you’re Catholic.”
“I’m not. The priest in the church near was too blind to catch me stealing,” he muttered, lying back against the nest of pillows to stare up at the tent ceiling. “I can’t remember what Soong and his team want.” Too many dreams, too many scenarios where he thought what was real, wasn’t, and he was so, so tired.
Eames sobered. Replacing the statue, he laid back down next to him. “I don’t honestly know their endgame,” he said. “Soong wanted a client list from me.” He grimaced slightly, “However, when I finally gave them the information, they weren’t satisfied.”
The memories were fuzzy at best - that, Arthur knew, was a blessing - but it was enough to put two and two together. “They tortured me,” he said. “That’s when you told them.”
“Yes.”
Arthur rolled onto his side to face him. “You shouldn’t have done that - you knew it was a dream. It wasn’t real.”
Eames’ eyes flashed. “Yes, well since it worked so well the first time, I expect they’ll try the same thing again when they catch up to us. So do try to remember that when it’s me they’re dripping acid onto, yeah?”
“This isn’t a joke,” Arthur snapped. “We’re in my childhood home, my subconscious. They’re probably somewhere in town, reading me like a book. They won’t need to find us.”
“Surely, you’re militarized..."
Arthur looked away. "You need at least two people to militarize a mind. I don't allow people into my subconscious."
“But, those zombie projections-" Eames broke off when he saw the grim truth in Arthur’s face.
“It doesn’t matter,” Arthur said sitting up and raising the corner of sheet that served a doorway to the fort. “We need to get out of here and find my head of security.” He paused to glance back over his shoulder. “Whatever you see, just… stay calm, okay?”
Eames looked uneasy. “Darling, you’re starting to frighten me a bit.”
“They used to frighten me, too,” Arthur admitted, and held the sheet open wide enough to let them both out.
****
The hallway was smaller than Arthur remembered, or, more likely, he was taller. He and his mother had moved out of this town house when he was fourteen, when she had married his stepfather. It felt odd to walk there again and glance at framed photos that were set impossibly high up towards the ceiling - as if the proportions of his subconscious couldn’t quite gel actual memory with his adult-sized body.
Eames stuck close behind him, his expression cautious but not overtly concerned. That would change, Arthur feared, and shortly.
Pausing in front of the door to the kitchen, he took a quick calming breath before pushing it open.
He had been half afraid his own projection of Mal would be there waiting for them, or worse, the girl in the yellow dress. But the room was empty of ghosts, save for a balding man in a long over-coat who sat with his hands folded on the table.
“I had a feeling you would want to speak with me,” the man said, calmly.
“You’re right.” Arthur stepped aside to let Eames in and gestured to him. “Eames, this is Doctor Crowe.”
“Doctor?” Eames’s eyebrows lifted and he looked over the other man carefully as they shook hands. “MD, or…?”
Crowe smiled mildly. “PhD of child psychology.”
Eames turned back to Arthur. “You have your old therapist as your subconscious security?”
“You have a problem with that?” Arthur asked.
“It’s just a surprise, really.” Eames shrugged. “I was expecting someone more along the lines of Arnold Schwarzenegger or the man from Die Hard.”
A woman bustled into the kitchen as he spoke, her hair put up in rollers and tugging a ratty pink bathrobe around herself. She crossed the small room and went immediately to the cabinets, opening each one of them in turn. Arthur ignored her and hoped that Eames would follow his example.
“How are you?” Crowe asked, watching him carefully.
Arthur had to resist the urge to rub at his eyes. The sedative made it feel like he was wearing led weights on each of his limbs. “I’ve been better,” he admitted. “There are other dreamers lurking around in my mind. Can you tell where they are?”
“No,” Crowe said. “But you may receive some protection by the very nature of your projections. They are… pricklier than most.” He smiled, then fixed Arthur was a direct look. “I think it would be a good idea to tell Eames your secret.”
“Tell me what?“ Eames began, then jumped as the woman in the bathrobe abruptly slammed down an unopened box of pop-tarts in front of Arthur.
“No,” she growled, her head swiveling at an unnatural angle towards Eames. “Dinner is not ready.”
Eames’ mouth opened to reply, and then visibly halted as his eyes fell to the sight of long, vertical lines gouged deeply into the woman's wrists. They still bled, sluggishly.
Arthur shook his head at him, making the cut-off gesture. Mrs. Morris was a particularly troubled ghost on her bad days.
“You’re a horrible husband, Larry,” Mrs. Morris said, and stood with barely a glance towards Arthur. “Eat your pop-tarts, and no complaining. We’d have more food on the table if your father would get his lazy ass up and worked instead of drinking away all of the bill-money.” And she threw another venomous glare to Eames before she shuffled out.
Arthur let out a long sigh as he got up from the table, replacing the pop-tarts back in the cupboard and quietly closing each of the open drawers. “I don’t see what would be the point,” he said, returning back to the conversation as if nothing had happened. “It’s only a matter of time that Soong and his team find us here. We need to have a plan.”
“I’m thinking more in terms of your long term mental health,” Crowe answered. “Aside from your mother, Mal was the only person you could confide in, and her death affected you more than I think you know. You need to have someone close that you trust.”
Arthur paused, a hand on the cupboard as to his utter mortification he felt tears start to prick behind his eyes. He shook his head, trying to will them away: it had to be the sedative fucking with his emotions.
"Mal found out on accident," he said. "And I never told her everything."
Eames held up his hand as if he were a student in school. “I’m also concerned with your continued mental health and the team of extractors trying to run us down, but could we back up a bit?” He looked to Crowe. “Was that woman who came in earlier his mother?”
Crowe gave him a politely puzzled look. “Who?”
“Don’t bother. They can’t see each other,” Arthur muttered as he returned to the table. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. “They only see what they want to see."
“They?” Eames asked, looking between them.
Arthur didn’t reply. He didn’t want to have to go through this again, and knew what would happen: the coming denial, the look Eames would certainty give him... Like he was crazy. A freak. Mal had been the only one aside from his mother who had known, but she was dead and now even her ghost most likely was gone as well. Ariadne may have guessed his secret, but Arthur didn’t feel the same connection with her as he did with Eames.
“Cole,” Crowe said, gently. “If the worst should happen, he doesn’t deserve to be blindsided.”
Which was a point. If a projection of Eames' daughter were to show up…
Arthur raised his eyes to meet Eames’ curious gaze. "Those projections you've seen... the people who are injured and who don't act normally? Those aren't zombies."
"Oh?" Eames' face betrayed nothing.
“I see ghosts,” he said.
Eames started to smile, then stopped. A flicker of uncertainty in his light eyes. "You're putting me on."
Arthur slowly shook his head.
"You mean you dream of ghosts?" Eames asked. He looked towards Crowe as if seeking assistance. “You’re seeing shades in your dreams similarly to how Cobb did with Mal?”
"No, they aren’t those kind of projections.” Arthur paused, trying to find the best way to explain this, but his throat was suddenly thick. "I-I've always been able to see them. Every day. These projections," he gestured around to the room, to Crowe and the direction where Mrs. Morris had gone, "are a reflection of that."
"Right now," Crowe said, speaking up when Eames said nothing, "you're probably thinking he's suffering from a mental illness- schizophrenia or hallucinations. I can tell you he's not."
Eames turned to him, an easy target to vent at. "And I'm to take your word for it, seeing you're a psychologist?" he asked, voice clipped. He didn’t wait for Crowe to respond Arthur. “Darling… You're the last person I would have ever expected to tell me something like this."
“Don’t you think that was the point?” Arthur demanded.
Eames let out another long breath, and nodded to himself, fingers twitching as if he didn't know what to do with him. "Right, so I guess that solves that question. Your mind is not militarized, but in fact occupied by spirits of the dead you commonly see while awake. Is there anything else while we’re at it?"
“You see?” Arthur asked Crowe, “We’re wasting time with this.” And it hurt that Eames didn’t believe him, but what did he expect?
“Arthur-“ Eames began, then changed track with a glance to Crowe. “He called you Cole, yes?”
“Cole Arthur Sear,” Crowe confirmed. He seemed more or less unconcerned with the turn of events, but then again, psychologists usually didn’t take sides in couples arguments.
Eames gave a nod. “Cole,” he said, voice stronger. “Please understand that I’m concerned. We’ve been through a lot recently, and you especially.”
"You think I'm crazy, don't you?" Arthur said, clenching his hands under the table. "You think I'm a freak?"
"I think," Eames said, "That the mind can take funny turns to protect itself. You've seen it with Cobb."
"Who is the girl in the yellow dress, Eames?" Arthur asked, coldly. "About five years old. Blonde hair, your eyes. She’s your daughter, isn’t she?"
Eames' face went ashen. Different emotions flickered across his face at once: confusion, hurt, pain - deep pain. Then something hardened there, under the surface. He stood, and for the first time Arthur wondered if the other man was going to try to hit him. But Eames only said, lowly, "That's low, Arthur. That’s very, very low.”
"I'm sorry," and Arthur truly was, but Eames had to understand that this wasn't a ruse, that he might very well see things in Arthur's mind - things he didn't want to see.
He saw Eames clench his jaw. "Find out about her in one of your extensive background searches, did you?"
"No." Arthur said. He paused before he spoke again, taking a new track. "Sometimes," he said, "when someone is grieving and can't let the memory of a person go, like with how Cobb grieved over Mal. It can help anchor a restless spirit in this world. It gives them power. That day in the hotel room with that window blind... I told you that wasn't me, Eames. That was Mal."
Eames looked away, but not before Arthur saw a flicker of doubt cross his eyes.
Crowe suddenly stood and strode across the kitchen to the window which looked out to the street.
“What is it?” Arthur asked.
Pulling one of the curtains to the side, Crowe looked out the window. “Trouble.”
Chapter 5