Fic: Quietus (Chapter 5)
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.
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 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4
*****
Note: I'm updating two chapters at once, so make sure you read chapters 5 & 6.
"May I ask a question?" Eames prompted.
Arthur's lips quirked into a smile. "You just did."
"Oh ho, so he does have a sense of humor buried deep within." Eames nudged him almost playfully with a shoulder, causing Arthur to sidestep nearly into the gently lapping surf.
They were both barefoot and walking side by side down a long stretch of beach. The sun was sinking down to the west-- a long trail of footprints stretched behind them, their shadows long and thin ahead of them. It would almost be romantic, except that Arthur had asked Eames to build him something large and simple. Both were harder than it seemed: the mind instinctively wanted to fill a dream with details. It was always creating, always thinking. Forcing one's imagination to keep to large objects and negative space required a good amount of self discipline.
It was a good mental exercise, and if Eames was to stay on, it was only prudent that Arthur find out his limits.
He had other reasons, as well.
It had taken over two weeks for Dom to meet up with Arthur at their safe-house in Rio. He practically staggered into their newest warehouse with Eames in tow, just as Arthur had about decided to scrap the job and go looking.
Dom had been infuriatingly light on what had held them up, and of course Eames couldn't break his silence.
"It's only that it seems a bit odd to me," Eames continued. "I think I understand what has brought Cobb to illegal extraction - the warrants for his arrest and whatnot, but you, darling, I don't understand."
"What do you mean?"
Eames shrugged. A warm sea-breeze lifted the tails of his linen shirt and sent it flapping behind him. "You do realize what would happen if you were ever convicted of the things you do?" He tapped his own throat meaningfully. "You could be collared for years. That can't possibly appeal."
Arthur cast him a sidelong look, but Eames only appeared thoughtful as he strode long the beach, his shirt unbuttoned and his neck free of a collar. "It's a risk," he admitted. "But considering I've extracted against government officials, I would probably be extradited back to the US, convicted of treason and then hanged." He smirked. "They still have capital punishment in the States."
"That's humane of them."
There was an edge to Eames' voice he hadn't heard before. Arthur glanced over to see the other man looking pointedly away towards the lapping waves. Overhead, a seagull cried out - a high, oddly lonely sound.
"Seagull," Arthur said. Eames nodded, for once without commenting, and the projection of the bird vanished. The whole point of the exercise was to suppress as much as possible from the dreamscape.
He and Eames continued their walk down the beach, but the mood was different between them now - Eames was one for constant conversation down in the dream. Today, he seemed to be oddly pensive. As if trying to dream of nothing had somehow pushed him into a darker place.
With an inward grimace, Arthur decided to just come right out and ask. "What delayed you and Dom for so long?"
"Why don't you ask him?"
"I did. Now I'm asking you."
He half expected Eames to attempt to brush the question off, or make a joke. Instead, the vista of a distant city shimmered far into the horizon before fading out again as Eames struggled to keep his concentration. "Arthur," Eames let out a long sigh. "I must keep my master's secrets. That's part of the reason for the bloody collar."
There was a park bench up ahead, just above the waterline when there should be nothing but water and sand in the dream. Arthur didn't correct him on it, only remained standing and crossing his arms while Eames sat down.
"That's bullshit, Eames. You've spoken to me before about him and Mal up above." Or at least, he had written it down.
"Because it's a fine line you ask me to walk," Eames replied with uncharacteristic shortness. Then he sighed again, reaching up to scrub at his face. Projections appeared and disappeared like mirages on the beach, and Arthur started to wonder if he was asking too much before Eames spoke again, "We stopped in at a dream parlor in Mar del Plata - it's a lovely city. Have you ever been?"
"Once," Arthur said. He uncrossed his arms and joined Eames on the bench, intending to wait him out.
"I believe," said Eames, after another hesitation, "he intended to resolve the issue with his wife. You had the PASIV, you see, and he needed a way to go down to see her. It was meant to be only a day's delay." A shadow passed over his face, his lips downturned. "It ended up being nearly a week."
"What happened?"
He shrugged. "I wasn't down there with him, was I? Part of his payment was that he rent me to the owner of the parlor for the duration." He must have caught the startled dismay on Arthur's face because he nodded. "Yes, well, not as a forger. Even he knows I'm too valuable of property to advertise and then let out of sight for hours on end. I cleaned and did other manual labor, darling. You can get your head out of the gutter."
But there was still something in Eames' tone - a bitter note that didn't belong in his otherwise blithe phrasing - that made Arthur suspect that Eames' work had not been pleasant.
That realization disquieted Arthur more than he thought it would. Eames was Dom's property, but he shouldn't have been rented out to help pay a debt. He was worth more than that.
Or perhaps, as Dom had implied during the last job, this was all just a ruse. An attempt to manipulate Arthur to feel pity for him. He glanced at Eames out of the corner of his eye and let himself wonder how much he knew -- really knew about him.
Arthur always made a point of researching those he worked with. It was a matter of safety to do a comprehensive background on someone before opening his mind to them. It had been one of the many reasons why he had thought it was a bad idea to purchase a slave. Just about anything - anger, resentment, some sort of psychopathic tendencies - could be brewing just under the surface, held in check by the Quietus collar.
What purpose would Eames have in lying about this, though? An attempt to drive a wedge between Arthur and Dom. To what purpose?
It didn't make sense. Unless, Arthur thought with a mental frown, Eames had another goal in mind.
"So why are you telling me this?" Arthur asked, because he preferred to be up front in things. "You said yourself that your job was to keep Dom's secrets."
Eames' mouth ticked up and his glance towards Arthur was mildly approving. "Because you asked. And, don't take this the wrong way, but my master does love taking his risks. You, on the other hand, have a way of injecting logic into the situation. He listens to you."
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "Don't tell me you're worried about Dom."
Now Eames did looked surprised - and very pleased, as if Arthur had preformed an amusing trick for him. He shook his head. "He's nearly kind as masters go," he said. "I think, if we had met as equals I might have liked him, but as it is... No. You're right. I'm not telling you this out of some misplaced loyalty." He paused for a moment, his gaze out to the middle distance, again to the oncoming waves. But the sky overhead had become dark with clouds. "I'm tied to him, for better or worse. If he were to be arrested, I would once again become property of the state and put to general auction. It's not the place to be, Arthur. Anything is better than that."
A roll of thunder put emphasis to those words. Eames was losing his grip upon the dream and his mind was naturally filling in with detail again. Still, he had managed close to forty-five minutes. That was a long way from Arthur's personal best, but he'd had much more practice.
That was the other reason Arthur had chosen to question Eames down here - he knew from experience it was much harder to be deceptive when you were actively working to suppress your subconscious.
"We have a few more minutes before our time is up," Arthur said pulling out his dice for Eames to look at even as forked lightening lit the sky. "Let's talk about the concept of a totem."
"Eames needs a totem," Arthur said.
Dom looked up from his sketchbook where he was currently hashing out new ideas for the dream. From the looks of the drawings, he was planning on building the dream loosely on the mark's childhood home. "He wasn't able to suppress his projections?" he asked, sounding surprised.
"He had a good start, once he got the idea," Arthur answered, carefully glancing at the slave who was quietly cleaning the PASIV device, flushing out the chemical injectors with saline solution. "But if we're going to use him as the subject in practice runs, I need to be sure he has a firm grasp on what is reality."
"Does it matter? He'll do as I say no matter what."
"It matters," Arthur said.
Dom stared at Arthur for a moment, then shrugged, reached into his pocket and pulled out the small remote that controlled Eames' Quietus collar. He pushed it across the table to Arthur. "Okay. So take him out and get him one."
Arthur stared at the thing. "You've sent him out alone before." Dom usually sent Eames out around lunch time to pick up a food order. Slaves were not allowed to handle money by law, so the common practice was to pay over the phone and send Eames to retrieve their meals, allowing Arthur and Dom to work through the lunch hour. House-slaves usually did menial errands such as those, so Eames never drew any undo attention from their competitors or marks.
"He needs someone to show him the ropes, and pay for the totem and I need to work on the preliminaries for the maze," Dom replied. He squinted at Arthur, and Arthur got the impression he was being somehow tested.
"It won't work. It's keyed into your fingerprint, not mine," Arthur said.
Dom shrugged again - it was too casual of a motion, somehow, utterly false - and picked up the remote. He pressed his thumb to the small touch pad, pushed a few buttons on it, before he again slid it across the table. "There. I put it on guest mode for the next three hours."
"Fine," Arthur said, refusing to make an issue of this. He scooped up the remote and shoved it in his pocket, not looking at the host of red and orange buttons along the top - the subtle settings in agony when a master wished to discipline his slave - and snapped to Eames, "Let's go."
Eames rose from his desk and docilely followed Arthur out, keeping a careful step behind him, just as he would with Dom. He wasn't an idiot. He had probably watched the entire exchange and knew who held power over him now.
Arthur's mood darkened further and he hardly waited for Eames to buckle himself into the passenger's seat before punching his rental car into gear. The streets of Rio were clogged and dangerous at best of times, but it at least allowed Arthur to vent his frustration.
It pissed him off that he had to do this. Eames was Dom's property, not his, but it seemed that Arthur was always the one who did the work; the training during practice runs. Arthur the one who had bought Eames' clothing for him - Dom might still have him in sweat pants and flip-flops, otherwise. Not to mention that Eames should have had a totem from the very beginning, not months after the fact.
In some ways, Arthur felt like he was left taking care of a pet, and that only annoyed him further because Eames was a thinking, rational human being. In a perfect world, he should have been able to pick out his own totem on his own time, after work. He would probably already have one by now - something obvious on the outside, but with hidden depths.
Arthur allowed himself to fantasize on that: Eames as he appeared down in the dreams, not the slave. They would have met through a mutual acquaintance, maybe. A talented forger would naturally be interested in working with an extractor of Dom's caliber. He would be ridiculously expensive, and snarky during the job... and would probably drive Arthur half-insane. But he would be competent; he'd be his own man, charming and dangerous, and free.
Arthur glanced over at Eames and saw him hunched in the furthest corner of the seat, looking anywhere but at Arthur. Tense, and - no, it wasn't his imagination - he looked pale.
"My driving's not that bad, is it?" Arthur said, breaking the silence.
Eames' eyes flicked to him, then quickly away. Arthur watched him swallow, hard, and rub his palm over the knee of his trousers, leaving behind a smudge of sweat. It almost looked like he was fighting down a panic attack.
"What's wrong?" Arthur asked. Of course he received no answer, but no acknowledgement either. "Eames?"
Eames shook his head, a quick slight movement, and turned away to stare out the window.
With a mental sigh, Arthur banished his brief fantasy. That man existed, literally, only in a dream. The reality was just a muted slave - abused and beaten down.
Abused.
Eames could be upset by any number of things: the small confines of the car, or maybe he had a bad memory of hot, muggy days. It wasn't logical, but Arthur had been inside enough minds to know that these things usually weren't.
Or maybe, Arthur thought, with a sudden chill, it was the fact that Eames had been loaned out - however briefly - to someone else. Arthur had control of his collar, didn't he? He could order Eames to do anything, tell him to get started sucking his cock, and if Eames refused it would only take one press of the button to the remote to the collar to punish him.
And Eames wouldn't be able to tell Dom about it, would he? Not until they were in a dream together, and even then... there would be no recourse. What could Dom do? Being a slave meant having no rights, not even to name their own abusers.
Arthur flipped the turn signal and pulled into a large parking lot. He had driven, more or less by accident, to a higher-end district. One he had been to before. He considered for a moment, then turned the key to shut off the engine. Whatever issues Eames had, being in an confined space probably wasn't helping.
"Since we're out here," he said, keeping his voice neutral, "We may as well get you something decent to wear for once." Again, there was no reaction. "Eames?"
Eames jumped a little at the sound of his name, and the glance he turned to Arthur was filled with wariness. Arthur wanted to snap at him, tell him that he wasn't his damned owner - that more importantly, Eames knew him. But it was seeming more and more likely that this sort of thing had happened before, and that Eames had known his previous - What? Abuser, attacker, rapist? - as well.
Anger or pity wouldn't help, though Arthur felt them both. He repeated himself, still keeping his voice calm. "We have a few hours. Do you mind if we stop and get you something new to wear? I know a good place."
Eames blinked, then shook his head: he didn't mind.
"All right," Arthur said, restarting the car and turning back into traffic, this time with a destination in mind. He turned on the radio to fill the tense silence. And for the hundredth time since Dom had purchased Eames, he wondered what the other man had done to deserve being collared.
His hands flexed on the steering wheel as he firmly told himself that it didn't matter.
The clothing store itself was large, and rather conservative (for Rio) in its styles and designer brands.
Eames seemed to lose some of the air of brittle panic he'd had in the car, though he looked utterly lost when Arthur told him to find something he liked. So Arthur led him to a rack of simple button-up shirts. He knew Eames was at least capable of making decisions for himself - he was probably just unused to it.
After a few unsure starts and stops, Eames picked out something close to a Hawaiian shirt with red and white floral patterning.
"Pick something that will not burn out my retinas," Arthur said, firmly.
Eames in a dream would have smirked at him, a comeback ready on his lips. This Eames hurriedly hung the shirt back upon the rack as if he had badly errored.
Wincing internally, Arthur reminded himself that those were not the same men, and picked the shirt back up. He held it up against Eames - god, this pattern was hideous - to judge the size. It was a little large.
"You've lost weight," Arthur said, realizing it for the first time. The shirt he had purchased for Eames a few months ago had once been tight around the shoulders, but now fit more loosely. The man was still built, with thick arms and sloping muscle over his shoulders and chest, but it wasn't nearly as prominent as it was. He merely had the look of a scary bouncer rather than a living tank.
Eames looked down at himself as if in surprise, and then tapped the inside of his wrist where there were several purple pin-pricks visible.
Arthur nodded. "Yes, you do spend most of your day sleeping now." He briefly entertained the thought of nagging Dom into getting a gym membership for his slave, but that was ridiculous... and besides, Eames didn't look bad as he was.
At least he had a valid excuse not to buy the Hawaiian shirt. Arthur steered Eames toward another rack - this one not as wide in the shoulders, but he thought, after holding one up, the cut would still show off his trim waist.
Arthur picked out several dress shirts he thought would do nicely (and bring out the color of Eames' eyes, but he refused to dwell on that for long) and a tasteful plaid button-up that seemed to be this year's trend.
He managed to keep his comments to himself ("Are you colorblind?") when Eames tentatively brought forward a blue paisley shirt, as if he was trying to emulate wallpaper from the 1960's. Arthur reluctantly added it to the pile.
The store also carried jeans which were a good fit, and several pairs of slacks. Eames cautiously gravitated to a dark wool peacoat with a wide collar. Even though it was summer in this hemisphere, Arthur brought it.
An hour and a half had passed and Eames practically had a new wardrobe. Arthur tried not to feel too smug about his power-shopping abilities.
"Shopping is my one concession to being a stereotype," he found himself admitting as their clothing was rung up and carefully packed by the manager and several bald helper slaves. Eames stood quietly beside him, watching, but with no real expression on his face.
Arthur continued, "Before Mal became sick, she and I could take Paris by storm. It used to drive Dom insane that his children looked like tiny fashion models." His smile slipped as he flashed to unhappier times - Mal's rapid decline from reality, and the crushing shock of her death. "You would have liked her," he said, softly, remembering that Eames only knew her vicious projection. "She had a very kind soul."
The final tally for the designer brands came well over fifteen hundred American dollars. Arthur saw Eames' concerned expression and caught his eye. "Don't worry, this is coming out of Dom's tab, under job expenditures."
Eames let out a startled huff - something very close to a laugh - and Arthur found himself smirking back. Dom wouldn't even notice, as he left accounting up to his point man, but Dom had pissed him off recently with not explaining why he and Eames had been days late, and with insisting Arthur take the remote to Eames' collar.
Arthur arranged for the clothing to be delivered up to his hotel room. He realized, as he climbed back into the car, that the last of his bad mood had washed away. Eames seemed to be more relaxed as well.
There was an antique shop nearby which was as good of a place as any to start looking for a totem.
"It should be something small enough to fit into your pocket," Arthur reminded him, "and have a secret only you should know."
While far from self-assured, Eames at least didn't seem overwhelmed by choice as he walked up and down the narrow, crowded aisles filled with antiques both modern and supposedly from the native population. Looking around, Arthur doubted that half of the items were authentic - the place had the feel of a well-placed tourist trap. The ivory figurines along the far wall were no doubt actually made of bone.
Eames seemed interested in a thumb-sized hobbyhorse, tapping the edge it so that it rocked back and forth several times. Whatever he saw in it, however, wasn't enough and he soon moved on.
The owner of the business spied them, and ignoring the slave, came up to Arthur to ask him what he needed. Arthur pretended, by way of broken Portuguese, that he was interested in some furniture for his house. The owner was just showing off a gaudy fainting couch when Eames came up to stand passively next to Arthur.
"Find anything?" Arthur asked.
Eames shook his head.
Arthur nodded, thanked the mystified owner, and they made their way out. They walked a few blocks, coming across a seedier but far more interesting district with open air stalls and what looked like some street gambling.
Despite himself, Arthur stopped to watch a few men who were clustered in a shady corner, three dice clattering between them and paper money quickly exchanging hands. He was trying to figure out what exactly their game was when the sound of impact and cursing in Portuguese made him whip his head around.
It looked like a scruffy looking man had run into Eames with enough impact to send both men staggering. It was the scruffy man who was cursing, while Eames held up a hand and tried to step back.
"Meu perdão," Arthur said, coming between them, though his free hand drifted down under his jacket where he concealed a knife.
Luckily, the scruffy man did not press the issue, only flipped them off and went back on his way.
"Come on," Arthur said, leading Eames down the other direction. He glanced down the street for more inspiration. It looked to be full of vendors selling food from carts, clothing stores, and sit-down restaurants. He supposed he could go back to the car and travel to another district, but the sun was starting to sink in the evening sky.
"Where else?" he started to ask, then stopped at the odd, almost-smile on the slave's face.
At Arthur's raised eyebrow, Eames reached his hand into his pocket and withdrew what looked to be a scuffed up poker-chip. Arthur's mind blanked until he looked back over his shoulder towards the direction where the scruffy man had gone.
"He didn't just happen run into you, did he?" Arthur asked, turning back to Eames, his voice flat. "You pick-pocketed it."
The almost-smile slipped from Eames' face. He dropped his gaze away, and nodded once, swallowing.
"Let me see it," Arthur said.
Eames obediently extended the chip out to him and Arthur smirked as he pulled his own hand away. "Rule number one: never allow anyone to touch your totem."
Eames stared at him for a blank second, and then he smiled full on: a shy, fragile thing, before he tucked his totem back into his pocket.
A flush of heat curled in Arthur's belly, followed immediately by a cold chill.
What the hell are you doing, Arthur? he thought, and covered the moment by clearing his throat into his hand. "Let's go. Dom will be expecting us any time now."
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.
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 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4
*****
Note: I'm updating two chapters at once, so make sure you read chapters 5 & 6.
"May I ask a question?" Eames prompted.
Arthur's lips quirked into a smile. "You just did."
"Oh ho, so he does have a sense of humor buried deep within." Eames nudged him almost playfully with a shoulder, causing Arthur to sidestep nearly into the gently lapping surf.
They were both barefoot and walking side by side down a long stretch of beach. The sun was sinking down to the west-- a long trail of footprints stretched behind them, their shadows long and thin ahead of them. It would almost be romantic, except that Arthur had asked Eames to build him something large and simple. Both were harder than it seemed: the mind instinctively wanted to fill a dream with details. It was always creating, always thinking. Forcing one's imagination to keep to large objects and negative space required a good amount of self discipline.
It was a good mental exercise, and if Eames was to stay on, it was only prudent that Arthur find out his limits.
He had other reasons, as well.
It had taken over two weeks for Dom to meet up with Arthur at their safe-house in Rio. He practically staggered into their newest warehouse with Eames in tow, just as Arthur had about decided to scrap the job and go looking.
Dom had been infuriatingly light on what had held them up, and of course Eames couldn't break his silence.
"It's only that it seems a bit odd to me," Eames continued. "I think I understand what has brought Cobb to illegal extraction - the warrants for his arrest and whatnot, but you, darling, I don't understand."
"What do you mean?"
Eames shrugged. A warm sea-breeze lifted the tails of his linen shirt and sent it flapping behind him. "You do realize what would happen if you were ever convicted of the things you do?" He tapped his own throat meaningfully. "You could be collared for years. That can't possibly appeal."
Arthur cast him a sidelong look, but Eames only appeared thoughtful as he strode long the beach, his shirt unbuttoned and his neck free of a collar. "It's a risk," he admitted. "But considering I've extracted against government officials, I would probably be extradited back to the US, convicted of treason and then hanged." He smirked. "They still have capital punishment in the States."
"That's humane of them."
There was an edge to Eames' voice he hadn't heard before. Arthur glanced over to see the other man looking pointedly away towards the lapping waves. Overhead, a seagull cried out - a high, oddly lonely sound.
"Seagull," Arthur said. Eames nodded, for once without commenting, and the projection of the bird vanished. The whole point of the exercise was to suppress as much as possible from the dreamscape.
He and Eames continued their walk down the beach, but the mood was different between them now - Eames was one for constant conversation down in the dream. Today, he seemed to be oddly pensive. As if trying to dream of nothing had somehow pushed him into a darker place.
With an inward grimace, Arthur decided to just come right out and ask. "What delayed you and Dom for so long?"
"Why don't you ask him?"
"I did. Now I'm asking you."
He half expected Eames to attempt to brush the question off, or make a joke. Instead, the vista of a distant city shimmered far into the horizon before fading out again as Eames struggled to keep his concentration. "Arthur," Eames let out a long sigh. "I must keep my master's secrets. That's part of the reason for the bloody collar."
There was a park bench up ahead, just above the waterline when there should be nothing but water and sand in the dream. Arthur didn't correct him on it, only remained standing and crossing his arms while Eames sat down.
"That's bullshit, Eames. You've spoken to me before about him and Mal up above." Or at least, he had written it down.
"Because it's a fine line you ask me to walk," Eames replied with uncharacteristic shortness. Then he sighed again, reaching up to scrub at his face. Projections appeared and disappeared like mirages on the beach, and Arthur started to wonder if he was asking too much before Eames spoke again, "We stopped in at a dream parlor in Mar del Plata - it's a lovely city. Have you ever been?"
"Once," Arthur said. He uncrossed his arms and joined Eames on the bench, intending to wait him out.
"I believe," said Eames, after another hesitation, "he intended to resolve the issue with his wife. You had the PASIV, you see, and he needed a way to go down to see her. It was meant to be only a day's delay." A shadow passed over his face, his lips downturned. "It ended up being nearly a week."
"What happened?"
He shrugged. "I wasn't down there with him, was I? Part of his payment was that he rent me to the owner of the parlor for the duration." He must have caught the startled dismay on Arthur's face because he nodded. "Yes, well, not as a forger. Even he knows I'm too valuable of property to advertise and then let out of sight for hours on end. I cleaned and did other manual labor, darling. You can get your head out of the gutter."
But there was still something in Eames' tone - a bitter note that didn't belong in his otherwise blithe phrasing - that made Arthur suspect that Eames' work had not been pleasant.
That realization disquieted Arthur more than he thought it would. Eames was Dom's property, but he shouldn't have been rented out to help pay a debt. He was worth more than that.
Or perhaps, as Dom had implied during the last job, this was all just a ruse. An attempt to manipulate Arthur to feel pity for him. He glanced at Eames out of the corner of his eye and let himself wonder how much he knew -- really knew about him.
Arthur always made a point of researching those he worked with. It was a matter of safety to do a comprehensive background on someone before opening his mind to them. It had been one of the many reasons why he had thought it was a bad idea to purchase a slave. Just about anything - anger, resentment, some sort of psychopathic tendencies - could be brewing just under the surface, held in check by the Quietus collar.
What purpose would Eames have in lying about this, though? An attempt to drive a wedge between Arthur and Dom. To what purpose?
It didn't make sense. Unless, Arthur thought with a mental frown, Eames had another goal in mind.
"So why are you telling me this?" Arthur asked, because he preferred to be up front in things. "You said yourself that your job was to keep Dom's secrets."
Eames' mouth ticked up and his glance towards Arthur was mildly approving. "Because you asked. And, don't take this the wrong way, but my master does love taking his risks. You, on the other hand, have a way of injecting logic into the situation. He listens to you."
Arthur narrowed his eyes. "Don't tell me you're worried about Dom."
Now Eames did looked surprised - and very pleased, as if Arthur had preformed an amusing trick for him. He shook his head. "He's nearly kind as masters go," he said. "I think, if we had met as equals I might have liked him, but as it is... No. You're right. I'm not telling you this out of some misplaced loyalty." He paused for a moment, his gaze out to the middle distance, again to the oncoming waves. But the sky overhead had become dark with clouds. "I'm tied to him, for better or worse. If he were to be arrested, I would once again become property of the state and put to general auction. It's not the place to be, Arthur. Anything is better than that."
A roll of thunder put emphasis to those words. Eames was losing his grip upon the dream and his mind was naturally filling in with detail again. Still, he had managed close to forty-five minutes. That was a long way from Arthur's personal best, but he'd had much more practice.
That was the other reason Arthur had chosen to question Eames down here - he knew from experience it was much harder to be deceptive when you were actively working to suppress your subconscious.
"We have a few more minutes before our time is up," Arthur said pulling out his dice for Eames to look at even as forked lightening lit the sky. "Let's talk about the concept of a totem."
"Eames needs a totem," Arthur said.
Dom looked up from his sketchbook where he was currently hashing out new ideas for the dream. From the looks of the drawings, he was planning on building the dream loosely on the mark's childhood home. "He wasn't able to suppress his projections?" he asked, sounding surprised.
"He had a good start, once he got the idea," Arthur answered, carefully glancing at the slave who was quietly cleaning the PASIV device, flushing out the chemical injectors with saline solution. "But if we're going to use him as the subject in practice runs, I need to be sure he has a firm grasp on what is reality."
"Does it matter? He'll do as I say no matter what."
"It matters," Arthur said.
Dom stared at Arthur for a moment, then shrugged, reached into his pocket and pulled out the small remote that controlled Eames' Quietus collar. He pushed it across the table to Arthur. "Okay. So take him out and get him one."
Arthur stared at the thing. "You've sent him out alone before." Dom usually sent Eames out around lunch time to pick up a food order. Slaves were not allowed to handle money by law, so the common practice was to pay over the phone and send Eames to retrieve their meals, allowing Arthur and Dom to work through the lunch hour. House-slaves usually did menial errands such as those, so Eames never drew any undo attention from their competitors or marks.
"He needs someone to show him the ropes, and pay for the totem and I need to work on the preliminaries for the maze," Dom replied. He squinted at Arthur, and Arthur got the impression he was being somehow tested.
"It won't work. It's keyed into your fingerprint, not mine," Arthur said.
Dom shrugged again - it was too casual of a motion, somehow, utterly false - and picked up the remote. He pressed his thumb to the small touch pad, pushed a few buttons on it, before he again slid it across the table. "There. I put it on guest mode for the next three hours."
"Fine," Arthur said, refusing to make an issue of this. He scooped up the remote and shoved it in his pocket, not looking at the host of red and orange buttons along the top - the subtle settings in agony when a master wished to discipline his slave - and snapped to Eames, "Let's go."
Eames rose from his desk and docilely followed Arthur out, keeping a careful step behind him, just as he would with Dom. He wasn't an idiot. He had probably watched the entire exchange and knew who held power over him now.
Arthur's mood darkened further and he hardly waited for Eames to buckle himself into the passenger's seat before punching his rental car into gear. The streets of Rio were clogged and dangerous at best of times, but it at least allowed Arthur to vent his frustration.
It pissed him off that he had to do this. Eames was Dom's property, not his, but it seemed that Arthur was always the one who did the work; the training during practice runs. Arthur the one who had bought Eames' clothing for him - Dom might still have him in sweat pants and flip-flops, otherwise. Not to mention that Eames should have had a totem from the very beginning, not months after the fact.
In some ways, Arthur felt like he was left taking care of a pet, and that only annoyed him further because Eames was a thinking, rational human being. In a perfect world, he should have been able to pick out his own totem on his own time, after work. He would probably already have one by now - something obvious on the outside, but with hidden depths.
Arthur allowed himself to fantasize on that: Eames as he appeared down in the dreams, not the slave. They would have met through a mutual acquaintance, maybe. A talented forger would naturally be interested in working with an extractor of Dom's caliber. He would be ridiculously expensive, and snarky during the job... and would probably drive Arthur half-insane. But he would be competent; he'd be his own man, charming and dangerous, and free.
Arthur glanced over at Eames and saw him hunched in the furthest corner of the seat, looking anywhere but at Arthur. Tense, and - no, it wasn't his imagination - he looked pale.
"My driving's not that bad, is it?" Arthur said, breaking the silence.
Eames' eyes flicked to him, then quickly away. Arthur watched him swallow, hard, and rub his palm over the knee of his trousers, leaving behind a smudge of sweat. It almost looked like he was fighting down a panic attack.
"What's wrong?" Arthur asked. Of course he received no answer, but no acknowledgement either. "Eames?"
Eames shook his head, a quick slight movement, and turned away to stare out the window.
With a mental sigh, Arthur banished his brief fantasy. That man existed, literally, only in a dream. The reality was just a muted slave - abused and beaten down.
Abused.
Eames could be upset by any number of things: the small confines of the car, or maybe he had a bad memory of hot, muggy days. It wasn't logical, but Arthur had been inside enough minds to know that these things usually weren't.
Or maybe, Arthur thought, with a sudden chill, it was the fact that Eames had been loaned out - however briefly - to someone else. Arthur had control of his collar, didn't he? He could order Eames to do anything, tell him to get started sucking his cock, and if Eames refused it would only take one press of the button to the remote to the collar to punish him.
And Eames wouldn't be able to tell Dom about it, would he? Not until they were in a dream together, and even then... there would be no recourse. What could Dom do? Being a slave meant having no rights, not even to name their own abusers.
Arthur flipped the turn signal and pulled into a large parking lot. He had driven, more or less by accident, to a higher-end district. One he had been to before. He considered for a moment, then turned the key to shut off the engine. Whatever issues Eames had, being in an confined space probably wasn't helping.
"Since we're out here," he said, keeping his voice neutral, "We may as well get you something decent to wear for once." Again, there was no reaction. "Eames?"
Eames jumped a little at the sound of his name, and the glance he turned to Arthur was filled with wariness. Arthur wanted to snap at him, tell him that he wasn't his damned owner - that more importantly, Eames knew him. But it was seeming more and more likely that this sort of thing had happened before, and that Eames had known his previous - What? Abuser, attacker, rapist? - as well.
Anger or pity wouldn't help, though Arthur felt them both. He repeated himself, still keeping his voice calm. "We have a few hours. Do you mind if we stop and get you something new to wear? I know a good place."
Eames blinked, then shook his head: he didn't mind.
"All right," Arthur said, restarting the car and turning back into traffic, this time with a destination in mind. He turned on the radio to fill the tense silence. And for the hundredth time since Dom had purchased Eames, he wondered what the other man had done to deserve being collared.
His hands flexed on the steering wheel as he firmly told himself that it didn't matter.
The clothing store itself was large, and rather conservative (for Rio) in its styles and designer brands.
Eames seemed to lose some of the air of brittle panic he'd had in the car, though he looked utterly lost when Arthur told him to find something he liked. So Arthur led him to a rack of simple button-up shirts. He knew Eames was at least capable of making decisions for himself - he was probably just unused to it.
After a few unsure starts and stops, Eames picked out something close to a Hawaiian shirt with red and white floral patterning.
"Pick something that will not burn out my retinas," Arthur said, firmly.
Eames in a dream would have smirked at him, a comeback ready on his lips. This Eames hurriedly hung the shirt back upon the rack as if he had badly errored.
Wincing internally, Arthur reminded himself that those were not the same men, and picked the shirt back up. He held it up against Eames - god, this pattern was hideous - to judge the size. It was a little large.
"You've lost weight," Arthur said, realizing it for the first time. The shirt he had purchased for Eames a few months ago had once been tight around the shoulders, but now fit more loosely. The man was still built, with thick arms and sloping muscle over his shoulders and chest, but it wasn't nearly as prominent as it was. He merely had the look of a scary bouncer rather than a living tank.
Eames looked down at himself as if in surprise, and then tapped the inside of his wrist where there were several purple pin-pricks visible.
Arthur nodded. "Yes, you do spend most of your day sleeping now." He briefly entertained the thought of nagging Dom into getting a gym membership for his slave, but that was ridiculous... and besides, Eames didn't look bad as he was.
At least he had a valid excuse not to buy the Hawaiian shirt. Arthur steered Eames toward another rack - this one not as wide in the shoulders, but he thought, after holding one up, the cut would still show off his trim waist.
Arthur picked out several dress shirts he thought would do nicely (and bring out the color of Eames' eyes, but he refused to dwell on that for long) and a tasteful plaid button-up that seemed to be this year's trend.
He managed to keep his comments to himself ("Are you colorblind?") when Eames tentatively brought forward a blue paisley shirt, as if he was trying to emulate wallpaper from the 1960's. Arthur reluctantly added it to the pile.
The store also carried jeans which were a good fit, and several pairs of slacks. Eames cautiously gravitated to a dark wool peacoat with a wide collar. Even though it was summer in this hemisphere, Arthur brought it.
An hour and a half had passed and Eames practically had a new wardrobe. Arthur tried not to feel too smug about his power-shopping abilities.
"Shopping is my one concession to being a stereotype," he found himself admitting as their clothing was rung up and carefully packed by the manager and several bald helper slaves. Eames stood quietly beside him, watching, but with no real expression on his face.
Arthur continued, "Before Mal became sick, she and I could take Paris by storm. It used to drive Dom insane that his children looked like tiny fashion models." His smile slipped as he flashed to unhappier times - Mal's rapid decline from reality, and the crushing shock of her death. "You would have liked her," he said, softly, remembering that Eames only knew her vicious projection. "She had a very kind soul."
The final tally for the designer brands came well over fifteen hundred American dollars. Arthur saw Eames' concerned expression and caught his eye. "Don't worry, this is coming out of Dom's tab, under job expenditures."
Eames let out a startled huff - something very close to a laugh - and Arthur found himself smirking back. Dom wouldn't even notice, as he left accounting up to his point man, but Dom had pissed him off recently with not explaining why he and Eames had been days late, and with insisting Arthur take the remote to Eames' collar.
Arthur arranged for the clothing to be delivered up to his hotel room. He realized, as he climbed back into the car, that the last of his bad mood had washed away. Eames seemed to be more relaxed as well.
There was an antique shop nearby which was as good of a place as any to start looking for a totem.
"It should be something small enough to fit into your pocket," Arthur reminded him, "and have a secret only you should know."
While far from self-assured, Eames at least didn't seem overwhelmed by choice as he walked up and down the narrow, crowded aisles filled with antiques both modern and supposedly from the native population. Looking around, Arthur doubted that half of the items were authentic - the place had the feel of a well-placed tourist trap. The ivory figurines along the far wall were no doubt actually made of bone.
Eames seemed interested in a thumb-sized hobbyhorse, tapping the edge it so that it rocked back and forth several times. Whatever he saw in it, however, wasn't enough and he soon moved on.
The owner of the business spied them, and ignoring the slave, came up to Arthur to ask him what he needed. Arthur pretended, by way of broken Portuguese, that he was interested in some furniture for his house. The owner was just showing off a gaudy fainting couch when Eames came up to stand passively next to Arthur.
"Find anything?" Arthur asked.
Eames shook his head.
Arthur nodded, thanked the mystified owner, and they made their way out. They walked a few blocks, coming across a seedier but far more interesting district with open air stalls and what looked like some street gambling.
Despite himself, Arthur stopped to watch a few men who were clustered in a shady corner, three dice clattering between them and paper money quickly exchanging hands. He was trying to figure out what exactly their game was when the sound of impact and cursing in Portuguese made him whip his head around.
It looked like a scruffy looking man had run into Eames with enough impact to send both men staggering. It was the scruffy man who was cursing, while Eames held up a hand and tried to step back.
"Meu perdão," Arthur said, coming between them, though his free hand drifted down under his jacket where he concealed a knife.
Luckily, the scruffy man did not press the issue, only flipped them off and went back on his way.
"Come on," Arthur said, leading Eames down the other direction. He glanced down the street for more inspiration. It looked to be full of vendors selling food from carts, clothing stores, and sit-down restaurants. He supposed he could go back to the car and travel to another district, but the sun was starting to sink in the evening sky.
"Where else?" he started to ask, then stopped at the odd, almost-smile on the slave's face.
At Arthur's raised eyebrow, Eames reached his hand into his pocket and withdrew what looked to be a scuffed up poker-chip. Arthur's mind blanked until he looked back over his shoulder towards the direction where the scruffy man had gone.
"He didn't just happen run into you, did he?" Arthur asked, turning back to Eames, his voice flat. "You pick-pocketed it."
The almost-smile slipped from Eames' face. He dropped his gaze away, and nodded once, swallowing.
"Let me see it," Arthur said.
Eames obediently extended the chip out to him and Arthur smirked as he pulled his own hand away. "Rule number one: never allow anyone to touch your totem."
Eames stared at him for a blank second, and then he smiled full on: a shy, fragile thing, before he tucked his totem back into his pocket.
A flush of heat curled in Arthur's belly, followed immediately by a cold chill.
What the hell are you doing, Arthur? he thought, and covered the moment by clearing his throat into his hand. "Let's go. Dom will be expecting us any time now."