Inception Fic: Believe Me if You Can (The House at Pooh Corner), Arthur/Eames, PG-13 R [2/2]
Please see Part One for details.
Eames gives Arthur a mildly impressed look when he picks the choicest buds from the plant, a look that shifts into mild amazement when he de-seeds it and functions a makeshift grinder out of two rocks. When Arthur rips a page out of one of the cookbooks from the kitchen and rolls a joint in ten seconds flat, however, Eames' mouth drops open in frank astonishment.
"Who are you?" he demands. Arthur laughs.
"Hey," he says, striking one of the matches he'd found in a drawer while Eames went to get the rest of the team, "I grew up a scrawny Jewish kid from Brooklyn. You think I didn't smoke pot in college?"
"I don't know you at all," Eames laments, as Arthur lights the joint and takes two puffs. "Where's the stick in the mud we all know and love, hmm?"
"He's getting high," Arthur says, exhaling his second hit and passing the joint. "Try back later."
"When I met Arthur there was a bong in his room," Cobb says gleefully, as Eames pulls in two long drags and passes it over to Ariadne. "A big one, of many colors."
"You're having me on," Eames says.
"He had long hair too," Cobb sighs happily. "He was a delinquent."
"Shut up," Arthur says easily, laying back against the grass. Ariadne erupts coughing, waving her little pink hands, and Arthur gestures Cobb toward her. "You were trying to buy from me, if I'm remembering correctly."
"I never said I wasn't also a delinquent," Cobb replies, leaning over to pat Ariadne on the back and take the joint from her. "Just, you know, that you were one."
"Tell me more about your debauched college years, darling," Eames murmurs, flopping onto his stomach next to Arthur. "I am delighted and terrified."
"After we're done with the joint, maybe," Arthur agrees. "If you don't bogart."
"I can't believe you know the word bogart," Eames cries in betrayed tones. "All this time all I needed to do to cull your favor was take you to Amsterdam, Arthur, this is not on."
"So we're admitting to the f-favor culling attempts now?" Ariadne asks, having gotten her breathing under control. "Because really--"
"Silence," Eames commands imperiously. "We are smoking here."
It doesn't take them long to kill the first joint, and they have to stop halfway through the second because the stuff is really strong.
"Might not be strong," Yusuf muses, sounding happier than he has in days. "Might be our body chemistry. Different, you know. Stuffing. Things."
Ariadne giggles. "Stuffing," she says.
"You guys are such lightweights," Arthur laughs, staring up at the sky. The stars are everywhere.
"Not everyone was a pothead in college," Eames says gleefully. "Not like you, you filthy, filthy pothead."
"Ahahaha," says Saito, "I am now imagining a person with a pot instead of a head."
"I thought that was what Arthur was like when I met him," Eames agrees amiably. "Only not a pot. A file. A filehead."
"Not your best constructed argument there, Mr. Eames," Arthur murmurs. His voice sounds slow to his own ears and he's so happy, for no reason he can fathom. He knew there'd been a reason he'd loved this damn drug.
"You like my arguments," Eames replies, giving him a secretive half-smile. Arthur wants to respond in kind but his stomach growls audibly, stopping him.
"Rumbly tumbly!" Cobb cries, and falls over laughing.
"Munchies," Arthur observes. "Hmm."
"Darling," Eames says solemnly, "wait here. I will get you a carrot."
"I can eat them?" Arthur demands breathlessly as Eames laughs and stands, winding his way unsteadily to the carrot patch. Arthur is flush with unholy glee until he sees Eames bend down and fist one of the fanned green tops, at which point panic sets in.
"No, no, Eames, wait," he cries, aware that this is ridiculous but unable to stop himself. "You can't--don't hurt it--"
"Calm down," Eames says, yanking one up. Arthur makes a pained noise. "They're only carrots."
"He doesn't mean that," Arthur coos to the carrot in Eames' hand, touching it lovingly as he returns. "Oh, god, I am out of control."
"Arthur's rubbing Eames' c-c-carrot!" Ariadne crows, and then rolls into a little ball, cackling. Yusuf stirs at this and leans forward, batting at her experimentally with one leg and then catching her with the other one. She giggles gleefully and he rolls her to Cobb, all of them laughing riotously.
"I don't know if I can make myself eat it," Arthur admits, laying back down. Eames sits next to him, holding the carrot by its top. It's so orange. If Eames waved it in front of his face, Arthur thinks he would be hypnotized.
His stomach rumbles again, and Eames laughs.
"Here," he says, holding it to Arthur's mouth. "It's not sent--semt--senti--fuck, that word is hard to say right now."
"Sentient," Arthur breathes.
"It doesn't have feelings," Eames says gently. He prods Arthur's growling stomach with his tail. "Go on, take a bite."
Hesitatingly, Arthur does. It crunches wonderfully and the taste is explosive, agonizingly, paralyzingly good. He lets out a sound that he's never released in his life, something between a moan and a growl, and Eames smiles down at him, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. Arthur takes another massive bite, and makes the sound again.
"This is bordering on pornographic," Saito comments.
"B-b-bordering?" Ariadne asks, unrolling from her ball.
"We're going to have to do this again when we wake up," Eames comments in a low voice, putting the leafy remains to the side as Arthur reaches the end of the carrot. He's encouraged by Eames' use of the word when, even if Arthur is privately starting to think it might be an if.
"I don't even like carrots," Arthur tells him, and then realizes the carrots could have heard that. "I didn't mean it!" he adds frantically. "I was only kidding."
"You're mad," Eames says, but fondly.
"Can I have another one?" Arthur asks, realizing on some level that they are actually his carrots, and he does not actually have to ask. Eames nods, grinning.
"Only one more," he says, but he lets Arthur eat seven before he flops back onto the ground, resuming his previous position.
"I want the rest of the other joint," Arthur decides, feeling more sober now that there's food in him. "Who has the other joint?"
Cobb tosses it over and Arthur sparks it, smoking on his back and passing it to Eames. It makes a few rounds before they're done, and then Arthur is feeling languid, loose, and blazed out of his mind.
"So," Eames says eventually, "bees."
"Bzzzzz," Arthur murmurs. "Bzzzz bzzzz."
"And you called Ari a lightweight," Eames laughs. Arthur opens his eyes to glare half-heartedly at him.
"You're high too," he protests. "You laughed at my ears for like--for like ten minutes."
"Your ears are hilarious," Eames says, looking like he wants to laugh again. "No, no, wait. Bees."
"Bzzz," says Arthur.
"No deja vu!" Cobb calls. "Team rule!"
"You're afraid of bees," Eames says. His tail has managed to wind itself around Arthur's waist somehow, and it twitches with amusement.
"Yes," Arthur agrees. "Fuckers."
"Why?" Eames demands.
"I have my reasons."
"But you're all--" Eames frowns, like he's looking for the right word. "Like, uh. Like a big scary bastard."
Arthur laughs. "Is that what I am?"
"Well not you," Eames sighs, "not pothead fuzzy friendly Arthur, but work Arthur. You can't be afraid of bees."
"And yet," Arthur laughs, prodding him. Eames swats at him, but pleasantly.
"I am going to tease you about this," he informs Arthur solemnly.
"Then you are going to feel very guilty," Arthur returns, staring fixedly at the tree above him. The branches are swaying ever so slightly. If Arthur could move, he'd climb up and sit in them.
"Whyyyyy," Eames whines, his tail twitching again. "Were you a bee in a former life? Did you have a traumatic bee incident as a child?"
"Does anaphylactic shock count as a traumatic incident?" Arthur wonders aloud.
Eames' tail tightens around him almost uncomfortably for a second. "What?"
"Allergic," Arthur says. "To bees. Since I was little. Fuckers."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Eames demands. Arthur feels his forehead crease.
"It never seemed important?" he hazards. Eames glares at him and flip over, somehow managing to avoid dislodging his tail.
"Cobb," he says, "no more beehives ever. Never again. Not ever."
Squinting, Cobb gestures to his welt-riddled face, as if to say No shit, Sherlock.
"Why do you even care?" Yusuf calls, looking up from where Ariadne is cheerfully braiding his mane. "What's it to you?"
"Uh," Eames says, looking caught. "Uh, nothing." And then, as if to prove this point, he yanks on one of Arthur's ears.
"Hey," Arthur says mildly, feeling too relaxed to bother getting worked up about that. "That's a bad touch."
"I know why Eames cares," Ariadne starts. "It's b-b-because--"
"Shut up right now!" Eames commands. He touches Arthur's ears again, and it takes Arthur a second to realize he is actually trying to cover them.
It's hilarious. Arthur starts to laugh.
"It's because Eames l-l-loooooves Arthur!" Ariadne cries.
"You are ridiculous," Eames says, his tail tightening its grip again in panic. Arthur notices that this is not an outright denial, but still cannot stop laughing. "We--we're not even the same species! The most wonderful thing about Tiggers is I'm the only one!"
"The only one for Arthur!" Cobb cries, and tumbles over again in hysterics. The look on Eames' face is priceless, and Arthur is having some serious trouble controlling his laughter, because Eames has pulled him too close now, is still trying to cover his ears.
"Bloody hell," Eames mutters, visibly embarrassed. Arthur stops laughing once he realizes Eames is actually bothered, and he'd like to talk about it, but he's really very high.
He sings the Tigger song under his breath instead, light and happy, and leans in to Eames' touch. When he finishes Eames isn't blushing anymore, just kind of looking down at him in surprise. Arthur smiles at him and nudges at his arm until Eames lifts it, lets Arthur curl up against him.
"Awwwwww," Ariadne coos, coming over to them.
"Go play pin the tail on Yusuf," Arthur suggests, grinning dangerously. She turns bright red and scurries away, and Arthur thinks he hears her mutter A-a-asshole under her breath.
"You're not going to, y'know, murder me?" Eames asks quietly, some minutes later.
"Not tonight," Arthur murmurs, and if he nuzzles Eames a little, he can always blame it on the weed and the ridiculous stuffed animal body.
The feeling of warmth spreading in his chest at the sight of Eames' slow smile, the one that starts small and then takes over his entire fucking face--well. That's probably not something he can blame on anything but himself.
"Arthur?" Eames says some time later, surprising Arthur by being awake. Everyone else is out cold in the grass, but as the temperature is always perfect here and they've yet to come across any viable threat other than the bees, Arthur's not particularly worried about it.
"Yeah?" he mumbles sleepily. Eames shifts slightly, adjusting Arthur subtly against him, and Arthur is just tired enough, just high enough, to let himself recognize how much he enjoys the sensation. He sighs, content.
"Are you," Eames starts, and pauses. Then, in a rush, he continues "Are you having trouble with--touching me?"
"What kind of trouble?" Arthur asks around a yawn.
"Wanting to," Eames says miserably. "All the time. Not that I don't want to touch you regularly, darling, I do, but this is--"
"Different," Arthur agrees. "Yeah, I'm having the same problem."
"Okay," Eames says, letting out a breath Arthur hadn't known he was fighting. "I'm glad it's not just me. I've been trying to fight it, but it's--surprisingly difficult."
"We could…not fight it," Arthur says slowly, after a long pause. "I mean, I don't--it's not terrible, you know. Being this way. Or--I mean, not being stuffed animals, that's a fucking bummer, but this part. Not so bad."
"No," Eames says quietly, "no, it's not, is it."
"Mmm," Arthur sighs, rubbing his cheek against Eames' chest flagrantly and shamelessly and not really awake enough to regret it.
"I can't believe I just heard you say the word 'bummer,'" Eames teases after a second. Arthur huffs out a faint laugh, but doesn't comment. "You really were a pothead in college, weren't you?"
"Soooo much weed," Arthur agrees. "So much. I went to a Burning Man my senior year."
"You did not," Eames says, laughing.
"I did," Arthur admits, smiling a little. "It was a good time."
"Why'd you give it up?" Eames asks. "Being a filthy hippy, I mean."
Arthur shrugs. "The military recruited me. It seemed silly, after dreamshare. Childish."
"Hmmm," Eames says. Then: "I went to Eton, you know."
"I do know," says Arthur. "I did your background check. I always kind of thought you'd forged their records, though."
"All perfectly legitimate, I'm afraid."
Arthur files this away for further consideration when he's less exhausted. "Did you like it?"
"Loathed it, actually," Eames sighs. "Terribly stuffy place, no sense of imagination at all. And no hippies anywhere, more's the pity."
Arthur kind of grins against Eames' chest. "If we get out of here," he says, "we're going to Bonnaroo."
"Oh, darling," Eames murmurs sadly. Arthur frowns, confused.
"What?"
Eames sighs and rubs a hand along his back. "Arthur--you said if."
--
They develop a routine of sorts over the next four days. The mornings are spent with Christopher Robin, traipsing through the forest on strange adventures of his design that none of them remember properly when they're through. The afternoons are spent on strange adventures of their own, following whatever paths they feel like, and they get high at night.
No one comments on the tension they're all feeling, the growing sense of dread, until the sixth night.
They'd instructed the kid they'd hired to run the PASIV to wake Yusuf first, a real-time hour before the rest of them, to give him time to prepare and inject the mark with a secondary sedative. It was something they did often now, keeping the mark under after the dream was over--Yusuf had discovered a compound that could do it safely, and it spared the the chance of any awkward, job-killing interactions.
His kick was meant to come at sunset.
"There's st-st-still some light," Ariadne says tremulously, hopefully, starting at the sky. "If you squint--"
"No there's not," Yusuf sighs, drawing her close with his front leg. "It's not coming. The kick's not coming."
"Oh, god," Eames says. His arms wrap around Arthur from behind and he drops his head onto Arthur's shoulder, even as Arthur turns to bury his face in Eames' neck. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Cobb's back seam rip, stuffing pouring out, sees Saito shove it back in with a broad wing and then pull Cobb in with the same.
"We're never going to get out of here," Arthur whispers.
"Don't, love," Eames says, his voice cracking, "don't--"
"I want to throw up," Ariadne says--her voice is distant, filtered through a haze of horrified realization. "Oh, god, what the hell are we going to--"
"Do you," Cobb says suddenly, lifting his head from Saito's plumage, "do you guys hear something?"
Arthur listens hopefully, but it's not Edith Piaf he hears. Instead it's a--a clamoring, like a thousand feet stamping. He peers out into the darkness and sees what looks like a giant cloud of dust coming toward them.
"Eames," he says.
"I see it," Eames murmurs. "What do you think--"
"H-h-heffalumps," Ariadne stutters. "H-h-heffalumps and w-w-woozles."
"Don't be ridiculous--" Cobb starts.
"I'm n-not!" Ariadne cries. "We haven't seen any p-p-projections this whole t-time, don't you t-t-think they'd be in character too? H-h…those things are the v-villains of the Pooh stories."
The cloud is drawing closer. Arthur stares and sees that she's right--there must be a hundred of them, cartoonish, garish bastardizations of elephants and weasels. He tightens his grip on Eames.
"Well," Eames laughs, "at least they can't kill us. Nothing they do could--"
The crowd draws to a stop about 20 feet away, and Eames trails off, staring. As they watch a roaring fire comes to life in front of them, making the distorted faces that much more ghastly.
Arthur thinks about the flamibility of fabric and stuffing. He thinks, despite how hard he's trying not to, about limbo.
"Ah," Eames says, staring at the flames and swallowing hard, "admittedly, I did not think of that."
"What do we do now?" Ariadne hisses on Yusuf's back.
"Having--some--impulse--control--problems," Cobb manages. Arthur looks over at him in surprise and sees that he's doubled over, clawing at his throat.
"Now is not the time," he hisses. "Just give in, whatever it is, and then help us think of a way to get out of this!"
Cobb nods, rocks back on his heels, opens his mouth, and bellows "CHRISTOPHER ROBIN!"
Arthur stares at him, agape. He feels Eames' grip on his slacken briefly before it goes tight again, and then--to his extreme surprise--he sees the boy walking out of the clearing.
Only it's not the boy. It's their mark.
"Oh, go away," she says to the crowd, waving an irritated hand. "You're no fun at all."
The fire goes out at once. Shockingly, the sun comes out. The crowd vanishes as quickly as it had come.
"Okay," Arthur says slowly, "what the hell is going on?"
"Sorry, dear," she says, patting him on the head, "I know how you like your facts." Arthur wants to bristle at her touch but finds he can't--whatever strange control she'd had over him as Christopher Robin is clearly still partially in place. He glares at her instead, doesn't step away from Eames.
"Explain," Cobb demands. Their mark laughs, her hair white and loose in the sudden wind.
"You're all so funny," she says. "Alan was all for leaving you down here indefinitely, but I knew I liked the sound of you. I've had a lovely few days."
She peers at all of their slack faces and then sighs, clearly annoyed at having to be more detailed. "I've known you were coming for months. My grandson," she says, "is in the dreamsharing business."
"What?" Arthur demands. He'd done the damned research, he'd double and triple checked--
"Oh, don't be hard on yourself," the mark chides. "He's been presumed dead for almost fifteen years, poor thing. Got himself in quite a spot starting out, faking his death was just easier."
"Is it--" Arthur starts, yanking on his ears in frustration. "Is he anyone we know?"
"Know?" she laughs. "Why, honey, you hired him."
"The kid," Eames breathes. Arthur glances at him, confused. "The kid! The kid we hired to run the PASIV, I knew he looked older than 18--"
"He's very protective, poor dear," she sighs. "Taught me to dreamshare years ago. I've gotten rather good at it, as you may have noticed. He's a chemist, himself."
"Wait," Yusuf says. "You said Alan before. You don't mean Alan Alexander, do you?"
"It was Alan Alexander Milne when he was born," the mark sighs. "After my grandfather. He abandoned the surname when all the trouble started."
"He's a legend," Yusuf breathes. "I didn't think he was even real--every chemist knows his name. He's made some incredible leaps with chemically-based emotional control within dreamshare, if the rumors are true."
"Oh my god," Arthur says, piecing it all together. "Have we--have we spent the week as guinea pigs for a mad fucking scientist?"
"Language," the mark says sternly. "But yes, more or less. We couldn't very well let you run about down here planting ideas in my head, now could we?"
"But--but that's evil," Ariadne says, shock eliminating her stutter. The old woman laughs.
"No more evil than breaking into someone's mind," she says gently. "You'll all be perfectly fine when you wake up."
"We can't wake up!" Eames cries. "We're sedated, if we die down here we'll end up in limbo, we're trapped like this--"
"Oh, dear," she says, "don't be silly. Alan didn't sedate me. All I have to do is die, and the dream will collapse. You'll be home in no time at all."
As she says this, a gun materializes in her hand. "You have entertained me so," she says, beaming at them. "Thank you."
And then, without even a moment of hesitation, she pulls the trigger.
The world--erupts.
Arthur can't hold on to everyone at once, and everything is coming apart at the seams--the ground has split underneath his feet and the sky is screaming, a thousand different colors. Yusuf is gripping the back of Ariadne's shirt between his teeth in trying keep hold of her and Saito's got Cobb by an arm with his talons, and every part of Arthur is wrapped around every part of Eames, gripping stubbornly, refusing to let go.
It lasts far longer than it should, garish and horrifying. It makes Arthur's eyes burn so he closes them, tightening his fists against Eames' back, until everything is a bright, blinding white--
--
The first thing Arthur does when he wakes up is reach into his pocket to grasp his totem. His fingers close around it and he picks it up, feeling the reassuring weight of it, the grooves of the dots.
The second thing he does is look for Eames.
They're in the cottage they'd rented for this job, next door to the mark's summer home, and Eames is blinking awake in the chair across from him. He reaches into his pocket and then, immediately, looks for Arthur, the frantic worry fading from his face when their eyes meet.
Arthur smiles. Eames smiles back.
"Shit," Cobb gasps, "oh, thank fucking god," and then they're all ripping the IVs out of their arms and standing up, checking over their limbs to reassure themselves that they've still got them. The mark herself is gone, her grandson too--how they've managed that Arthur doesn't know, doesn't care to ask.
"My dick," Eames cries, grabbing it over his trousers. "Oh, thank Christ, oh god yes--"
And then, in a moment of completely uncontrolled glee, he pitches himself backwards to bounce his adulation and lands on the floor, hard.
The room goes silent.
"Fucking hell," Eames breathes after a second. Wordlessly, Arthur crosses the room and helps him up, and then the full hilarity of the situation hits him. He tries to stifle his laugh but can't, he really can't, and Eames only glares for half a second before he cracks a smile too.
And then they're all laughing, and it's great, it's a release--except that Arthur keeps going, can't figure out how to stop. There are tears streaming down his face and it wasn't even that funny but he's so relieved, and he's choking on it but he can't stop, he can't stop laughing, because he's not going to die in limbo, he's not going to be trapped in a cartoon hellhole forever--
"Oh, darling," he hears Eames say, and then he feels broad palms on his back, warm and solid. Even that--the feeling of hands instead of paws, warm through his shirt instead of through his fur--even that sets him off, and he gasps against Eames' shoulder, shuddering with it.
"Shhh," Eames murmurs. "You'll give yourself a hernia, love, calm down."
"I--" Arthur tries, but he can't get words out over the howling laughter, so he stops talking and concentrates on breathing. It takes a lot longer than he would like, and when he's finally got himself under control everyone has cleared out but Eames, who tilts his face up and stares at it.
"Hmm," he says.
"What?" Arthur demands, feeling himself edge towards hysteria again.
"It's just so nice to want to do this again," Eames murmurs, "now that I know that I can."
And then they're kissing, and Arthur is pushing Eames into the wall, and Eames is pulling Arthur's hair, ripping at his shirt, his pants. Arthur falls to the floor with Eames on top of him and writhes, biting at his neck, his throat, his fucking hands, while Eames seems to make it his personal mission to touch every part of Arthur he can with his tongue.
Eames has Arthur's cock in his mouth within six minutes. They've both come spectacularly all over the floor within ten.
--
"Hey," Arthur says the next night, curled against Eames in his hotel suite. It's weird that it should feel natural, to be this comfortable in their actual bodies--but then again, maybe not. "You know what? I almost miss your tail."
"My arse misses my tail," Eames groans. "I still can't believe I've tried to bounce three times--you'd think I'd sodding learn."
"I went to yank on my ears at Starbucks this morning," Arthur offers, a conciliatory gesture. "That was embarrassing."
Eames laughs delightedly and reaches out to tug lightly on one of Arthur's earlobes. "I thought that's what that was."
"At least neither of us is carrying around a speech impediment," Arthur yawns, thinking of Ariadne.
Eames shrugs. "It's already fading. She'll be fine by the end of the week."
"Mmm," Arthur agrees. He closes his eyes, and is feeling very close to drifting off when…
"Darling?" Eames asks, prodding him.
"Mmmm?"
"Were you serious about Bonnaroo?"
Arthur levers himself upright, smiling down at Eames. "I bought the tickets this morning, actually," he admits. "I figured we could use the break."
Eames grins at him, a wide, full thing. His eyes are sparkling and he's got a hand resting against Arthur's jawline, and Arthur is suddenly, fiercely happy, in a way he can't begin to quantify. He kisses Eames and settles back down against him, turning the thing over in his mind.
Well, he decides in the end, even if we did end up with post-traumatic Pooh disorder, this is probably worth it.
fin.
Eames gives Arthur a mildly impressed look when he picks the choicest buds from the plant, a look that shifts into mild amazement when he de-seeds it and functions a makeshift grinder out of two rocks. When Arthur rips a page out of one of the cookbooks from the kitchen and rolls a joint in ten seconds flat, however, Eames' mouth drops open in frank astonishment.
"Who are you?" he demands. Arthur laughs.
"Hey," he says, striking one of the matches he'd found in a drawer while Eames went to get the rest of the team, "I grew up a scrawny Jewish kid from Brooklyn. You think I didn't smoke pot in college?"
"I don't know you at all," Eames laments, as Arthur lights the joint and takes two puffs. "Where's the stick in the mud we all know and love, hmm?"
"He's getting high," Arthur says, exhaling his second hit and passing the joint. "Try back later."
"When I met Arthur there was a bong in his room," Cobb says gleefully, as Eames pulls in two long drags and passes it over to Ariadne. "A big one, of many colors."
"You're having me on," Eames says.
"He had long hair too," Cobb sighs happily. "He was a delinquent."
"Shut up," Arthur says easily, laying back against the grass. Ariadne erupts coughing, waving her little pink hands, and Arthur gestures Cobb toward her. "You were trying to buy from me, if I'm remembering correctly."
"I never said I wasn't also a delinquent," Cobb replies, leaning over to pat Ariadne on the back and take the joint from her. "Just, you know, that you were one."
"Tell me more about your debauched college years, darling," Eames murmurs, flopping onto his stomach next to Arthur. "I am delighted and terrified."
"After we're done with the joint, maybe," Arthur agrees. "If you don't bogart."
"I can't believe you know the word bogart," Eames cries in betrayed tones. "All this time all I needed to do to cull your favor was take you to Amsterdam, Arthur, this is not on."
"So we're admitting to the f-favor culling attempts now?" Ariadne asks, having gotten her breathing under control. "Because really--"
"Silence," Eames commands imperiously. "We are smoking here."
It doesn't take them long to kill the first joint, and they have to stop halfway through the second because the stuff is really strong.
"Might not be strong," Yusuf muses, sounding happier than he has in days. "Might be our body chemistry. Different, you know. Stuffing. Things."
Ariadne giggles. "Stuffing," she says.
"You guys are such lightweights," Arthur laughs, staring up at the sky. The stars are everywhere.
"Not everyone was a pothead in college," Eames says gleefully. "Not like you, you filthy, filthy pothead."
"Ahahaha," says Saito, "I am now imagining a person with a pot instead of a head."
"I thought that was what Arthur was like when I met him," Eames agrees amiably. "Only not a pot. A file. A filehead."
"Not your best constructed argument there, Mr. Eames," Arthur murmurs. His voice sounds slow to his own ears and he's so happy, for no reason he can fathom. He knew there'd been a reason he'd loved this damn drug.
"You like my arguments," Eames replies, giving him a secretive half-smile. Arthur wants to respond in kind but his stomach growls audibly, stopping him.
"Rumbly tumbly!" Cobb cries, and falls over laughing.
"Munchies," Arthur observes. "Hmm."
"Darling," Eames says solemnly, "wait here. I will get you a carrot."
"I can eat them?" Arthur demands breathlessly as Eames laughs and stands, winding his way unsteadily to the carrot patch. Arthur is flush with unholy glee until he sees Eames bend down and fist one of the fanned green tops, at which point panic sets in.
"No, no, Eames, wait," he cries, aware that this is ridiculous but unable to stop himself. "You can't--don't hurt it--"
"Calm down," Eames says, yanking one up. Arthur makes a pained noise. "They're only carrots."
"He doesn't mean that," Arthur coos to the carrot in Eames' hand, touching it lovingly as he returns. "Oh, god, I am out of control."
"Arthur's rubbing Eames' c-c-carrot!" Ariadne crows, and then rolls into a little ball, cackling. Yusuf stirs at this and leans forward, batting at her experimentally with one leg and then catching her with the other one. She giggles gleefully and he rolls her to Cobb, all of them laughing riotously.
"I don't know if I can make myself eat it," Arthur admits, laying back down. Eames sits next to him, holding the carrot by its top. It's so orange. If Eames waved it in front of his face, Arthur thinks he would be hypnotized.
His stomach rumbles again, and Eames laughs.
"Here," he says, holding it to Arthur's mouth. "It's not sent--semt--senti--fuck, that word is hard to say right now."
"Sentient," Arthur breathes.
"It doesn't have feelings," Eames says gently. He prods Arthur's growling stomach with his tail. "Go on, take a bite."
Hesitatingly, Arthur does. It crunches wonderfully and the taste is explosive, agonizingly, paralyzingly good. He lets out a sound that he's never released in his life, something between a moan and a growl, and Eames smiles down at him, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. Arthur takes another massive bite, and makes the sound again.
"This is bordering on pornographic," Saito comments.
"B-b-bordering?" Ariadne asks, unrolling from her ball.
"We're going to have to do this again when we wake up," Eames comments in a low voice, putting the leafy remains to the side as Arthur reaches the end of the carrot. He's encouraged by Eames' use of the word when, even if Arthur is privately starting to think it might be an if.
"I don't even like carrots," Arthur tells him, and then realizes the carrots could have heard that. "I didn't mean it!" he adds frantically. "I was only kidding."
"You're mad," Eames says, but fondly.
"Can I have another one?" Arthur asks, realizing on some level that they are actually his carrots, and he does not actually have to ask. Eames nods, grinning.
"Only one more," he says, but he lets Arthur eat seven before he flops back onto the ground, resuming his previous position.
"I want the rest of the other joint," Arthur decides, feeling more sober now that there's food in him. "Who has the other joint?"
Cobb tosses it over and Arthur sparks it, smoking on his back and passing it to Eames. It makes a few rounds before they're done, and then Arthur is feeling languid, loose, and blazed out of his mind.
"So," Eames says eventually, "bees."
"Bzzzzz," Arthur murmurs. "Bzzzz bzzzz."
"And you called Ari a lightweight," Eames laughs. Arthur opens his eyes to glare half-heartedly at him.
"You're high too," he protests. "You laughed at my ears for like--for like ten minutes."
"Your ears are hilarious," Eames says, looking like he wants to laugh again. "No, no, wait. Bees."
"Bzzz," says Arthur.
"No deja vu!" Cobb calls. "Team rule!"
"You're afraid of bees," Eames says. His tail has managed to wind itself around Arthur's waist somehow, and it twitches with amusement.
"Yes," Arthur agrees. "Fuckers."
"Why?" Eames demands.
"I have my reasons."
"But you're all--" Eames frowns, like he's looking for the right word. "Like, uh. Like a big scary bastard."
Arthur laughs. "Is that what I am?"
"Well not you," Eames sighs, "not pothead fuzzy friendly Arthur, but work Arthur. You can't be afraid of bees."
"And yet," Arthur laughs, prodding him. Eames swats at him, but pleasantly.
"I am going to tease you about this," he informs Arthur solemnly.
"Then you are going to feel very guilty," Arthur returns, staring fixedly at the tree above him. The branches are swaying ever so slightly. If Arthur could move, he'd climb up and sit in them.
"Whyyyyy," Eames whines, his tail twitching again. "Were you a bee in a former life? Did you have a traumatic bee incident as a child?"
"Does anaphylactic shock count as a traumatic incident?" Arthur wonders aloud.
Eames' tail tightens around him almost uncomfortably for a second. "What?"
"Allergic," Arthur says. "To bees. Since I was little. Fuckers."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Eames demands. Arthur feels his forehead crease.
"It never seemed important?" he hazards. Eames glares at him and flip over, somehow managing to avoid dislodging his tail.
"Cobb," he says, "no more beehives ever. Never again. Not ever."
Squinting, Cobb gestures to his welt-riddled face, as if to say No shit, Sherlock.
"Why do you even care?" Yusuf calls, looking up from where Ariadne is cheerfully braiding his mane. "What's it to you?"
"Uh," Eames says, looking caught. "Uh, nothing." And then, as if to prove this point, he yanks on one of Arthur's ears.
"Hey," Arthur says mildly, feeling too relaxed to bother getting worked up about that. "That's a bad touch."
"I know why Eames cares," Ariadne starts. "It's b-b-because--"
"Shut up right now!" Eames commands. He touches Arthur's ears again, and it takes Arthur a second to realize he is actually trying to cover them.
It's hilarious. Arthur starts to laugh.
"It's because Eames l-l-loooooves Arthur!" Ariadne cries.
"You are ridiculous," Eames says, his tail tightening its grip again in panic. Arthur notices that this is not an outright denial, but still cannot stop laughing. "We--we're not even the same species! The most wonderful thing about Tiggers is I'm the only one!"
"The only one for Arthur!" Cobb cries, and tumbles over again in hysterics. The look on Eames' face is priceless, and Arthur is having some serious trouble controlling his laughter, because Eames has pulled him too close now, is still trying to cover his ears.
"Bloody hell," Eames mutters, visibly embarrassed. Arthur stops laughing once he realizes Eames is actually bothered, and he'd like to talk about it, but he's really very high.
He sings the Tigger song under his breath instead, light and happy, and leans in to Eames' touch. When he finishes Eames isn't blushing anymore, just kind of looking down at him in surprise. Arthur smiles at him and nudges at his arm until Eames lifts it, lets Arthur curl up against him.
"Awwwwww," Ariadne coos, coming over to them.
"Go play pin the tail on Yusuf," Arthur suggests, grinning dangerously. She turns bright red and scurries away, and Arthur thinks he hears her mutter A-a-asshole under her breath.
"You're not going to, y'know, murder me?" Eames asks quietly, some minutes later.
"Not tonight," Arthur murmurs, and if he nuzzles Eames a little, he can always blame it on the weed and the ridiculous stuffed animal body.
The feeling of warmth spreading in his chest at the sight of Eames' slow smile, the one that starts small and then takes over his entire fucking face--well. That's probably not something he can blame on anything but himself.
"Arthur?" Eames says some time later, surprising Arthur by being awake. Everyone else is out cold in the grass, but as the temperature is always perfect here and they've yet to come across any viable threat other than the bees, Arthur's not particularly worried about it.
"Yeah?" he mumbles sleepily. Eames shifts slightly, adjusting Arthur subtly against him, and Arthur is just tired enough, just high enough, to let himself recognize how much he enjoys the sensation. He sighs, content.
"Are you," Eames starts, and pauses. Then, in a rush, he continues "Are you having trouble with--touching me?"
"What kind of trouble?" Arthur asks around a yawn.
"Wanting to," Eames says miserably. "All the time. Not that I don't want to touch you regularly, darling, I do, but this is--"
"Different," Arthur agrees. "Yeah, I'm having the same problem."
"Okay," Eames says, letting out a breath Arthur hadn't known he was fighting. "I'm glad it's not just me. I've been trying to fight it, but it's--surprisingly difficult."
"We could…not fight it," Arthur says slowly, after a long pause. "I mean, I don't--it's not terrible, you know. Being this way. Or--I mean, not being stuffed animals, that's a fucking bummer, but this part. Not so bad."
"No," Eames says quietly, "no, it's not, is it."
"Mmm," Arthur sighs, rubbing his cheek against Eames' chest flagrantly and shamelessly and not really awake enough to regret it.
"I can't believe I just heard you say the word 'bummer,'" Eames teases after a second. Arthur huffs out a faint laugh, but doesn't comment. "You really were a pothead in college, weren't you?"
"Soooo much weed," Arthur agrees. "So much. I went to a Burning Man my senior year."
"You did not," Eames says, laughing.
"I did," Arthur admits, smiling a little. "It was a good time."
"Why'd you give it up?" Eames asks. "Being a filthy hippy, I mean."
Arthur shrugs. "The military recruited me. It seemed silly, after dreamshare. Childish."
"Hmmm," Eames says. Then: "I went to Eton, you know."
"I do know," says Arthur. "I did your background check. I always kind of thought you'd forged their records, though."
"All perfectly legitimate, I'm afraid."
Arthur files this away for further consideration when he's less exhausted. "Did you like it?"
"Loathed it, actually," Eames sighs. "Terribly stuffy place, no sense of imagination at all. And no hippies anywhere, more's the pity."
Arthur kind of grins against Eames' chest. "If we get out of here," he says, "we're going to Bonnaroo."
"Oh, darling," Eames murmurs sadly. Arthur frowns, confused.
"What?"
Eames sighs and rubs a hand along his back. "Arthur--you said if."
--
They develop a routine of sorts over the next four days. The mornings are spent with Christopher Robin, traipsing through the forest on strange adventures of his design that none of them remember properly when they're through. The afternoons are spent on strange adventures of their own, following whatever paths they feel like, and they get high at night.
No one comments on the tension they're all feeling, the growing sense of dread, until the sixth night.
They'd instructed the kid they'd hired to run the PASIV to wake Yusuf first, a real-time hour before the rest of them, to give him time to prepare and inject the mark with a secondary sedative. It was something they did often now, keeping the mark under after the dream was over--Yusuf had discovered a compound that could do it safely, and it spared the the chance of any awkward, job-killing interactions.
His kick was meant to come at sunset.
"There's st-st-still some light," Ariadne says tremulously, hopefully, starting at the sky. "If you squint--"
"No there's not," Yusuf sighs, drawing her close with his front leg. "It's not coming. The kick's not coming."
"Oh, god," Eames says. His arms wrap around Arthur from behind and he drops his head onto Arthur's shoulder, even as Arthur turns to bury his face in Eames' neck. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Cobb's back seam rip, stuffing pouring out, sees Saito shove it back in with a broad wing and then pull Cobb in with the same.
"We're never going to get out of here," Arthur whispers.
"Don't, love," Eames says, his voice cracking, "don't--"
"I want to throw up," Ariadne says--her voice is distant, filtered through a haze of horrified realization. "Oh, god, what the hell are we going to--"
"Do you," Cobb says suddenly, lifting his head from Saito's plumage, "do you guys hear something?"
Arthur listens hopefully, but it's not Edith Piaf he hears. Instead it's a--a clamoring, like a thousand feet stamping. He peers out into the darkness and sees what looks like a giant cloud of dust coming toward them.
"Eames," he says.
"I see it," Eames murmurs. "What do you think--"
"H-h-heffalumps," Ariadne stutters. "H-h-heffalumps and w-w-woozles."
"Don't be ridiculous--" Cobb starts.
"I'm n-not!" Ariadne cries. "We haven't seen any p-p-projections this whole t-time, don't you t-t-think they'd be in character too? H-h…those things are the v-villains of the Pooh stories."
The cloud is drawing closer. Arthur stares and sees that she's right--there must be a hundred of them, cartoonish, garish bastardizations of elephants and weasels. He tightens his grip on Eames.
"Well," Eames laughs, "at least they can't kill us. Nothing they do could--"
The crowd draws to a stop about 20 feet away, and Eames trails off, staring. As they watch a roaring fire comes to life in front of them, making the distorted faces that much more ghastly.
Arthur thinks about the flamibility of fabric and stuffing. He thinks, despite how hard he's trying not to, about limbo.
"Ah," Eames says, staring at the flames and swallowing hard, "admittedly, I did not think of that."
"What do we do now?" Ariadne hisses on Yusuf's back.
"Having--some--impulse--control--problems," Cobb manages. Arthur looks over at him in surprise and sees that he's doubled over, clawing at his throat.
"Now is not the time," he hisses. "Just give in, whatever it is, and then help us think of a way to get out of this!"
Cobb nods, rocks back on his heels, opens his mouth, and bellows "CHRISTOPHER ROBIN!"
Arthur stares at him, agape. He feels Eames' grip on his slacken briefly before it goes tight again, and then--to his extreme surprise--he sees the boy walking out of the clearing.
Only it's not the boy. It's their mark.
"Oh, go away," she says to the crowd, waving an irritated hand. "You're no fun at all."
The fire goes out at once. Shockingly, the sun comes out. The crowd vanishes as quickly as it had come.
"Okay," Arthur says slowly, "what the hell is going on?"
"Sorry, dear," she says, patting him on the head, "I know how you like your facts." Arthur wants to bristle at her touch but finds he can't--whatever strange control she'd had over him as Christopher Robin is clearly still partially in place. He glares at her instead, doesn't step away from Eames.
"Explain," Cobb demands. Their mark laughs, her hair white and loose in the sudden wind.
"You're all so funny," she says. "Alan was all for leaving you down here indefinitely, but I knew I liked the sound of you. I've had a lovely few days."
She peers at all of their slack faces and then sighs, clearly annoyed at having to be more detailed. "I've known you were coming for months. My grandson," she says, "is in the dreamsharing business."
"What?" Arthur demands. He'd done the damned research, he'd double and triple checked--
"Oh, don't be hard on yourself," the mark chides. "He's been presumed dead for almost fifteen years, poor thing. Got himself in quite a spot starting out, faking his death was just easier."
"Is it--" Arthur starts, yanking on his ears in frustration. "Is he anyone we know?"
"Know?" she laughs. "Why, honey, you hired him."
"The kid," Eames breathes. Arthur glances at him, confused. "The kid! The kid we hired to run the PASIV, I knew he looked older than 18--"
"He's very protective, poor dear," she sighs. "Taught me to dreamshare years ago. I've gotten rather good at it, as you may have noticed. He's a chemist, himself."
"Wait," Yusuf says. "You said Alan before. You don't mean Alan Alexander, do you?"
"It was Alan Alexander Milne when he was born," the mark sighs. "After my grandfather. He abandoned the surname when all the trouble started."
"He's a legend," Yusuf breathes. "I didn't think he was even real--every chemist knows his name. He's made some incredible leaps with chemically-based emotional control within dreamshare, if the rumors are true."
"Oh my god," Arthur says, piecing it all together. "Have we--have we spent the week as guinea pigs for a mad fucking scientist?"
"Language," the mark says sternly. "But yes, more or less. We couldn't very well let you run about down here planting ideas in my head, now could we?"
"But--but that's evil," Ariadne says, shock eliminating her stutter. The old woman laughs.
"No more evil than breaking into someone's mind," she says gently. "You'll all be perfectly fine when you wake up."
"We can't wake up!" Eames cries. "We're sedated, if we die down here we'll end up in limbo, we're trapped like this--"
"Oh, dear," she says, "don't be silly. Alan didn't sedate me. All I have to do is die, and the dream will collapse. You'll be home in no time at all."
As she says this, a gun materializes in her hand. "You have entertained me so," she says, beaming at them. "Thank you."
And then, without even a moment of hesitation, she pulls the trigger.
The world--erupts.
Arthur can't hold on to everyone at once, and everything is coming apart at the seams--the ground has split underneath his feet and the sky is screaming, a thousand different colors. Yusuf is gripping the back of Ariadne's shirt between his teeth in trying keep hold of her and Saito's got Cobb by an arm with his talons, and every part of Arthur is wrapped around every part of Eames, gripping stubbornly, refusing to let go.
It lasts far longer than it should, garish and horrifying. It makes Arthur's eyes burn so he closes them, tightening his fists against Eames' back, until everything is a bright, blinding white--
--
The first thing Arthur does when he wakes up is reach into his pocket to grasp his totem. His fingers close around it and he picks it up, feeling the reassuring weight of it, the grooves of the dots.
The second thing he does is look for Eames.
They're in the cottage they'd rented for this job, next door to the mark's summer home, and Eames is blinking awake in the chair across from him. He reaches into his pocket and then, immediately, looks for Arthur, the frantic worry fading from his face when their eyes meet.
Arthur smiles. Eames smiles back.
"Shit," Cobb gasps, "oh, thank fucking god," and then they're all ripping the IVs out of their arms and standing up, checking over their limbs to reassure themselves that they've still got them. The mark herself is gone, her grandson too--how they've managed that Arthur doesn't know, doesn't care to ask.
"My dick," Eames cries, grabbing it over his trousers. "Oh, thank Christ, oh god yes--"
And then, in a moment of completely uncontrolled glee, he pitches himself backwards to bounce his adulation and lands on the floor, hard.
The room goes silent.
"Fucking hell," Eames breathes after a second. Wordlessly, Arthur crosses the room and helps him up, and then the full hilarity of the situation hits him. He tries to stifle his laugh but can't, he really can't, and Eames only glares for half a second before he cracks a smile too.
And then they're all laughing, and it's great, it's a release--except that Arthur keeps going, can't figure out how to stop. There are tears streaming down his face and it wasn't even that funny but he's so relieved, and he's choking on it but he can't stop, he can't stop laughing, because he's not going to die in limbo, he's not going to be trapped in a cartoon hellhole forever--
"Oh, darling," he hears Eames say, and then he feels broad palms on his back, warm and solid. Even that--the feeling of hands instead of paws, warm through his shirt instead of through his fur--even that sets him off, and he gasps against Eames' shoulder, shuddering with it.
"Shhh," Eames murmurs. "You'll give yourself a hernia, love, calm down."
"I--" Arthur tries, but he can't get words out over the howling laughter, so he stops talking and concentrates on breathing. It takes a lot longer than he would like, and when he's finally got himself under control everyone has cleared out but Eames, who tilts his face up and stares at it.
"Hmm," he says.
"What?" Arthur demands, feeling himself edge towards hysteria again.
"It's just so nice to want to do this again," Eames murmurs, "now that I know that I can."
And then they're kissing, and Arthur is pushing Eames into the wall, and Eames is pulling Arthur's hair, ripping at his shirt, his pants. Arthur falls to the floor with Eames on top of him and writhes, biting at his neck, his throat, his fucking hands, while Eames seems to make it his personal mission to touch every part of Arthur he can with his tongue.
Eames has Arthur's cock in his mouth within six minutes. They've both come spectacularly all over the floor within ten.
--
"Hey," Arthur says the next night, curled against Eames in his hotel suite. It's weird that it should feel natural, to be this comfortable in their actual bodies--but then again, maybe not. "You know what? I almost miss your tail."
"My arse misses my tail," Eames groans. "I still can't believe I've tried to bounce three times--you'd think I'd sodding learn."
"I went to yank on my ears at Starbucks this morning," Arthur offers, a conciliatory gesture. "That was embarrassing."
Eames laughs delightedly and reaches out to tug lightly on one of Arthur's earlobes. "I thought that's what that was."
"At least neither of us is carrying around a speech impediment," Arthur yawns, thinking of Ariadne.
Eames shrugs. "It's already fading. She'll be fine by the end of the week."
"Mmm," Arthur agrees. He closes his eyes, and is feeling very close to drifting off when…
"Darling?" Eames asks, prodding him.
"Mmmm?"
"Were you serious about Bonnaroo?"
Arthur levers himself upright, smiling down at Eames. "I bought the tickets this morning, actually," he admits. "I figured we could use the break."
Eames grins at him, a wide, full thing. His eyes are sparkling and he's got a hand resting against Arthur's jawline, and Arthur is suddenly, fiercely happy, in a way he can't begin to quantify. He kisses Eames and settles back down against him, turning the thing over in his mind.
Well, he decides in the end, even if we did end up with post-traumatic Pooh disorder, this is probably worth it.
fin.