fic: between the dream and a breath (inception, arthur/eames) wip
So, I started writing a thing a long while back. It's a WiP. Posting here so that I might get motivated to continue writing it. *sigh*
He wakes at 8:25 on the dot, eyes fluttering open, sucking in a wet gasp of breath. The sun filters in cheerily, as if nothing had happened.
**
“You’re clearly under a lot of stress,” his therapist tells him, just like she does every Tuesday for the past two months. The pain is still fresh, like wirework under his skin, mapped to every nerve, every muscle and sinew, tied to his bones. It aches to wake up, to be pulled up from a dream only to be drowned.
“You need to keep writing,” she tells him with sincerity and encouragement, a hint of pleading. But nothing like empathy.
No one can understand how it feels.
**
He doesn’t remember the faces or the names, but he remembers the pain and the sounds - gunfire, shouts, the searing heat of a bullet piercing his chest, just inches away from his heart. How he fell backwards tied to the chair and the sick crack of his skull against the concrete and the warm crawl of blood pooling out around his head before he eventually lost consciousness.
All of those images are crystal clear as if it happened yesterday. Occasionally it still hurts to breath. Phantom pains, the doctor called it, when little pinpricks would spark under his sternum and make his breath short, his chest feel tight.
Two men came by to take him out of his room and to his apartment, though he can’t remember ever living there. They introduced themselves as Dom Cobb and the other simply Eames. Arthur can’t remember anything immediate and concrete about either of them from before.
Dom Cobb drove them to the apartment and Arthur remembered the street and the building, but when they stepped inside, it didn’t feel like his. The shelves were filled with books and old records, and a stack of newspapers sat by the coat hanger just inside the door. No dust, not even on the television.
“I tried to tidy it up for you,” Eames had said with a wan turn of his lips.
“Sorry.” He finds himself apologizing a lot.
Eames frowned, squeezed his shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”
**
The men who did this are either dead or in prison, they tell him. Cobb is still adamant that Arthur leaves the city. Arthur feels unmoored and adrift. He could be living anywhere right now, and it would still be the same. Strange, unfamiliar, unremarkable.
“I’ll stay with him,” Eames states, the debate suddenly over.
Eames is kind and patient, even when Arthur can see his condition taking a toll. Eames’ face will occasionally go still and his lips will thin - sometimes he turns away to hide his disappointment after he says something to jog Arthur’s memory, something that should be simply obvious like I can’t believe you still have that suit, and Arthur can’t find the right words to answer.
Arthur scowls because it would be easier if he were alone. Easier for them both.
**
Writing helps him deal with the situation. It’s an outlet, an escape. Writing helps him collect what little thoughts he has and hopefully, one day, “it will help trigger your memories.”
Or so his therapist says.
He writes pages and pages of nonsense. The impossible things he glimpses when he is asleep. How frustrated he feels. The people in his dreams are either blank spaces or mere shadows and no matter how hard he looks, he can’t identify them.
“They’re just dreams.” Eames tells him one morning as Arthur scribbles quietly in his black notebook. He hears but he doesn’t believe. The dreams feel more real than the man sitting next to him. Arthur says nothing to the contrary.
**
One Friday night, Eames stays away from the apartment until two in the morning. Arthur can’t sleep. He’s sitting up in bed against the wall, staring at the walls of his bedroom. The bookcase is filled with novels, biographies, and tomes of history and architecture, and he can’t remember reading any of them. Eames is usually in before dinner from whatever he does during the day, and they usually share a quiet meal together and watch some television on the couch.
He’s been waiting for the sound of Eames’ car pulling up to the curb, the slam of a single door and the jangle of keys in the lock. He waits until his eyelids turn heavy, tipping onto his side, before those familiar sounds wake him.
Arthur expects him to be drunk, maybe a bit morose, though he’s not sure why, and the thought turns his stomach because he feels guilty, useless and angry, a mix of emotions that have been clawing at the back of his throat from day one.
It’s surprising when Eames heads straight for Arthur’s room with none of the fumbling footsteps or slurring that Arthur expects. He pushes open the slightly ajar door with a slow but sure hand. Arthur sees his eyes, dry and clear, and can’t smell a single drop of alcohol in the air. It’s surprising, even though Arthur has never seen him drink the entire time he’s stayed with him. A remnant from before, maybe?
“You didn’t have to wait up,” Eames says in what sounds like a peace offering. He has a slightly apologetic look on his face. “Business ran late.”
Business. Right. Arthur knows as much as they tell him, which is slim. Apparently, their little outfit worked in the black market. Smuggling goods, people, drugs - Arthur could only guess. Eames never talks about his work and Arthur doesn’t particularly want to know.
Eames leans against the doorframe for a while, the sleeves of his white oxford rolled up to his elbows. He crosses his arms and Arthur’s eyes skim over the faint shimmer of black around his knuckles. They could be bruises, Arthur’s not sure.
“Dinner’s in the fridge.” Arthur mumbles, too tired suddenly for much else. He hunkers down in the bed and turns over with his back to the door, his mind already drifting.
[to be continued...]
He wakes at 8:25 on the dot, eyes fluttering open, sucking in a wet gasp of breath. The sun filters in cheerily, as if nothing had happened.
**
“You’re clearly under a lot of stress,” his therapist tells him, just like she does every Tuesday for the past two months. The pain is still fresh, like wirework under his skin, mapped to every nerve, every muscle and sinew, tied to his bones. It aches to wake up, to be pulled up from a dream only to be drowned.
“You need to keep writing,” she tells him with sincerity and encouragement, a hint of pleading. But nothing like empathy.
No one can understand how it feels.
**
He doesn’t remember the faces or the names, but he remembers the pain and the sounds - gunfire, shouts, the searing heat of a bullet piercing his chest, just inches away from his heart. How he fell backwards tied to the chair and the sick crack of his skull against the concrete and the warm crawl of blood pooling out around his head before he eventually lost consciousness.
All of those images are crystal clear as if it happened yesterday. Occasionally it still hurts to breath. Phantom pains, the doctor called it, when little pinpricks would spark under his sternum and make his breath short, his chest feel tight.
Two men came by to take him out of his room and to his apartment, though he can’t remember ever living there. They introduced themselves as Dom Cobb and the other simply Eames. Arthur can’t remember anything immediate and concrete about either of them from before.
Dom Cobb drove them to the apartment and Arthur remembered the street and the building, but when they stepped inside, it didn’t feel like his. The shelves were filled with books and old records, and a stack of newspapers sat by the coat hanger just inside the door. No dust, not even on the television.
“I tried to tidy it up for you,” Eames had said with a wan turn of his lips.
“Sorry.” He finds himself apologizing a lot.
Eames frowned, squeezed his shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”
**
The men who did this are either dead or in prison, they tell him. Cobb is still adamant that Arthur leaves the city. Arthur feels unmoored and adrift. He could be living anywhere right now, and it would still be the same. Strange, unfamiliar, unremarkable.
“I’ll stay with him,” Eames states, the debate suddenly over.
Eames is kind and patient, even when Arthur can see his condition taking a toll. Eames’ face will occasionally go still and his lips will thin - sometimes he turns away to hide his disappointment after he says something to jog Arthur’s memory, something that should be simply obvious like I can’t believe you still have that suit, and Arthur can’t find the right words to answer.
Arthur scowls because it would be easier if he were alone. Easier for them both.
**
Writing helps him deal with the situation. It’s an outlet, an escape. Writing helps him collect what little thoughts he has and hopefully, one day, “it will help trigger your memories.”
Or so his therapist says.
He writes pages and pages of nonsense. The impossible things he glimpses when he is asleep. How frustrated he feels. The people in his dreams are either blank spaces or mere shadows and no matter how hard he looks, he can’t identify them.
“They’re just dreams.” Eames tells him one morning as Arthur scribbles quietly in his black notebook. He hears but he doesn’t believe. The dreams feel more real than the man sitting next to him. Arthur says nothing to the contrary.
**
One Friday night, Eames stays away from the apartment until two in the morning. Arthur can’t sleep. He’s sitting up in bed against the wall, staring at the walls of his bedroom. The bookcase is filled with novels, biographies, and tomes of history and architecture, and he can’t remember reading any of them. Eames is usually in before dinner from whatever he does during the day, and they usually share a quiet meal together and watch some television on the couch.
He’s been waiting for the sound of Eames’ car pulling up to the curb, the slam of a single door and the jangle of keys in the lock. He waits until his eyelids turn heavy, tipping onto his side, before those familiar sounds wake him.
Arthur expects him to be drunk, maybe a bit morose, though he’s not sure why, and the thought turns his stomach because he feels guilty, useless and angry, a mix of emotions that have been clawing at the back of his throat from day one.
It’s surprising when Eames heads straight for Arthur’s room with none of the fumbling footsteps or slurring that Arthur expects. He pushes open the slightly ajar door with a slow but sure hand. Arthur sees his eyes, dry and clear, and can’t smell a single drop of alcohol in the air. It’s surprising, even though Arthur has never seen him drink the entire time he’s stayed with him. A remnant from before, maybe?
“You didn’t have to wait up,” Eames says in what sounds like a peace offering. He has a slightly apologetic look on his face. “Business ran late.”
Business. Right. Arthur knows as much as they tell him, which is slim. Apparently, their little outfit worked in the black market. Smuggling goods, people, drugs - Arthur could only guess. Eames never talks about his work and Arthur doesn’t particularly want to know.
Eames leans against the doorframe for a while, the sleeves of his white oxford rolled up to his elbows. He crosses his arms and Arthur’s eyes skim over the faint shimmer of black around his knuckles. They could be bruises, Arthur’s not sure.
“Dinner’s in the fridge.” Arthur mumbles, too tired suddenly for much else. He hunkers down in the bed and turns over with his back to the door, his mind already drifting.
[to be continued...]