Fic: Quietus - Chapter 3
Title: Quietus
Pairing: Eames/Arthur
Rating: R
Summary: (Modern day slave!AU) In life, Eames is a beaten down slave, but in the dreamworld he's smooth, dangerous, and sexy. And even though he's Dom's property, he's gotten under Arthur's skin.
Author's Note: This is a WIP I started waaaaay back in July on the kink meme and is still in process. Due to the subject line drama (we can edit them now, but for how long?) I'm cleaning it up and slowly moving it over to my journal.
TRIGGER WARNINGS: Slavery, implication of previous non-consensual sex, classism, brutality, and possible dubious consent depending on how you see it, treating people as objects, implied mild to moderate torture, suicide (in a dream), moral ambiguity by the good guys, and forced silencing.
I don't want to give the impression this is some sort of ultra-dark fic, because it isn't, but the last thing I want to do is trigger anyone. So if you are at all sensitive to these issues I ask that you give this fic a pass. You are reading at your own risk.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2
*****
Their new forger's abilities were put to the test a few days later, once Dom had finished his modeling for the maze - it was to only be one level and Arthur privately thought he was letting himself get too caught up in the nuances; it had taken Dom double the time it usually would.
Arthur, Dom, and Eames went down together and Arthur watched with open fascination how Eames regarded himself in the reflection of a nearby window, and then was abruptly a middle aged woman - bird thin with wide blue eyes and dark, shoulder length hair.
"This is a good likeness of her," Dom said as he strolled around the forgery of Mrs. Wilcox, looking her up and down in much the same manner he had when he had originally bought Eames. "You pulled this together from Arthur's dossier?"
"I did," Mrs. Wilcox confirmed demurely, and went on in a good approximation of a general American accent, "She and her husband have been married going on twenty years, though. Without interacting directly with her I'm not sure if I'll be able to forge her mannerisms enough to fool him."
Dom didn't answer for a moment. He seemed lost in thought, staring down the street. "Dreams always seem real when you're in them," he said, and Arthur tried not to wince: that had been one of Mal's favorite sayings. "It's only when we wake that we realize something was strange."
"Mrs. Wilcox was born and raised in Boston," Arthur interjected, with a glance at Dom. "I'll have you listen to some audio files of the local dialect so you can get a feel for her speech."
"I'd like that," she said.
"Are you able to hold up the forgery under pressure?" Dom asked, suddenly. "Or pain?"
"... I've done it before," she said, after a notable hesitation. Her large doe eyes watched Dom with unease, clearly expecting to be put to the test.
Arthur's stomach give a little twist. "It's good to know for the future," he said, with another half-annoyed glance at Dom. For a brilliant extractor, his friend had some blind spots. "Things will occasionally get ugly between us and the projections. Most of the time we only get one shot at an extraction, so it's important that we keep to the plan, no matter the cost."
She nodded, visibly relaxing.
"Okay, that's good enough for now." Dom made the cut-off gesture, indicating that Eames should drop the forgery.
The woman resolved back into Eames again, looking as he had in Arthur's dream of the park; without his collar, but dressed in a short-sleeve paisley button-up shirt and khaki slacks -- casual and leaning against the side of a building. "I live to serve my master," he said, his tone dry as an old bone.
Dom cut him a sharp look, but didn’t otherwise comment. "We've got time to do a run-through of the maze. Arthur, keep an eye out places you want me to put bolt holes."
Arthur had always admired Dom's dreams, ever since that day, nearly four years ago, when he had been a ex-solider cum architecture student fresh off a tour of Afghanistan, and a young professor he'd had half a crush on had asked him to join he and his wife in a little experiment of the mind.
Dom's subconscious was rich and complex. He dreamed in layers of vivid colors, textures and sound.
The three of them walked down a bustling market-place street, filled with vendors, fruit stands, craft stalls and the like. The air was thick with many conversations, snatches of music, and the smell of fried food. It reminded Arthur of county fairs his parents had taken him to when he was a kid, especially when he saw a young girl in overalls leading a yearling calf down the street with a blue ribbon on its bridle.
Arthur suddenly had a strong craving for cotton candy.
He wasn't the only one taken in by the charm of the dream. Eames was looking about in active interest, a smile curving his lips. As Arthur watched, Eames drifted over to one crafter's stall, and Arthur stepped over to join him.
"The details are exquisite," Eames said, picking up what looked to be a glass figurine of an apple and holding it to the light.
"That's why Dom's one of the best."
"That's a relief," Eames said, lightly. "It would be a pity to be owned by one of the worst." The apple changed in his hand, becoming solid and organic. Eames bit into it with a satisfying, wet crunch, then held it out to Arthur. "Care for a bite?"
Arthur shook his head, bemused, while the shopkeeper scowled at them.
"Are you going to pay for that?" the projection demanded.
"I haven't any money," Eames replied, cheeky as you please.
"Jesus," Arthur muttered, and fished out a twenty to hand over to the merchant. He gestured curtly for Eames to follow him away from the stall - then realized that Dom was nowhere in sight, lost among the crowd.
"Are you?" Eames blurted, then added in answer to Arthur's questioning glance. "The best at what you do."
Arthur thought about it. "If I'm not, I'll work on it until I am." He stood on his toes, trying to look over the press of the crowd around him and spot Dom. "Can you see him?"
Eames did the same, but shook his head. "I'm certain he's about. The dream is still holding up, isn't it? Though this mob is a nuisance."
"It's supposed to be," Arthur said. "Having a large group of people can add weight to a small maze like this one, and disguise any rough edges." But it wouldn't be very useful if they could lose track of each other this easily. Arthur made a mental note to discuss widening the streets with Dom when they woke up.
He and Eames had to scoot quickly to the side to allow a bicycle-pulled-rickshaw to roll past. The driver was drenched with sweat, and nearly shouldered Arthur aside when he didn't move fast enough. Arthur stumbled, but Eames' reached out to steady him, his grip effortlessly powerful.
Eames nodded to the retreating rickshaw. "His projections are the focused sort, aren't they? They all know exactly where they're going - Hello, and what are you selling?" This last part was said to a tiny, dark merchant girl, no older than eight who stood before them and shyly held up fresh bouquets of fresh-cut flower in a basket.
"Flowers," the girl said in an adorable lisp. "Two a-penny."
Eames caught Arthur's eye. "Two for a penny? That is a good price."
Arthur shook his head and stood tall again, trying to hunt out a flash of Dom in the milling chaos around them. The allure of the country market was wearing thin. The best window for taking the mark was the day after tomorrow, and they still had to memorize the maze inside and out and do a final dress rehearsal before that and... where the hell had Dom taken himself to?
He turned back to see Eames knelt down on one knee, chatting companionably with the girl.
Arthur scowled and walked back over to them. "Quit messing around. We're here to work."
"These are your friend's projections. Why don't you tell them that?" Eames said as he exchanged a whole, unbitten apple for a daisy. As he took flower in his hand, he spoke to the girl in not half-bad Hindi, "He's very strict, isn't he?"
The girl giggled and nodded her head.
Arthur grit his teeth. He was used to working with professionals, or at least people who had a vested interest in seeing the job done right. Being a point man sometimes meant giving a boot to the ass to get what he needed, but that was with volunteers, or people at least being paid well to do their work. What interest did a slave have, other than to do just enough so that he wasn't punished?
He turned and walked away, intending to find a high place to fall from, and then kick everyone back up top once he was awake. They could reconvene and run through the dream again. Eames was Dom's property, his problem if he wasn't going to take the work seriously.
But Arthur had not taken more than twenty paces before Eames was once again walking beside him, now inexplicably holding three flowers in one hand. "My apologies," he said, easily. "I couldn't resist brushing up on my Hindi. You know how languages fall so quickly from the tongue."
Arthur's brow furrowed, his irritation dimming a little to be replaced by curiosity. "How many languages can you speak?"
Eames flashed a crooked grin. "None, currently. In a dream, I'm fluent in French and Swahili, and I'm passable in a small handful of others."
"You learned those before you were put into collar?"
"Yes," Eames answered, but did not elaborate.
So he's educated. What did he do to end up as a slave? Arthur wondered, but did not ask. Eames - well, Eames in a dream struck him as mildly impulsive. Eames topside struck him as... nothing much at all, other than quiet and wary and watchful. (He was always watching.)
It could have been a debt with the wrong people that Eames unable to settle, or any number of crimes. The United States still had capital punishment for murder, but most countries felt that stripping their citizens of all dignity and rights was punishment enough. Arthur had a distant cousin who had served five years as a slave for armed robbery.
But Eames had served double that, and had more years to go according to the man who had sold him.
"Well," Eames said, cutting into his thoughts. It seemed as if he didn't like to go more than a few minutes without speaking, probably because he could. He looked around at the gradually thinning crowd and gave a shrug. "It seems my esteemed master has taken himself some place else. What shall we - Arthur, on your six!"
Sharp agony exploded in his chest. Arthur looked down, dumbly, to see three bloody metal points sticking out from just under his ribs. Someone had impaled him from behind, with what looked like a pitchfork.
He heard Eames curse, but it sounded distant and muffled. The taste of blood swelled in Arthur's mouth, along with the vague tingle of fear that he'd never quite been able to kick. He was dying - it was only a dream, but he was dying.
As Arthur collapsed, his vision going dull, he saw what looked like a pair of ankle strap black heels step over him and advance towards Eames... the sound of gunfire...
Arthur awoke to a lingering pain in his chest. He sat up slowly, resisting the urge to rub at it.
Dom and Eames were still under, but as Arthur looked on, Eames' eyes snapped open.
"What happened?" Arthur demanded. "Why did the projections turn on us?" He realized the moment the words were out of his mouth, how stupid that was. "Nevermind," he said, as Eames only looked at him. Gone was the quick (and mildly irritating) man that had only been a dream. Now was only the dull-eyed slave.
"Start the musical count-down," Arthur said, nodding to the iPod headphones still in Dom's ear.
He supposed he could have just knocked Dom out of his chair, but Arthur usually only reserved that for emergencies.
Dom woke with a gasp after the timer had counted down twenty seconds.
"Where were you?" Arthur asked, but Dom only shook his head and sat up, holding out his arm so that Eames could remove the needle for him.
Arthur frowned. "We should go under again and finish what we started."
"No," Dom said quickly. He looked pale, Arthur realized, almost shaken as he continued, "No, we can do a final walk-through tomorrow. I should..." he trailed off, shaking his head and grabbed a swab of alcohol, running it briskly over his own arm before he rose.
"Are you okay?"
"Me? Yeah." Dom flashed a smile at him, but his eyes were strained. Arthur saw him reach into his pocket where he kept his totem. Mal's old totem. "Work with Eames on that Boston accent. He can sleep here tonight - use a lawn chair. I'll be back in the morning."
"Wait," Arthur stood. "Dom-"
"It will be fine." Dom's hand fell to his other pocket. He removed the fob that controlled the Quietus collar and held it up between two fingers. "He won't run."
Then he turned and walked away with Arthur staring incredulously after him. Dom's new bought slave running off was the least of his concerns right now. They were set to grab the mark in a little less than forty-eight hours.
Arthur let out a frustrated breath, then saw Eames looking at him, a question clear in his eyes.
"His wife passed away about three months ago," Arthur said, and rose, removing his own IV with practiced movements. He didn't let himself think about it much, himself, the grief was still too raw. "He hasn't been the same, since."
Arthur turned away towards his laptop before he could see Eames' reaction, or if he had any at all.
Pairing: Eames/Arthur
Rating: R
Summary: (Modern day slave!AU) In life, Eames is a beaten down slave, but in the dreamworld he's smooth, dangerous, and sexy. And even though he's Dom's property, he's gotten under Arthur's skin.
Author's Note: This is a WIP I started waaaaay back in July on the kink meme and is still in process. Due to the subject line drama (we can edit them now, but for how long?) I'm cleaning it up and slowly moving it over to my journal.
TRIGGER WARNINGS: Slavery, implication of previous non-consensual sex, classism, brutality, and possible dubious consent depending on how you see it, treating people as objects, implied mild to moderate torture, suicide (in a dream), moral ambiguity by the good guys, and forced silencing.
I don't want to give the impression this is some sort of ultra-dark fic, because it isn't, but the last thing I want to do is trigger anyone. So if you are at all sensitive to these issues I ask that you give this fic a pass. You are reading at your own risk.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2
*****
Their new forger's abilities were put to the test a few days later, once Dom had finished his modeling for the maze - it was to only be one level and Arthur privately thought he was letting himself get too caught up in the nuances; it had taken Dom double the time it usually would.
Arthur, Dom, and Eames went down together and Arthur watched with open fascination how Eames regarded himself in the reflection of a nearby window, and then was abruptly a middle aged woman - bird thin with wide blue eyes and dark, shoulder length hair.
"This is a good likeness of her," Dom said as he strolled around the forgery of Mrs. Wilcox, looking her up and down in much the same manner he had when he had originally bought Eames. "You pulled this together from Arthur's dossier?"
"I did," Mrs. Wilcox confirmed demurely, and went on in a good approximation of a general American accent, "She and her husband have been married going on twenty years, though. Without interacting directly with her I'm not sure if I'll be able to forge her mannerisms enough to fool him."
Dom didn't answer for a moment. He seemed lost in thought, staring down the street. "Dreams always seem real when you're in them," he said, and Arthur tried not to wince: that had been one of Mal's favorite sayings. "It's only when we wake that we realize something was strange."
"Mrs. Wilcox was born and raised in Boston," Arthur interjected, with a glance at Dom. "I'll have you listen to some audio files of the local dialect so you can get a feel for her speech."
"I'd like that," she said.
"Are you able to hold up the forgery under pressure?" Dom asked, suddenly. "Or pain?"
"... I've done it before," she said, after a notable hesitation. Her large doe eyes watched Dom with unease, clearly expecting to be put to the test.
Arthur's stomach give a little twist. "It's good to know for the future," he said, with another half-annoyed glance at Dom. For a brilliant extractor, his friend had some blind spots. "Things will occasionally get ugly between us and the projections. Most of the time we only get one shot at an extraction, so it's important that we keep to the plan, no matter the cost."
She nodded, visibly relaxing.
"Okay, that's good enough for now." Dom made the cut-off gesture, indicating that Eames should drop the forgery.
The woman resolved back into Eames again, looking as he had in Arthur's dream of the park; without his collar, but dressed in a short-sleeve paisley button-up shirt and khaki slacks -- casual and leaning against the side of a building. "I live to serve my master," he said, his tone dry as an old bone.
Dom cut him a sharp look, but didn’t otherwise comment. "We've got time to do a run-through of the maze. Arthur, keep an eye out places you want me to put bolt holes."
Arthur had always admired Dom's dreams, ever since that day, nearly four years ago, when he had been a ex-solider cum architecture student fresh off a tour of Afghanistan, and a young professor he'd had half a crush on had asked him to join he and his wife in a little experiment of the mind.
Dom's subconscious was rich and complex. He dreamed in layers of vivid colors, textures and sound.
The three of them walked down a bustling market-place street, filled with vendors, fruit stands, craft stalls and the like. The air was thick with many conversations, snatches of music, and the smell of fried food. It reminded Arthur of county fairs his parents had taken him to when he was a kid, especially when he saw a young girl in overalls leading a yearling calf down the street with a blue ribbon on its bridle.
Arthur suddenly had a strong craving for cotton candy.
He wasn't the only one taken in by the charm of the dream. Eames was looking about in active interest, a smile curving his lips. As Arthur watched, Eames drifted over to one crafter's stall, and Arthur stepped over to join him.
"The details are exquisite," Eames said, picking up what looked to be a glass figurine of an apple and holding it to the light.
"That's why Dom's one of the best."
"That's a relief," Eames said, lightly. "It would be a pity to be owned by one of the worst." The apple changed in his hand, becoming solid and organic. Eames bit into it with a satisfying, wet crunch, then held it out to Arthur. "Care for a bite?"
Arthur shook his head, bemused, while the shopkeeper scowled at them.
"Are you going to pay for that?" the projection demanded.
"I haven't any money," Eames replied, cheeky as you please.
"Jesus," Arthur muttered, and fished out a twenty to hand over to the merchant. He gestured curtly for Eames to follow him away from the stall - then realized that Dom was nowhere in sight, lost among the crowd.
"Are you?" Eames blurted, then added in answer to Arthur's questioning glance. "The best at what you do."
Arthur thought about it. "If I'm not, I'll work on it until I am." He stood on his toes, trying to look over the press of the crowd around him and spot Dom. "Can you see him?"
Eames did the same, but shook his head. "I'm certain he's about. The dream is still holding up, isn't it? Though this mob is a nuisance."
"It's supposed to be," Arthur said. "Having a large group of people can add weight to a small maze like this one, and disguise any rough edges." But it wouldn't be very useful if they could lose track of each other this easily. Arthur made a mental note to discuss widening the streets with Dom when they woke up.
He and Eames had to scoot quickly to the side to allow a bicycle-pulled-rickshaw to roll past. The driver was drenched with sweat, and nearly shouldered Arthur aside when he didn't move fast enough. Arthur stumbled, but Eames' reached out to steady him, his grip effortlessly powerful.
Eames nodded to the retreating rickshaw. "His projections are the focused sort, aren't they? They all know exactly where they're going - Hello, and what are you selling?" This last part was said to a tiny, dark merchant girl, no older than eight who stood before them and shyly held up fresh bouquets of fresh-cut flower in a basket.
"Flowers," the girl said in an adorable lisp. "Two a-penny."
Eames caught Arthur's eye. "Two for a penny? That is a good price."
Arthur shook his head and stood tall again, trying to hunt out a flash of Dom in the milling chaos around them. The allure of the country market was wearing thin. The best window for taking the mark was the day after tomorrow, and they still had to memorize the maze inside and out and do a final dress rehearsal before that and... where the hell had Dom taken himself to?
He turned back to see Eames knelt down on one knee, chatting companionably with the girl.
Arthur scowled and walked back over to them. "Quit messing around. We're here to work."
"These are your friend's projections. Why don't you tell them that?" Eames said as he exchanged a whole, unbitten apple for a daisy. As he took flower in his hand, he spoke to the girl in not half-bad Hindi, "He's very strict, isn't he?"
The girl giggled and nodded her head.
Arthur grit his teeth. He was used to working with professionals, or at least people who had a vested interest in seeing the job done right. Being a point man sometimes meant giving a boot to the ass to get what he needed, but that was with volunteers, or people at least being paid well to do their work. What interest did a slave have, other than to do just enough so that he wasn't punished?
He turned and walked away, intending to find a high place to fall from, and then kick everyone back up top once he was awake. They could reconvene and run through the dream again. Eames was Dom's property, his problem if he wasn't going to take the work seriously.
But Arthur had not taken more than twenty paces before Eames was once again walking beside him, now inexplicably holding three flowers in one hand. "My apologies," he said, easily. "I couldn't resist brushing up on my Hindi. You know how languages fall so quickly from the tongue."
Arthur's brow furrowed, his irritation dimming a little to be replaced by curiosity. "How many languages can you speak?"
Eames flashed a crooked grin. "None, currently. In a dream, I'm fluent in French and Swahili, and I'm passable in a small handful of others."
"You learned those before you were put into collar?"
"Yes," Eames answered, but did not elaborate.
So he's educated. What did he do to end up as a slave? Arthur wondered, but did not ask. Eames - well, Eames in a dream struck him as mildly impulsive. Eames topside struck him as... nothing much at all, other than quiet and wary and watchful. (He was always watching.)
It could have been a debt with the wrong people that Eames unable to settle, or any number of crimes. The United States still had capital punishment for murder, but most countries felt that stripping their citizens of all dignity and rights was punishment enough. Arthur had a distant cousin who had served five years as a slave for armed robbery.
But Eames had served double that, and had more years to go according to the man who had sold him.
"Well," Eames said, cutting into his thoughts. It seemed as if he didn't like to go more than a few minutes without speaking, probably because he could. He looked around at the gradually thinning crowd and gave a shrug. "It seems my esteemed master has taken himself some place else. What shall we - Arthur, on your six!"
Sharp agony exploded in his chest. Arthur looked down, dumbly, to see three bloody metal points sticking out from just under his ribs. Someone had impaled him from behind, with what looked like a pitchfork.
He heard Eames curse, but it sounded distant and muffled. The taste of blood swelled in Arthur's mouth, along with the vague tingle of fear that he'd never quite been able to kick. He was dying - it was only a dream, but he was dying.
As Arthur collapsed, his vision going dull, he saw what looked like a pair of ankle strap black heels step over him and advance towards Eames... the sound of gunfire...
Arthur awoke to a lingering pain in his chest. He sat up slowly, resisting the urge to rub at it.
Dom and Eames were still under, but as Arthur looked on, Eames' eyes snapped open.
"What happened?" Arthur demanded. "Why did the projections turn on us?" He realized the moment the words were out of his mouth, how stupid that was. "Nevermind," he said, as Eames only looked at him. Gone was the quick (and mildly irritating) man that had only been a dream. Now was only the dull-eyed slave.
"Start the musical count-down," Arthur said, nodding to the iPod headphones still in Dom's ear.
He supposed he could have just knocked Dom out of his chair, but Arthur usually only reserved that for emergencies.
Dom woke with a gasp after the timer had counted down twenty seconds.
"Where were you?" Arthur asked, but Dom only shook his head and sat up, holding out his arm so that Eames could remove the needle for him.
Arthur frowned. "We should go under again and finish what we started."
"No," Dom said quickly. He looked pale, Arthur realized, almost shaken as he continued, "No, we can do a final walk-through tomorrow. I should..." he trailed off, shaking his head and grabbed a swab of alcohol, running it briskly over his own arm before he rose.
"Are you okay?"
"Me? Yeah." Dom flashed a smile at him, but his eyes were strained. Arthur saw him reach into his pocket where he kept his totem. Mal's old totem. "Work with Eames on that Boston accent. He can sleep here tonight - use a lawn chair. I'll be back in the morning."
"Wait," Arthur stood. "Dom-"
"It will be fine." Dom's hand fell to his other pocket. He removed the fob that controlled the Quietus collar and held it up between two fingers. "He won't run."
Then he turned and walked away with Arthur staring incredulously after him. Dom's new bought slave running off was the least of his concerns right now. They were set to grab the mark in a little less than forty-eight hours.
Arthur let out a frustrated breath, then saw Eames looking at him, a question clear in his eyes.
"His wife passed away about three months ago," Arthur said, and rose, removing his own IV with practiced movements. He didn't let himself think about it much, himself, the grief was still too raw. "He hasn't been the same, since."
Arthur turned away towards his laptop before he could see Eames' reaction, or if he had any at all.