Shattered Beneath Your Fingers (Part 4)
Author's notes: This is a companion story to The Consequences of Trust a.k.a. Eames POV.
Warnings: Suicide Themes
Disclaimer: This story/artwork is based on characters and situations created and owned by the Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. They are not mine, I just like to play with them.
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Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
Eames’ eyes drift open and he stares at the morning lit ceiling of his hotel in Berlin. Arthur had been here maybe just a week ago. Eames keeps missing him him by days. He usually loves this city. He loves the academia, the arts, the quiet bistros and the booming nightclubs. But each day in Berlin without finding Arthur is another day of guilt, of wondering if the point man is ok.
He runs his palms over his face, working the sleep out of his eyes. His neck is tense with stress and exhaustion. Arthur is not an easy man to find, let alone catch. It doesn’t help that Eames hasn’t been sleeping well. It’s not as if he sleeps in a regular fashion, but at least irregular hours never meant lack of actual sleep.
Now he’s restless, usually only able to snag a few hours a night. He keeps having the same dream. Every night he carefully buries Arthur’s beaten body in the green landscape of a park. Sometimes he sits with it, smoothing his hand over Arthur’s dark hair, avoiding the fragile crushed bones of his face. Sometimes he buries the body quickly, wandering the landscape aimlessly until eventually circling back to the park. His mind always circles back to Arthur.
He’s tried ignoring it, just walking away, walking away from the park and the square of disturbed soil. But he can’t escape it. He always comes back, always has to take care of Arthur. He can never just leave him, alone, broken, exposed.
But that’s exactly what I did wasn’t it?
He left Arthur, left him to deal with it himself. Eames left him alone with festering wounds until Arthur snapped. Until he became something not himself, something fragile and confused. He shouldn’t have thought Arthur would be fine. What kind of a monster is he that he could do that to someone he cares about?
It eats away at Eames, knowing that he caused this. That his hands broke the strongest man in the business. The man that guided Dom, fucking crazy, Cobb home. Who kept everyone safe. The man who handled every problem with efficient determination.
Arthur had been barely able to keep it together in Columbia. Eames has never seen him like that. Never seen anything but control and a calm exterior. Even under the threat of limbo, Arthur had only vented with a raised voice and angry glares.
Eames sighs and sits up. He had been planning to meet with some mutual friends for dinner, see if they’d heard anything about Arthur, but instead he packs his bags. Arthur isn’t here. Eames is not going to find him in this country. He knows this. This is all just an exercise in futility.
He calls Ariadne.
“Any word?” she asks. And he sighs into the phone, sinking down against the wall until he’s sitting, legs splayed out awkwardly in front of him.
“Nothing,” he huffs.
“We’ll find him, Eames,” she soothes. But even she sounds less certain than usual. Her youthful naivete eaten away by just a few years in this field of work. Being the best has it’s dangers. Ariadne has now found that out the hard way. He hopes that she doesn’t have to learn the lesson twice.
“How’s Wild?” Eames asks, just to say words. Just to hear himself say anything other than what his mind keeps wanting to scream. Where the fuck are you, Arthur?
“He’s... he’s good, Eames. But you don’t care about that. We’ll find him, ok? Don’t let it get to you.”
Eames doesn’t bother to convince her he’s sincere. She’s right. She’s right about both. He can’t let this get to him if he’s going to find Arthur. He has to focus. He has to carry on.
***
Florence is nearly a disaster. Eames wonders if Arthur found out about Eames’ history here. Scratch that, knows Arthur knows his history here. He wonders if Arthur is purposefully trying to get him killed or if he simply thought Eames wouldn’t follow.
Or does Arthur even know that I following him?
He’s nursing a black eye and split lip, sitting in the dingy room of a cheap hostel. He has to lay low for few days until he’s healed, until he can make a new passport and get the hell out of the country. He bites his lip in frustration before remembering his wound. He hisses in pain when it splits open again, spilling blood onto his tongue, the acidic tang spreading across his taste buds.
He wonders why he came here at all. Arthur has always been a few steps ahead of him. This is all useless. He can’t follow anymore. And anyway, he has no leads after this. Florence was his last shot. Eames can’t find any new trail on Arthur. He’s completely off grid now and Eames has run out of connections, has run out of ideas.
In a few days, when his knuckles and face have healed enough, he’ll use his new I.D. and maybe go to Morocco. Or he could try the States. Or maybe he’ll go back to England for a while. The weather would be fitting for his mood.
***
Eames is sipping his tea from the ceramic mug of quiet cafe. The sheer lack of customers is the reason he can put up with mediocre brews and the disinterested boredom emanating from the staff. In fact, that’s precisely why he’s here. He does not want to be bothered by anyone.
He’s been in nothing but a foul mood since narrowly escaping with his life from Italy. Failure does not sit well with him, nearly dying, even less so. It’s puzzling, because he’s always had such a strong sense of self preservation, and yet he risked everything to traipse around in hostile territory for clues from a man he knows would be long gone.
It’s hard to admit when you care too much for your own good. But there’s nothing, really, he can do about that. It’s not like he’s going to suddenly stop. His dreams are proof of that. He doesn’t think he would want to stop, except for the fact that everyday without knowing if Arthur is safe, is torture. It’s been a month and not a single trace of Arthur has turned up.
His phone ringing draws him out of his bitter thoughts.
“Hello, love,” he greets.
“He’s here, Eames.”
Eames snaps to attention, body going rigid and he nearly drops his cup. Instead he sets it down, wincing as it clatters on the saucer. Ariadne continues without prompting, without clarifying, because she knows Eames understands who she is speaking of.
“We ran into him. He lives here, in Paris, somewhere.”
“I’m on my way.”
“There’s a flight out of England at seven. I’ll pick you up at the airport?”
“I’ll be there with bells on.”
***
Eames feels just a little ridiculous as they pour over a map with a drafting compass theorizing about human habits in relation to Arthur. He’s never actually thought of the man in terms of laundry service and shopping trips.
“He had groceries with him, so he had to have been at either this market, or this one here,” Ariadne points out two small areas on the map.
“He was walking, so we should probably assume he lives within a kilometer of either, probably less.”
“Maybe he enjoys the exercise? He could live farther,” Eames suggests. Really, Arthur could be anywhere in this city.
“No, Arthur said he doesn’t go out much. And by the look of him, I’d say any trip was made as quickly as possible.”
Eames feels himself tense at that fact, somehow knowing with that brief statement that Arthur has gotten much worse. Ariadne reaches over and gives his hand a quick, reassuring squeeze before she continues.
“We saw him walking this direction, so I’m thinking he’s going to be within these blocks here. There are apartments and small homes here and here. I’m assuming he wouldn’t have a large house. It doesn’t seem his style.”
“No, it wouldn’t be,” Eames agrees. “Arthur is efficient, and not wasteful. He wouldn’t want to clean extra rooms, and wouldn’t take more than he needs anyway.”
“So we start there, and if we don’t find him, we’ll try elsewhere.”
Eames nods, staring at the map. This is the first time he’s actually felt hopeful. Arthur had at least been seen, and he’d been seen just yesterday. Hopefully that wasn’t enough time for him pack up and take off. Eames hopes, with everything that he has, that Arthur is still here.
***
It’s two weeks before Eames spots him. He’d nearly lost hope, thinking Arthur had left again, running across the world to get away. But Eames, waiting, just sitting on a street corner in a car, hoping that Arthur lives anywhere near here, finally spots him.
It’s late, the sun already having set hours ago, and Arthur comes out of an apartment into the empty streets. Eames immediately perks up at the site of him. He could jump out of the car and hug the man, for all he wants to, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to scare him off. He needs to know if Arthur really is as bad off as he had seemed on the last job.
Instead of following him, like he’s itching to, Eames sits in the same spot and impatiently waits for Arthur to return. When the point man does, he’s carrying groceries. Eames glances at his watch taking note of the time. Arthur is shopping at closing, probably to avoid the crowds, or being found. That thought bothers Eames but the satisfaction of finally sighting Arthur overwhelms it. Finally, he knows where Arthur is.
He sits outside Arthur’s apartment for a few more days, watching. Arthur doesn’t leave, not once. Eames keeps trying to think of what he’s going to say to him. Could he just knock on the door, be invited in for a chat? Would have to force his way in?
And what does Eames have to say? What can he say? That he’s sorry? That he never wanted to hurt him? He still had. He still had beaten the life out him with is own two hands. What kind of apology would that be? I’m sorry I tortured you, I did it for the job. I’m sorry I thought you were stronger. I’m sorry that I’m a terrible person that can kill their own friend in such a cruel way.
The more he thinks about it, the more he regrets the situation. He should have ended the job, then and there, when he’d been asked to kill Arthur. He should have just shot him and said he wasn’t in the mood for physical exertion that day, Weiss. He should have talked to Arthur immediately after, at the very least.
And he doesn’t want to do this now, doesn’t know what to say, but he will. He has to. He has to at least try and make things better. Better for Arthur, even if they aren’t better for himself. Because Arthur didn’t ever deserve this.
He’s just about to step out of the car when Arthur’s door opens. The man emerges in an angry disjointed jog. His hair is a mess of untamed curls, like he’s dragged his hand through it and tugged it out in frustration. His jacket is wrinkled, shirt untucked, and Eames can see he’s not even wearing socks.
Then he sees the distinct bulge of a firearm at his back. Some handgun is tucked into Arthur’s pants. Eames hair stands on end and his heart skips a beat. Arthur never disregards firearm safety. Something is very clearly wrong.
Arthur stalks off up the street, all nervous energy, ignoring the world around him. Eames quickly leaves the car and follows. He doesn’t know where Arthur is going, or what he’s so upset over, but he has to follow. This Arthur seems unnervingly dangerous. He seems even more dangerous than the Arthur who took out five men, without so much as blinking, after a botched job in Trinidad.
Arthur doesn’t stop, doesn’t even pause crossing streets. Cars screech to stop and Arthur doesn’t even seem to notice. Just continues on his warpath heading uphill. And it becomes obvious where Arthur is headed because Eames can see the basilique sitting above them.
This seems like a bad turn of events. Le Sacré-Coeur is crowded, lots of civilians, and Arthur looks out of his mind. Eames doesn’t know what Arthur is capable of right now, he just hopes that Arthur isn’t completely mad.
When they reach the top of the staircase Eames gets caught by the crowd. Arthur rushes through like nobody is there at all. Eames is trying to weave his way to him when he sees someone knock into Arthur. The world slows down to a crawl, his vision blurred on the edges because he’s only focused on Arthur. And he waits, just waits for Arthur to draw his gun on the poor tourist.
But Arthur doesn’t draw. He looks startled, like the world just came crashing back on him. Eames makes to move towards him, trying to get through the crowd. He darts around a family but when he looks up again Arthur isn’t there.
He glances around, frantically, trying to relocate him. He spots him on the edge of the crowd, near one set of steps. Arthur is moving fast. He’s racing off, down the stairs. He’s running. Eames darts through the crowd to get to him. He doesn’t care how this looks. Doesn’t care that it looks like he’s chasing him, because he is.
But Arthur is too fast. He’s sprinting down the hill and Eames isn’t in that great of shape. Sure he can outrun pursuit, for a short time, but he usually relied on getting the upper hand, or an advantageous position, or just plain hiding.
Arthur can run forever it seems. Arthur has the stamina of, of something that can go a long time. A whale, they swim forever right, constantly moving? Or penguins. He’d watched that movie, those bastards could walk forever.
He’s breathing hard, lungs burning, regretting every cigarette he’d ever smoked, and he still hasn’t caught up to Arthur. But they’re back on his street, so Arthur has to be going home. And that’s fine. That’s safe. Arthur going home is acceptable, because he’s not out in some crowd, or wandering the streets of Paris.
Eames slows down. He can’t fucking breathe. He stops, hands on knees, trying to get air again. He knows you aren’t supposed to stop after running, you’re supposed to walk it off, but fuck that! He just needs to not collapse on the sidewalk right now.
After a minute he goes to his car. He sits in the drivers seat, collecting himself. He still doesn’t know what to say, and he really would like Arthur to calm down before he confronts him. If that display back there was anything to go by it’s very likely that a gun will be aimed at him if he goes in now.
He waits for about ten minutes. Arthur should have calmed by now, yeah? But when he knocks on the door there’s no answer.
“Arthur? Arthur, I know you’re in there. Please answer the door.”
Eames pauses, listening. Still nothing. He looks around nervously before knocking again.
“Arthur, please. I know you don’t really want to talk to me, but I need to speak with you.”
A sense of dread washes over him. Arthur not answering, not even to yell obscenities at him through the door, makes him nervous. He pounds on the door more forcefully.
“Arthur. Arthur, if you don’t answer this door, I’m going to kick it in. I would really prefer that you not shoot me, ok? Rather, I would prefer if you open the door yourself. Arthur?”
Still no answer, and now Eames has a growing sense of panic. He tests the handle, just to make sure he doesn’t have to break anything if he doesn’t need to, but finds that it is indeed locked. He steps back, giving the door a swift kick just below the bolt.
The frame cracks but the dead bolt holds. It takes five more kicks to break through and surely the neighbors would have noticed that, but Eames doesn’t care. He doesn’t care because not a sound has been emitted from within the apartment. No click of a gun slide being cocked, no get the fuck out, Eames! yelled at him. Nothing but the splintering wood and his heavy breathing.
He bursts inside finding an empty living room. With urgent strides he makes his way through the apartment, checking each room he passes. Down the hall he sees a closed door. Immediately he makes his way to it. When he tries to open it he finds the door stuck, opening only enough to barely see in.
He doesn’t like what he finds. A hand and rumpled shirtsleeve lay motionless on the floor. Desperately he shoves at the door, pushing at the obstruction only to find that the barrier is Arthur’s limp body.
“Arthur? Arthur? Fuck. Please, Arthur, speak to me, darling. Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
Eames draws the unresponsive man into his arms, ignoring the vomit smeared down his face, along the floor. Eames lets go of his held breath when he finds that Arthur is still breathing. Wet, shuddering, gasps that are too shallow and too few, but still there.
“Oh thank Mary, Mother,” Eames breaths out in relief.
He clears Arthur’s throat as much as possible, hoping that none of the sick went into his lungs. He pulls out his cell and dials fifteen. Fuck the paper trail, fuck the fact that they’re criminals, Arthur needs help immediately.
He waits impatiently for the ambulance to arrive, stroking Arthur’s hair from his eyes, and just holding him like he can hold Arthur’s life inside his body, like if he lets go Arthur’s being will escape. He tries not to think about if he had waited more, or how this could have been prevented if he hadn’t waited at all.
When the ambulance arrives they bustle Arthur inside, checking over him and asking Eames questions he can’t answer. He stares, in a daze at Arthur’s bluish skin, his placid face underneath the oxygen mask. He just stares, trying to understand how he could have been so stupid.
***
Eames can be extremely charming. He can be extremely convincing when he wants something. And more than anything he wants to be in that room, sitting with Arthur until he wakes up. So he slides into the role, dashing boyfriend who’s desperately wanting to see if his love is all right. Wooing the nurses with humble submissiveness. Asking politely for them to allow him to stay, saying he understands if they can’t. But he needs to be there.
He’s thankful that women have a soft spot for romance stories, no matter how tragic. It’s one of their better qualities, empathy and sympathy. The nurses allow him to stay. He sits in the corner chewing on his fingernails, caring nothing for falling back into the bad habit.
They’ve cleaned as much of the charcoal away from his face as possible, but there are still streaks of it across his skin. Arthur is lying so still it’s almost easy to just picture him as hooked up to a PASIV, dreaming. But the tube in his arm is an I.V. and not the dream machine. The steady beat of his heart is pulsed out on digital monitors.
Eames stays, sits, for hours, waiting.
When Arthur wakes Eames can’t seem to move. He stays silent, stunned, until Arthur pulls the I.V. from his arm and tries to stand. It’s obvious that Arthur intends to get out of here, but Eames can tell he won’t make it. Not without help.
He clears his throat and speaks, “You’re lucky your liver isn’t permanently damaged. And while I have no doubts in your fighting skills, you’re only two hours after nearly ending your life. There are two armed guards outside the door, Arthur, are you sure you’re up for a fight?”
The first words come out condescending and he winces, because bloody hell, is he really throwing sarcasm at someone who just tried to kill himself?
Arthur nearly keels over, and Eames is on his feet before he even registers that he’s moving. He’s holding Arthur up, trying to calm him through his coughing fit and then Arthur grabs his hand and yanks him forward, throwing him off balance.
He recovers quickly, before Arthur can throw him down, but then hands are coming straight at his throat. Eames blocks, instinct taking hold, and he wraps Arthur’s arm back behind him, shoving him backwards towards the wall. When he has Arthur pinned he pauses, willing Arthur to calm down. Trying to sooth him with kind words.
Arthur is sobbing, pleading with him. He’s so small in Eames’ arms. Eames shushes him, stroking his hair gently.
“Darling, I’m so sorry. I know that you are confused and afraid right now, but you need to trust me.”
Did he just ask Arthur to trust him?
Arthur must be mad because he is relaxing into Eames. He’s allowing Eames to guide him, to help him. This worries Eames even more than finding Arthur on the floor of his apartment, passed out in a pool of his own vomit, with an empty prescription bottle next to his head.
“We need to get you out of here. And I can’t do that by myself. I’ll be damned if they’re going to lock you in an institution. We both know very well how that turns out for people like us, yeah?”
And that’s the damned truth. Psyche wards were dangerous places for dreamers. He wouldn’t wish being trapped in one on his worst enemies. He doesn’t know if he could handle society telling him his life isn’t real, his job isn’t real. Half the time he has to remind himself of that anyway.
Arthur nods his agreement and Eames is contemplating a plan. They can sneak out, so long as he can get Arthur out of this room. So long as he can get him past the guards enough to make a break for it. So long as Arthur can stay standing for long enough to get to the car.
He leads him to the restroom he saw on the way in, placating the guards with a sympathy inducing tall tale of Arthur’s modesty. He reluctantly leaves Arthur alone to find some clothes, and when he returns Arthur is sitting on the toilet, head in hands.
He draws Arthur’s attention, handing him the scrubs and slippers he’d snagged from a shelf. The scrubs have penguins on them and in any other situation Eames would have found some bit of glee in seeing Arthur dressed in something so absurd. But as it is, they’re short on time, and as soon as Arthur has slipped into the garments, Eames shuffles him towards the exit.
They don’t even make it to the doors before a guard spots them and Eames drags Arthur along, sprinting for his car. When said guard tackles Arthur to the ground, Eames’ world goes red. He doubles back, attacking the guard and pushing Arthur out of the way. He grapples with the man, tries to put him down quickly because he doesn’t have time for this.
With a regretful blow to the head, Eames knocks to guy out. He hopes he hasn’t caused any real damage, but he can’t dwell, he’s catching up to Arthur, unlocking the doors with his key remote, and scrambling to get the car started.
Arthur finally confronts him after he’s stopped hacking up his lungs and they’re well away from the hospital.
“What are you doing here, Eames?”
Eames has to think about that one, pauses, trying to gather the exact words he wants to say. Nothing concise can possibly convey all of the emotional turmoil he feels over this situation, so he goes with a vague truth. Something illustrative of their ridiculous situation, but that admits his fault in all this.
“In a normal situation, I’d say I was saving your life. But as it stands, I think I’m just making up for a rather large mistake I’ve made.”
“You were following me, at le Sacré-Cœur.” It’s not a question at all. Eames is thankful that Arthur noticed, that he wasn’t as completely gone as Eames had thought when he watched him in the crowd.
“Yes.”
“I thought I was going insane.”
And that drops the bottom out of their conversation. Because Arthur was as gone as Eames had thought. He thought he was seeing things, that Eames wasn’t there. Is this what Arthur has been dealing with? Has Arthur been looking over his shoulder all this time, seeing ghosts?
There are so many questions that Eames keeps running through his mind, but he keeps circling back to what Arthur had said as he cried into Eames shoulder in the hospital.
Don't you know you are killing me? Over and over, every night.
“Do you really dream of me?” Eames asks.
He has to know. Has to confirm that this is what it’s about. That he’s in Arthur’s dreams, violent and murderous. That he’s torturing Arthur with the memories. He knows it’s true, but he has to ask. He doesn’t want it to be true. But he knows. He knows because he replays it in his mind as well. And why didn’t he think that if he was so caught up in this mess, that Arthur wouldn’t be ten times worse?
“Every night,” Arthur confirms. And Eames gives a response automatically, but he really doesn’t have anything of importance to say to that. No defense. So they drive.
***
It’s been a month since Eames stole Arthur from the hospital. They’re in a hotel that they’ve rented long term. A suite with two beds and a living area. He wanted them to be on neutral ground. They can’t go back to Arthur’s home, not after their little stunt with the hospital. But Eames doesn’t want to bring Arthur anywhere loaded, anywhere personal. They stay in a hotel because both of them are used to it, always traveling.
He stays and watches Arthur, forcing the man to acclimate to his presence. Arthur doesn’t bristle every time he enters the room anymore, but he’d nearly received a broken nose for entering Arthur’s personal space too suddenly. They’ve both learned Arthur’s boundaries now.
He waits, but he feels restless. Arthur isn’t getting much better. Sure he’s no longer jumpy at Eames presence, but he also hasn’t left the room. Not once. He sits, silently, in his sweatpants and doesn’t even watch the television. Just sits, and stares, and barely sleeps.
There’s a list now of any other times that Eames has built up. Any other time Arthur with mussed hair, in a t-shirt, would have been a much appreciated site. Because any other time Eames would have been allowed to see it, by Arthur’s very deliberate choice. Any other time Eames would have jumped at the chance to simply watch Arthur wake up and eat breakfast. Any other time he would have loved to see Arthur on the couch, not working, completely without responsibility. Any other time he would have appreciated being allowed in Arthur’s presence when the man was displaying any kind of vulnerability.
Eames tries to think of ways to bridge the divide between them. But he can’t come up with anything meaningful to explain how he feels. His words mean nothing when it comes down to it. The only thing he keeps coming back to is his dreams. If only he could show Arthur how much he actually cared. Because of everything he has gathered from the bits that Arthur has revealed is that Arthur couldn’t handle his friend killing him so coldly. That he couldn’t trust anyone again, because you don’t do that to a person.
And Eames knows, he knows that’s true. You don’t do that to a person. And he’d give anything to take it back. But he needs Arthur to know that he did care. Does care. That Arthur meant, means, something to him. That he will never make that mistake again.
He tries, he tries so hard to get Arthur to go under with him, so he can show him the dream. So he can try and just show Arthur, something, anything. But Arthur doesn’t trust him. Eames can’t blame him. He just has to be patient. He can be patient. He can do this, for Arthur, no matter how long it takes.
***
They’re walking through the grass, morning dew still clinging to the green blades. The sun is rising beyond the hill in a pink and yellow glow. Silver glistens off tree leaves and the air is crisp. The scene is more pure, more ethereal than usual. It’s tinged with less sadness.
Eames wanted to make it beautiful. As beautiful as possible. He’s not an architect, no, but he has a vivid imagination. He can make this more than it is, if he concentrates.
Arthur follows him, unsure. He barely glances around, doesn’t seem to notice the setting, but Eames ignores this, because finally Arthur is here. Finally Arthur has allowed Eames to take him under. And Eames will try to show him, try to make him understand.
They make their way to the center of the field, where the ground is freshly upturned, an obvious mark on the pristine landscape. Eames stops about a meter away, waiting for Arthur to catch up the small distance that he has lagged behind. He can feel Arthur come to a stop next to him, and glances up.
“What is this?” Arthur asks.
Suddenly Eames is unsure. What exactly does he say? Will Arthur understand? But he sucks in a breath, and lays it out. Because all he can do is say his piece and hope that something comes of it.
“This is where I buried you. Bury you every time I dream.”
The grave opens, revealing the hollow expanse of dirt and rocks. There’s nothing inside this time, because Arthur is here, alive. But the grave is the same, shallow, dark, ominous, and sad. It’s a wound in Eames’ mind. A wound made of Arthur, of Arthur’s pain.
“I don’t understand.” Arthur says, just barely a whisper.
“I couldn’t leave you. I couldn’t just leave your body. It was just a dream, but I couldn’t bear it. I had to, to do something.”
“You buried me?”
“It’s, quite literally, the least I could do. I should have never let you think I didn’t care. I should never have killed you like that, Arthur.”
“But you did.”
“Yes. And I don’t even want your forgiveness. I don’t deserve that. But I can’t bear to see you like this. You don’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve any of this.”
Eames turns to Arthur and tentatively reaches out, leveling his hand with Arthur’s face for a brief moment before stroking over his cheek with the pad of his thumb. Arthur flinches at the touch, but otherwise doesn't react, doesn’t try move away. Eames traces over the bone, remembering so clearly how on the body it was crushed, ruining Arthur’s structure.
He moves his hand to the back of Arthur’s neck, resting it lightly and fingering the curls at the nape of his neck. He takes a step closer to Arthur, slowly, allowing the man to adjust if needed. Arthur doesn’t pull away, but he’s rigid beneath Eames’ touch.
Eames looks Arthur directly in the eye, and Arthur doesn’t break the gaze. He stares, right at Eames, eyes wide with uncertainty. Eames leans in, closer and closer until his lips are just hovering above Arthur’s.
“I’m so sorry,” Eames whispers. He can feel Arthur’s breath hitch, stuttering hot and wet against his skin. He pets Arthur’s neck again reassuringly and closes the gap. He plants one delicate, chaste, kiss on Arthur’s lips before pulling back just enough to look into Arthur’s eyes again.
“I do care. I always have,” he admits.
The time runs out.
When they emerge from the dream, Arthur doesn’t move. He doesn’t make to remove the needle from his wrist at all. Eames give him a few minutes before realizing that Arthur doesn’t even intend to take it out. So Eames delicately removes the line and swabs Arthur’s skin with a alcohol pad. Arthur doesn’t so much as move. Just watches him with guarded eyes.
Eames wants to scream. He wants to tear apart the world with his voice. He wants to drain his lungs of all oxygen until he chokes, until he passes out. He wants more than anything to shatter the silence of the room.
Arthur has regressed, and that too is Eames’ fault. Arthur curls himself into a ball on the bed and just lays there, staring at the wall. Eames just wanted Arthur to know that he cared. That he always cared, that Arthur didn’t have to be afraid of him. That he never meant to hurt Arthur and would take it all back.
And Eames wants to scream because he was so blind thinking that showing Arthur how much he cared would somehow fix the point man. That somehow all this could be be better. He’s pushed him too far.
He doesn’t know what to do anymore. He has no other plan. He doesn’t know where to go from here. He can’t leave Arthur. He will never leave him like this, afraid that Arthur will indeed kill himself. So he calls the one person he’d never wanted to deal with again. The man who put his problems before everyone else's safety, the man who nearly sent an entire team to limbo.
Eames calls Dominic Cobb.
Continue to Part 5
Warnings: Suicide Themes
Disclaimer: This story/artwork is based on characters and situations created and owned by the Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. They are not mine, I just like to play with them.
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Part 1 Part 2 Part 3
Eames’ eyes drift open and he stares at the morning lit ceiling of his hotel in Berlin. Arthur had been here maybe just a week ago. Eames keeps missing him him by days. He usually loves this city. He loves the academia, the arts, the quiet bistros and the booming nightclubs. But each day in Berlin without finding Arthur is another day of guilt, of wondering if the point man is ok.
He runs his palms over his face, working the sleep out of his eyes. His neck is tense with stress and exhaustion. Arthur is not an easy man to find, let alone catch. It doesn’t help that Eames hasn’t been sleeping well. It’s not as if he sleeps in a regular fashion, but at least irregular hours never meant lack of actual sleep.
Now he’s restless, usually only able to snag a few hours a night. He keeps having the same dream. Every night he carefully buries Arthur’s beaten body in the green landscape of a park. Sometimes he sits with it, smoothing his hand over Arthur’s dark hair, avoiding the fragile crushed bones of his face. Sometimes he buries the body quickly, wandering the landscape aimlessly until eventually circling back to the park. His mind always circles back to Arthur.
He’s tried ignoring it, just walking away, walking away from the park and the square of disturbed soil. But he can’t escape it. He always comes back, always has to take care of Arthur. He can never just leave him, alone, broken, exposed.
But that’s exactly what I did wasn’t it?
He left Arthur, left him to deal with it himself. Eames left him alone with festering wounds until Arthur snapped. Until he became something not himself, something fragile and confused. He shouldn’t have thought Arthur would be fine. What kind of a monster is he that he could do that to someone he cares about?
It eats away at Eames, knowing that he caused this. That his hands broke the strongest man in the business. The man that guided Dom, fucking crazy, Cobb home. Who kept everyone safe. The man who handled every problem with efficient determination.
Arthur had been barely able to keep it together in Columbia. Eames has never seen him like that. Never seen anything but control and a calm exterior. Even under the threat of limbo, Arthur had only vented with a raised voice and angry glares.
Eames sighs and sits up. He had been planning to meet with some mutual friends for dinner, see if they’d heard anything about Arthur, but instead he packs his bags. Arthur isn’t here. Eames is not going to find him in this country. He knows this. This is all just an exercise in futility.
He calls Ariadne.
“Any word?” she asks. And he sighs into the phone, sinking down against the wall until he’s sitting, legs splayed out awkwardly in front of him.
“Nothing,” he huffs.
“We’ll find him, Eames,” she soothes. But even she sounds less certain than usual. Her youthful naivete eaten away by just a few years in this field of work. Being the best has it’s dangers. Ariadne has now found that out the hard way. He hopes that she doesn’t have to learn the lesson twice.
“How’s Wild?” Eames asks, just to say words. Just to hear himself say anything other than what his mind keeps wanting to scream. Where the fuck are you, Arthur?
“He’s... he’s good, Eames. But you don’t care about that. We’ll find him, ok? Don’t let it get to you.”
Eames doesn’t bother to convince her he’s sincere. She’s right. She’s right about both. He can’t let this get to him if he’s going to find Arthur. He has to focus. He has to carry on.
***
Florence is nearly a disaster. Eames wonders if Arthur found out about Eames’ history here. Scratch that, knows Arthur knows his history here. He wonders if Arthur is purposefully trying to get him killed or if he simply thought Eames wouldn’t follow.
Or does Arthur even know that I following him?
He’s nursing a black eye and split lip, sitting in the dingy room of a cheap hostel. He has to lay low for few days until he’s healed, until he can make a new passport and get the hell out of the country. He bites his lip in frustration before remembering his wound. He hisses in pain when it splits open again, spilling blood onto his tongue, the acidic tang spreading across his taste buds.
He wonders why he came here at all. Arthur has always been a few steps ahead of him. This is all useless. He can’t follow anymore. And anyway, he has no leads after this. Florence was his last shot. Eames can’t find any new trail on Arthur. He’s completely off grid now and Eames has run out of connections, has run out of ideas.
In a few days, when his knuckles and face have healed enough, he’ll use his new I.D. and maybe go to Morocco. Or he could try the States. Or maybe he’ll go back to England for a while. The weather would be fitting for his mood.
***
Eames is sipping his tea from the ceramic mug of quiet cafe. The sheer lack of customers is the reason he can put up with mediocre brews and the disinterested boredom emanating from the staff. In fact, that’s precisely why he’s here. He does not want to be bothered by anyone.
He’s been in nothing but a foul mood since narrowly escaping with his life from Italy. Failure does not sit well with him, nearly dying, even less so. It’s puzzling, because he’s always had such a strong sense of self preservation, and yet he risked everything to traipse around in hostile territory for clues from a man he knows would be long gone.
It’s hard to admit when you care too much for your own good. But there’s nothing, really, he can do about that. It’s not like he’s going to suddenly stop. His dreams are proof of that. He doesn’t think he would want to stop, except for the fact that everyday without knowing if Arthur is safe, is torture. It’s been a month and not a single trace of Arthur has turned up.
His phone ringing draws him out of his bitter thoughts.
“Hello, love,” he greets.
“He’s here, Eames.”
Eames snaps to attention, body going rigid and he nearly drops his cup. Instead he sets it down, wincing as it clatters on the saucer. Ariadne continues without prompting, without clarifying, because she knows Eames understands who she is speaking of.
“We ran into him. He lives here, in Paris, somewhere.”
“I’m on my way.”
“There’s a flight out of England at seven. I’ll pick you up at the airport?”
“I’ll be there with bells on.”
***
Eames feels just a little ridiculous as they pour over a map with a drafting compass theorizing about human habits in relation to Arthur. He’s never actually thought of the man in terms of laundry service and shopping trips.
“He had groceries with him, so he had to have been at either this market, or this one here,” Ariadne points out two small areas on the map.
“He was walking, so we should probably assume he lives within a kilometer of either, probably less.”
“Maybe he enjoys the exercise? He could live farther,” Eames suggests. Really, Arthur could be anywhere in this city.
“No, Arthur said he doesn’t go out much. And by the look of him, I’d say any trip was made as quickly as possible.”
Eames feels himself tense at that fact, somehow knowing with that brief statement that Arthur has gotten much worse. Ariadne reaches over and gives his hand a quick, reassuring squeeze before she continues.
“We saw him walking this direction, so I’m thinking he’s going to be within these blocks here. There are apartments and small homes here and here. I’m assuming he wouldn’t have a large house. It doesn’t seem his style.”
“No, it wouldn’t be,” Eames agrees. “Arthur is efficient, and not wasteful. He wouldn’t want to clean extra rooms, and wouldn’t take more than he needs anyway.”
“So we start there, and if we don’t find him, we’ll try elsewhere.”
Eames nods, staring at the map. This is the first time he’s actually felt hopeful. Arthur had at least been seen, and he’d been seen just yesterday. Hopefully that wasn’t enough time for him pack up and take off. Eames hopes, with everything that he has, that Arthur is still here.
***
It’s two weeks before Eames spots him. He’d nearly lost hope, thinking Arthur had left again, running across the world to get away. But Eames, waiting, just sitting on a street corner in a car, hoping that Arthur lives anywhere near here, finally spots him.
It’s late, the sun already having set hours ago, and Arthur comes out of an apartment into the empty streets. Eames immediately perks up at the site of him. He could jump out of the car and hug the man, for all he wants to, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t want to scare him off. He needs to know if Arthur really is as bad off as he had seemed on the last job.
Instead of following him, like he’s itching to, Eames sits in the same spot and impatiently waits for Arthur to return. When the point man does, he’s carrying groceries. Eames glances at his watch taking note of the time. Arthur is shopping at closing, probably to avoid the crowds, or being found. That thought bothers Eames but the satisfaction of finally sighting Arthur overwhelms it. Finally, he knows where Arthur is.
He sits outside Arthur’s apartment for a few more days, watching. Arthur doesn’t leave, not once. Eames keeps trying to think of what he’s going to say to him. Could he just knock on the door, be invited in for a chat? Would have to force his way in?
And what does Eames have to say? What can he say? That he’s sorry? That he never wanted to hurt him? He still had. He still had beaten the life out him with is own two hands. What kind of apology would that be? I’m sorry I tortured you, I did it for the job. I’m sorry I thought you were stronger. I’m sorry that I’m a terrible person that can kill their own friend in such a cruel way.
The more he thinks about it, the more he regrets the situation. He should have ended the job, then and there, when he’d been asked to kill Arthur. He should have just shot him and said he wasn’t in the mood for physical exertion that day, Weiss. He should have talked to Arthur immediately after, at the very least.
And he doesn’t want to do this now, doesn’t know what to say, but he will. He has to. He has to at least try and make things better. Better for Arthur, even if they aren’t better for himself. Because Arthur didn’t ever deserve this.
He’s just about to step out of the car when Arthur’s door opens. The man emerges in an angry disjointed jog. His hair is a mess of untamed curls, like he’s dragged his hand through it and tugged it out in frustration. His jacket is wrinkled, shirt untucked, and Eames can see he’s not even wearing socks.
Then he sees the distinct bulge of a firearm at his back. Some handgun is tucked into Arthur’s pants. Eames hair stands on end and his heart skips a beat. Arthur never disregards firearm safety. Something is very clearly wrong.
Arthur stalks off up the street, all nervous energy, ignoring the world around him. Eames quickly leaves the car and follows. He doesn’t know where Arthur is going, or what he’s so upset over, but he has to follow. This Arthur seems unnervingly dangerous. He seems even more dangerous than the Arthur who took out five men, without so much as blinking, after a botched job in Trinidad.
Arthur doesn’t stop, doesn’t even pause crossing streets. Cars screech to stop and Arthur doesn’t even seem to notice. Just continues on his warpath heading uphill. And it becomes obvious where Arthur is headed because Eames can see the basilique sitting above them.
This seems like a bad turn of events. Le Sacré-Coeur is crowded, lots of civilians, and Arthur looks out of his mind. Eames doesn’t know what Arthur is capable of right now, he just hopes that Arthur isn’t completely mad.
When they reach the top of the staircase Eames gets caught by the crowd. Arthur rushes through like nobody is there at all. Eames is trying to weave his way to him when he sees someone knock into Arthur. The world slows down to a crawl, his vision blurred on the edges because he’s only focused on Arthur. And he waits, just waits for Arthur to draw his gun on the poor tourist.
But Arthur doesn’t draw. He looks startled, like the world just came crashing back on him. Eames makes to move towards him, trying to get through the crowd. He darts around a family but when he looks up again Arthur isn’t there.
He glances around, frantically, trying to relocate him. He spots him on the edge of the crowd, near one set of steps. Arthur is moving fast. He’s racing off, down the stairs. He’s running. Eames darts through the crowd to get to him. He doesn’t care how this looks. Doesn’t care that it looks like he’s chasing him, because he is.
But Arthur is too fast. He’s sprinting down the hill and Eames isn’t in that great of shape. Sure he can outrun pursuit, for a short time, but he usually relied on getting the upper hand, or an advantageous position, or just plain hiding.
Arthur can run forever it seems. Arthur has the stamina of, of something that can go a long time. A whale, they swim forever right, constantly moving? Or penguins. He’d watched that movie, those bastards could walk forever.
He’s breathing hard, lungs burning, regretting every cigarette he’d ever smoked, and he still hasn’t caught up to Arthur. But they’re back on his street, so Arthur has to be going home. And that’s fine. That’s safe. Arthur going home is acceptable, because he’s not out in some crowd, or wandering the streets of Paris.
Eames slows down. He can’t fucking breathe. He stops, hands on knees, trying to get air again. He knows you aren’t supposed to stop after running, you’re supposed to walk it off, but fuck that! He just needs to not collapse on the sidewalk right now.
After a minute he goes to his car. He sits in the drivers seat, collecting himself. He still doesn’t know what to say, and he really would like Arthur to calm down before he confronts him. If that display back there was anything to go by it’s very likely that a gun will be aimed at him if he goes in now.
He waits for about ten minutes. Arthur should have calmed by now, yeah? But when he knocks on the door there’s no answer.
“Arthur? Arthur, I know you’re in there. Please answer the door.”
Eames pauses, listening. Still nothing. He looks around nervously before knocking again.
“Arthur, please. I know you don’t really want to talk to me, but I need to speak with you.”
A sense of dread washes over him. Arthur not answering, not even to yell obscenities at him through the door, makes him nervous. He pounds on the door more forcefully.
“Arthur. Arthur, if you don’t answer this door, I’m going to kick it in. I would really prefer that you not shoot me, ok? Rather, I would prefer if you open the door yourself. Arthur?”
Still no answer, and now Eames has a growing sense of panic. He tests the handle, just to make sure he doesn’t have to break anything if he doesn’t need to, but finds that it is indeed locked. He steps back, giving the door a swift kick just below the bolt.
The frame cracks but the dead bolt holds. It takes five more kicks to break through and surely the neighbors would have noticed that, but Eames doesn’t care. He doesn’t care because not a sound has been emitted from within the apartment. No click of a gun slide being cocked, no get the fuck out, Eames! yelled at him. Nothing but the splintering wood and his heavy breathing.
He bursts inside finding an empty living room. With urgent strides he makes his way through the apartment, checking each room he passes. Down the hall he sees a closed door. Immediately he makes his way to it. When he tries to open it he finds the door stuck, opening only enough to barely see in.
He doesn’t like what he finds. A hand and rumpled shirtsleeve lay motionless on the floor. Desperately he shoves at the door, pushing at the obstruction only to find that the barrier is Arthur’s limp body.
“Arthur? Arthur? Fuck. Please, Arthur, speak to me, darling. Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
Eames draws the unresponsive man into his arms, ignoring the vomit smeared down his face, along the floor. Eames lets go of his held breath when he finds that Arthur is still breathing. Wet, shuddering, gasps that are too shallow and too few, but still there.
“Oh thank Mary, Mother,” Eames breaths out in relief.
He clears Arthur’s throat as much as possible, hoping that none of the sick went into his lungs. He pulls out his cell and dials fifteen. Fuck the paper trail, fuck the fact that they’re criminals, Arthur needs help immediately.
He waits impatiently for the ambulance to arrive, stroking Arthur’s hair from his eyes, and just holding him like he can hold Arthur’s life inside his body, like if he lets go Arthur’s being will escape. He tries not to think about if he had waited more, or how this could have been prevented if he hadn’t waited at all.
When the ambulance arrives they bustle Arthur inside, checking over him and asking Eames questions he can’t answer. He stares, in a daze at Arthur’s bluish skin, his placid face underneath the oxygen mask. He just stares, trying to understand how he could have been so stupid.
***
Eames can be extremely charming. He can be extremely convincing when he wants something. And more than anything he wants to be in that room, sitting with Arthur until he wakes up. So he slides into the role, dashing boyfriend who’s desperately wanting to see if his love is all right. Wooing the nurses with humble submissiveness. Asking politely for them to allow him to stay, saying he understands if they can’t. But he needs to be there.
He’s thankful that women have a soft spot for romance stories, no matter how tragic. It’s one of their better qualities, empathy and sympathy. The nurses allow him to stay. He sits in the corner chewing on his fingernails, caring nothing for falling back into the bad habit.
They’ve cleaned as much of the charcoal away from his face as possible, but there are still streaks of it across his skin. Arthur is lying so still it’s almost easy to just picture him as hooked up to a PASIV, dreaming. But the tube in his arm is an I.V. and not the dream machine. The steady beat of his heart is pulsed out on digital monitors.
Eames stays, sits, for hours, waiting.
When Arthur wakes Eames can’t seem to move. He stays silent, stunned, until Arthur pulls the I.V. from his arm and tries to stand. It’s obvious that Arthur intends to get out of here, but Eames can tell he won’t make it. Not without help.
He clears his throat and speaks, “You’re lucky your liver isn’t permanently damaged. And while I have no doubts in your fighting skills, you’re only two hours after nearly ending your life. There are two armed guards outside the door, Arthur, are you sure you’re up for a fight?”
The first words come out condescending and he winces, because bloody hell, is he really throwing sarcasm at someone who just tried to kill himself?
Arthur nearly keels over, and Eames is on his feet before he even registers that he’s moving. He’s holding Arthur up, trying to calm him through his coughing fit and then Arthur grabs his hand and yanks him forward, throwing him off balance.
He recovers quickly, before Arthur can throw him down, but then hands are coming straight at his throat. Eames blocks, instinct taking hold, and he wraps Arthur’s arm back behind him, shoving him backwards towards the wall. When he has Arthur pinned he pauses, willing Arthur to calm down. Trying to sooth him with kind words.
Arthur is sobbing, pleading with him. He’s so small in Eames’ arms. Eames shushes him, stroking his hair gently.
“Darling, I’m so sorry. I know that you are confused and afraid right now, but you need to trust me.”
Did he just ask Arthur to trust him?
Arthur must be mad because he is relaxing into Eames. He’s allowing Eames to guide him, to help him. This worries Eames even more than finding Arthur on the floor of his apartment, passed out in a pool of his own vomit, with an empty prescription bottle next to his head.
“We need to get you out of here. And I can’t do that by myself. I’ll be damned if they’re going to lock you in an institution. We both know very well how that turns out for people like us, yeah?”
And that’s the damned truth. Psyche wards were dangerous places for dreamers. He wouldn’t wish being trapped in one on his worst enemies. He doesn’t know if he could handle society telling him his life isn’t real, his job isn’t real. Half the time he has to remind himself of that anyway.
Arthur nods his agreement and Eames is contemplating a plan. They can sneak out, so long as he can get Arthur out of this room. So long as he can get him past the guards enough to make a break for it. So long as Arthur can stay standing for long enough to get to the car.
He leads him to the restroom he saw on the way in, placating the guards with a sympathy inducing tall tale of Arthur’s modesty. He reluctantly leaves Arthur alone to find some clothes, and when he returns Arthur is sitting on the toilet, head in hands.
He draws Arthur’s attention, handing him the scrubs and slippers he’d snagged from a shelf. The scrubs have penguins on them and in any other situation Eames would have found some bit of glee in seeing Arthur dressed in something so absurd. But as it is, they’re short on time, and as soon as Arthur has slipped into the garments, Eames shuffles him towards the exit.
They don’t even make it to the doors before a guard spots them and Eames drags Arthur along, sprinting for his car. When said guard tackles Arthur to the ground, Eames’ world goes red. He doubles back, attacking the guard and pushing Arthur out of the way. He grapples with the man, tries to put him down quickly because he doesn’t have time for this.
With a regretful blow to the head, Eames knocks to guy out. He hopes he hasn’t caused any real damage, but he can’t dwell, he’s catching up to Arthur, unlocking the doors with his key remote, and scrambling to get the car started.
Arthur finally confronts him after he’s stopped hacking up his lungs and they’re well away from the hospital.
“What are you doing here, Eames?”
Eames has to think about that one, pauses, trying to gather the exact words he wants to say. Nothing concise can possibly convey all of the emotional turmoil he feels over this situation, so he goes with a vague truth. Something illustrative of their ridiculous situation, but that admits his fault in all this.
“In a normal situation, I’d say I was saving your life. But as it stands, I think I’m just making up for a rather large mistake I’ve made.”
“You were following me, at le Sacré-Cœur.” It’s not a question at all. Eames is thankful that Arthur noticed, that he wasn’t as completely gone as Eames had thought when he watched him in the crowd.
“Yes.”
“I thought I was going insane.”
And that drops the bottom out of their conversation. Because Arthur was as gone as Eames had thought. He thought he was seeing things, that Eames wasn’t there. Is this what Arthur has been dealing with? Has Arthur been looking over his shoulder all this time, seeing ghosts?
There are so many questions that Eames keeps running through his mind, but he keeps circling back to what Arthur had said as he cried into Eames shoulder in the hospital.
Don't you know you are killing me? Over and over, every night.
“Do you really dream of me?” Eames asks.
He has to know. Has to confirm that this is what it’s about. That he’s in Arthur’s dreams, violent and murderous. That he’s torturing Arthur with the memories. He knows it’s true, but he has to ask. He doesn’t want it to be true. But he knows. He knows because he replays it in his mind as well. And why didn’t he think that if he was so caught up in this mess, that Arthur wouldn’t be ten times worse?
“Every night,” Arthur confirms. And Eames gives a response automatically, but he really doesn’t have anything of importance to say to that. No defense. So they drive.
***
It’s been a month since Eames stole Arthur from the hospital. They’re in a hotel that they’ve rented long term. A suite with two beds and a living area. He wanted them to be on neutral ground. They can’t go back to Arthur’s home, not after their little stunt with the hospital. But Eames doesn’t want to bring Arthur anywhere loaded, anywhere personal. They stay in a hotel because both of them are used to it, always traveling.
He stays and watches Arthur, forcing the man to acclimate to his presence. Arthur doesn’t bristle every time he enters the room anymore, but he’d nearly received a broken nose for entering Arthur’s personal space too suddenly. They’ve both learned Arthur’s boundaries now.
He waits, but he feels restless. Arthur isn’t getting much better. Sure he’s no longer jumpy at Eames presence, but he also hasn’t left the room. Not once. He sits, silently, in his sweatpants and doesn’t even watch the television. Just sits, and stares, and barely sleeps.
There’s a list now of any other times that Eames has built up. Any other time Arthur with mussed hair, in a t-shirt, would have been a much appreciated site. Because any other time Eames would have been allowed to see it, by Arthur’s very deliberate choice. Any other time Eames would have jumped at the chance to simply watch Arthur wake up and eat breakfast. Any other time he would have loved to see Arthur on the couch, not working, completely without responsibility. Any other time he would have appreciated being allowed in Arthur’s presence when the man was displaying any kind of vulnerability.
Eames tries to think of ways to bridge the divide between them. But he can’t come up with anything meaningful to explain how he feels. His words mean nothing when it comes down to it. The only thing he keeps coming back to is his dreams. If only he could show Arthur how much he actually cared. Because of everything he has gathered from the bits that Arthur has revealed is that Arthur couldn’t handle his friend killing him so coldly. That he couldn’t trust anyone again, because you don’t do that to a person.
And Eames knows, he knows that’s true. You don’t do that to a person. And he’d give anything to take it back. But he needs Arthur to know that he did care. Does care. That Arthur meant, means, something to him. That he will never make that mistake again.
He tries, he tries so hard to get Arthur to go under with him, so he can show him the dream. So he can try and just show Arthur, something, anything. But Arthur doesn’t trust him. Eames can’t blame him. He just has to be patient. He can be patient. He can do this, for Arthur, no matter how long it takes.
***
They’re walking through the grass, morning dew still clinging to the green blades. The sun is rising beyond the hill in a pink and yellow glow. Silver glistens off tree leaves and the air is crisp. The scene is more pure, more ethereal than usual. It’s tinged with less sadness.
Eames wanted to make it beautiful. As beautiful as possible. He’s not an architect, no, but he has a vivid imagination. He can make this more than it is, if he concentrates.
Arthur follows him, unsure. He barely glances around, doesn’t seem to notice the setting, but Eames ignores this, because finally Arthur is here. Finally Arthur has allowed Eames to take him under. And Eames will try to show him, try to make him understand.
They make their way to the center of the field, where the ground is freshly upturned, an obvious mark on the pristine landscape. Eames stops about a meter away, waiting for Arthur to catch up the small distance that he has lagged behind. He can feel Arthur come to a stop next to him, and glances up.
“What is this?” Arthur asks.
Suddenly Eames is unsure. What exactly does he say? Will Arthur understand? But he sucks in a breath, and lays it out. Because all he can do is say his piece and hope that something comes of it.
“This is where I buried you. Bury you every time I dream.”
The grave opens, revealing the hollow expanse of dirt and rocks. There’s nothing inside this time, because Arthur is here, alive. But the grave is the same, shallow, dark, ominous, and sad. It’s a wound in Eames’ mind. A wound made of Arthur, of Arthur’s pain.
“I don’t understand.” Arthur says, just barely a whisper.
“I couldn’t leave you. I couldn’t just leave your body. It was just a dream, but I couldn’t bear it. I had to, to do something.”
“You buried me?”
“It’s, quite literally, the least I could do. I should have never let you think I didn’t care. I should never have killed you like that, Arthur.”
“But you did.”
“Yes. And I don’t even want your forgiveness. I don’t deserve that. But I can’t bear to see you like this. You don’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve any of this.”
Eames turns to Arthur and tentatively reaches out, leveling his hand with Arthur’s face for a brief moment before stroking over his cheek with the pad of his thumb. Arthur flinches at the touch, but otherwise doesn't react, doesn’t try move away. Eames traces over the bone, remembering so clearly how on the body it was crushed, ruining Arthur’s structure.
He moves his hand to the back of Arthur’s neck, resting it lightly and fingering the curls at the nape of his neck. He takes a step closer to Arthur, slowly, allowing the man to adjust if needed. Arthur doesn’t pull away, but he’s rigid beneath Eames’ touch.
Eames looks Arthur directly in the eye, and Arthur doesn’t break the gaze. He stares, right at Eames, eyes wide with uncertainty. Eames leans in, closer and closer until his lips are just hovering above Arthur’s.
“I’m so sorry,” Eames whispers. He can feel Arthur’s breath hitch, stuttering hot and wet against his skin. He pets Arthur’s neck again reassuringly and closes the gap. He plants one delicate, chaste, kiss on Arthur’s lips before pulling back just enough to look into Arthur’s eyes again.
“I do care. I always have,” he admits.
The time runs out.
When they emerge from the dream, Arthur doesn’t move. He doesn’t make to remove the needle from his wrist at all. Eames give him a few minutes before realizing that Arthur doesn’t even intend to take it out. So Eames delicately removes the line and swabs Arthur’s skin with a alcohol pad. Arthur doesn’t so much as move. Just watches him with guarded eyes.
Eames wants to scream. He wants to tear apart the world with his voice. He wants to drain his lungs of all oxygen until he chokes, until he passes out. He wants more than anything to shatter the silence of the room.
Arthur has regressed, and that too is Eames’ fault. Arthur curls himself into a ball on the bed and just lays there, staring at the wall. Eames just wanted Arthur to know that he cared. That he always cared, that Arthur didn’t have to be afraid of him. That he never meant to hurt Arthur and would take it all back.
And Eames wants to scream because he was so blind thinking that showing Arthur how much he cared would somehow fix the point man. That somehow all this could be be better. He’s pushed him too far.
He doesn’t know what to do anymore. He has no other plan. He doesn’t know where to go from here. He can’t leave Arthur. He will never leave him like this, afraid that Arthur will indeed kill himself. So he calls the one person he’d never wanted to deal with again. The man who put his problems before everyone else's safety, the man who nearly sent an entire team to limbo.
Eames calls Dominic Cobb.
Continue to Part 5