Fic: Walsingham (1 of 5)
Title: Walsingham
Authors: agaryulnaer86 and myself
Pairing/Character(s): Arthur/Eames, and Ariadne
Rating: R
Warnings: Graphic violence and disturbing imagery, the foulest of language, adult situations and sexual content, and an adorable kitten. But just the one.
Summary: Ariadne, Eames and Arthur work a job over the holidays. Hijinks ensue, including but not limited to: chicken soup, a stray kitten, avoidance of the casting couch, a clown, and a job gone a bit sideways. Also, Chrismukkah.
Author's Notes: Written for the prompts exploring dreamshare and canonverse and messy blowjobs.
master post
----
There's no way for Eames to tell how long he’s been out when he wakes, but it's difficult to miss his surroundings, and the cause of them. He's tied to what appears to be a hospital bed, held down with the leather straps used for recalcitrant or suicidal patients, and at the foot of the bed stands Walker, fussing with something on a tray. He turns, though, when Eames opens his eyes, almost as though he'd sensed it.
"Greg," he says with a pleasant smile, the mad giggling and laughter vanished, at least for the moment. "You're awake." He holds up the broken glasses. "I suppose you don't need these after all. You don't seem to be squinting. But then again." He moves over to Eames, and puts the broken glasses back on his face, the sharp glass uncomfortably close to his eyes. "There you go. The better for you to see me with." A flash of the mad grin returns, but then vanishes just as quickly. "Wouldn't want you to miss anything."
Eames stares up at Walker through the broken glass, his mind too fuzzy for him to properly understand what’s going on here. Or perhaps he just doesn’t understand because it makes no sense. He’d just been in the hallway of the hospital, and then…
“You drugged me,” he says, and it’s a credit to just how drugged he is that Eames doesn’t add an insult on to the end of that, or even swear. He just stares up at Walker, disbelieving. How could he have been taken so unawares, how could he have been such a buggering idiot? Ever since this job had really began, Eames knew something was wrong with Walker, he’d known something was going wrong, but he hadn’t had the sense to get out, to alert Arthur, and now-
Now he’s strapped to a hospital bed, and even when he begins to struggle in earnest, Eames can’t get out. He’s too confused, too weak from the drugs, and his position gives him no leverage. All of that time spent in the weight room, he thinks feverishly, almost hysterically, was for no good reason. He should have done something else with the time, like had a hamburger, watched a movie. Ravished Arthur-
“Yes,” Walker says, calmly. “Yes, I did.”
Eames gives up the struggling, slowly realizing through the haze that it’s useless at this point. Instead, he turns his attention on Walker. Or as much attention as he can. Focusing, thinking at all is like trying to wade through quicksand, and even when he blinks blearily up at the other man, Eames sees four different Walkers, distorted through the broken glass of the glasses that were only ever part of an act. A part. Now, Eames struggles to hold on to that. Because what would Greg do in this situation, how could anyone react properly here? Where is Arthur? “All right, that’s fair, my apologies. I believe what I meant to say was ‘why the fuck did you drug me?’”
"Well, I should think that was obvious," Walker says, mimicking Eames' accent mockingly (and surprisingly accurately) before switching back to his regular Midwest accent, rather startlingly similar to Arthur's, in point of fact. "No way in hell I'd ever take you down." He nudges Eames' flexed bicep, still tense despite the fact that he'd ceased actively struggling. "You pulled me along like a little girl, Greg. I have to say, I hired you half because of all... this." He gestures, somehow managing to encompass all of Eames.
Then he walks purposefully down to the cart at the end of the bed, and picks something up, keeping it down at his side while he returns to the head of the bed, his hand out of Eames' line of sight. Now his smile is reassuring, and a bit wistful. "It's too bad, really. You're very pretty." His visible hand hovers over Eames' hip, but then he looks up, and sees the expression on the other man's face, and he pulls back. "Yes, well. It's a shame. But you fell right into my lap, here. Can't pass up an opportunity like that."
The knot of uneasiness, of alarm and a different sort of fear that had hit Eames when Walker had started looking at him in that way, had nearly touched him, lessens and then shifts back into the same fear he’d felt since he woke up, since before then. That Walker is going to do something- obviously he’s going to do something. Eames tries to remain calm, professional, about this. After all, if Walker is going to kill him, there’s nothing he can do about it, he won’t burst into tears or beg or… or any of that.
Except that is bordering on exactly what Eames wants to do, because he’s strapped to a hospital bed and he has no idea where Arthur is or why he’s here in the first place, and Walker is hitting on him or something, he doesn’t quite know, and he has no idea what’s going on and why a hospital? God, he’s losing it. He can’t even think properly, everything is still so hazy…
And that’s when Walker lifts his other hand, revealing a scalpel. He doesn’t do anything with it yet, just gives Eames ample time to stare. Even through broken, fake glasses, Eames can see what it is well enough to know just how fucked he is.
“You’re going to have a very hard time,” Eames finally manages, staring bravely up at the other man even as he starts shaking despite himself. Thirty-four years of nonsense, a ridiculous bloody life, he’ll admit it, and this is what he’s reduced to. He’s shaking, and he knows he’s paled, he knows that he’s started pulling on the restraints again despite himself, but he’s not going to turn into a crying mess or beg. If he could just reach his gun-he just needs to get to his gun. “Finding another assistant after I tell the union about this.”
"Don't be ridiculous," Walker says calmly, his smile slight but still there, as though he's amused by Eames' struggles as much as by his quip. "There's no union."
He doesn't even bother adding that Eames, or rather Greg, to Walker, won't be telling anyone anything at all. That much is obvious, and made even more so as he lifts the scalpel to the larger man's throat. Eames has pushed his head as far off to the side and as far back into the pillow as it can go, but there's no way he can escape the blade, and they both know it.
"Stop struggling," Walker says calmly. Almost soothingly, really. "It'll be easier. You always struggle," he reflects, shaking his head, as the blade touches Eames' skin, pressing into his throat. The blood starts to run down the sides of his neck, staining the sheets crimson below him.
---
December in Queens is generally cold, even if, in a good year, fate doesn't start dumping snow on Long Island until after New Year's. This seems to be one of those years, so far; it's bitterly cold, the wind never quite letting up, but at least there's no snow.
It's probably dangerous for Arthur to be even thinking those words, but for now it's holding true.
Despite misgivings, he'd agreed to hire Ariadne on as architect again, and Eames had thanked him admirably; he suspects it's a long-term ploy to convince him to agree more easily more often, but then again, the opposite might be true, as well. He's given up trying to figure out how the forger's brain actually works, and just accepts it as the very illogical process it is. However, there will be no further thanking until the job's done, which is why, some four hours ago, he'd kicked Eames out of the office space he'd rented for a month to begin tailing the mark, so that he could actually make some progress.
He should have known, of course, that four hours was far too much to ask for. The stairwell door bangs open, admitting a large man looking even more broad-shouldered than usual in a thick wool overcoat, with a suspicious lump over his chest, beneath the heavy fabric.
Eschewing the idea of a greeting, he gets right to the point. Whatever it is, he's not going to like it, so he at least attempts to end the wheedling before it starts. "No," he says flatly, looking back down at his laptop.
Eames just smiles in response, not at all bothered by being greeted in such a manner. He's quite used to it, actually, and was totally prepared for resistance from Arthur about this. Even though Arthur doesn't know what "this" is, yet. Just as he's sure Arthur is prepared for his response to have no effect whatsoever on Eames carrying on with exactly what he'd planned. Which is, of course, wheedling. Arthur was right on that account.
"You don't even know what you're refusing, pet," he says, tsking. "I could have a giant diamond under my coat and might have been planning to share it with you." Arthur doesn't even look up. Obviously he is well aware that Eames does not have a diamond, despite the fact that Eames has a tendency to pickpocket at random. It's just that most people do not keep diamonds in their pockets or purses. Eames withholds a sigh. "Or I could've brought you dinner. That would be very thoughtful of me after you so cruelly sent me from your sight." Arthur does not look up, once again, despite the fact that Eames bringing him dinner is not outside the realm of possibility.
Well, all right. Two can play at this game. "All right, you're going to be difficult, I can see where this is going. But the fact is, I've grown very attached to Wally. It would be immeasurably cruel to separate us. Our love is the thing of legend and song. We've been through quite a lot together, haven't we, cupcake?" Here he pats the lump beneath his coat, glancing down and smiling as he opens it just enough to glance down at whatever he's got in there. "I very nearly died rescuing him from the roof. Fire escapes are just not as sturdy as they once were, and the drainage system for the rooftops in this city is utter rubbish. Thank God in heaven for elderly deaf women leaving their windows unlocked on the ninth floor, that's all we have to say about it." The grin on the forger's face as he stares down at whatever he's holding in his coat (it's definitely starting to squirm now) resembles something approaching childish delight, the same sort of expression Eames gets for a moment when he really laughs. He's practically cooing, and he looks much younger, somehow, smiling like that. It's entirely sappy, and Eames does not seem to notice or mind. He looks up at Arthur, and the expression doesn't go away when he does, although it does take on a measure of pleading. "She adored Wally as well, but is sadly quite allergic. You just can't say no to this face, Arthur, just look at him."
At that, Arthur actually does look up, seeing Eames' coat squirming and the expression on the other man's face. "He," he repeats dubiously, pushing his chair back and standing from his desk. He stretches for a moment, as though that was his only reason for getting up in the first place, and then takes a few steps closer to the other man. "Who, or what, exactly, is Wally? And what was he doing on a roof?"
He pauses, seeing the plastic bag Eames sets down, with its recognizable red and blue logo. It makes a jangling noise as it's set down.
"Oh, no." He stops in his tracks, shaking his head. "Noooo no."
“You didn’t even look!” Eames protests. That does it. It’s obviously time to pull out the big guns. Or the little ones, if they’re being literal. Before Arthur can turn away or anything silly like that, Eames reaches carefully into his coat, the not-really-such-a-mystery lump explained a moment later when he emerges with a tiny, squirming kitten in hand.
Literally in hand, in one hand. It’s tiny; it fits in Eames’ large palm, where he cradles it very gently. It makes his hands look huge and coarse, but Eames has always been surprisingly gentle for a man of his large build.
It’s small, smaller than it should be, even though it’s clearly a very young kitten; Eames can make out ribs, there. And it’s still a bit dirty despite the bit of cleaning Eames had managed. More of a brushing off, really, since he wanted to get it warm and a bit fed before bothering with cleaning. But from what he can tell, it’s tan, part Siamese, with the darker ears and paws, and a bit of the tail. And huge, seemingly perpetually wide blue eyes. Eames wasn’t lying about the love bit. He fell quite in love the moment he saw the little thing. That would be why he risked his life to get Wally off the roof.
He holds the kitten up so Arthur can’t help but see it, not to mention how difficult it would be for Arthur to miss the half smitten, half pleading look on the forger’s face behind the wide-eyed kitten. “Arthur, look at him. He’s so little. And it’s cold outside.”
And it’s nearly Christmas. Arthur can hear the next part of that argument coming a mile away, and he sets his jaw, prepared to argue... but Eames doesn't keep going. He just stands there, with eyes as big as the kitten's and an almost pout on his face, still right next to it.
And Arthur relents.
"Fine," he says grudgingly. "But I'm not cat-sitting, and it had better not interfere with the job."
It is Christmas. And Eames looks so delighted as soon as Arthur caves- he can't really be all that mad.
But he doesn't give up the act, turning and heading back to his desk with another sidelong look at the beast. And he's not referring to the cat. "Have you ever had one before? Much less a kitten? They're a lot of work, and you have a mark to be tailing."
Arthur carrying on the act or not, Eames looks absolutely delighted by Arthur’s grudging capitulation. He’d thought it would take much more convincing. He had quite a few arguments entirely planned out. A whole bit about Christmas. He might have resorted to tears. Not his own tears, Arthur would be a fool to believe it when Eames cried. Ariadne’s tears. Because Eames is totally certain he could get Ariadne’s help with this.
But he hadn’t had to. Arthur had agreed. Eames can’t recall ever being this sort of happy before. He doesn’t care if Arthur is grudging. Arthur is always grudging. Arthur was grudging about sleeping with him, until he wasn’t. Hell, he was grudging about being friendly. It took Eames ages to get in his trousers, and he’s still half surprised that he managed at all.
So this is practically a giddy reaction, from the point man. Eames takes it for what it is and grins widely, leaning forward to snuggle the tiny kitten a bit. It makes a high pitched, small mewling noise, and Eames nearly keels over from cute overload. It’s about half a second before Eames is sitting on the ground, legs out in front of him to form a circle with his feet touching, creating a small circle with a barrier that he places the cat in the middle of. This way, Wally can’t get very far. And Eames can reach up and get the little feather toy he bought to play with.
Wally makes a poorly-executed attempt to climb up and over Eames’ leg as he’s getting the toy; the kitten promptly falls, rolling back and looking surprised as hell as he does it before climbing awkwardly back on four paws. Eames is a bit overwhelmed by cute, but he manages to look up at Arthur, looking for all the world like a thrilled little boy. “No, I’ve never, but I have no choice, love,” he says, totally serious despite the huge (and rather silly) grin on his face. “I’ll simply have to figure it out. Because Wally’s other options are the streets- where he’ll certainly starve to a slow and horrendously painful death if he’s not ripped to pieces by other wild New York cats or run over by a cab- or a shelter, where he’ll be cast into a tiny cage with eight bigger, meaner cats, who will certainly gang-rape and assault him. And he’ll be passed over again and again for adoption by the children looking for a kitten of their own to love, because he’s so malnourished and terrified that they simply can’t see how adorable he once was, before his ordeal shattered him emotionally. So that when he’s at last given up all hope and his adorable little spirit is finally broken and nothing more can be done, he’ll be coldly and efficiently euthanized.” Wally chooses this moment to trip over his own feet in the circle of Eames’ legs. Eames bursts into laughter that is perilously close to a giggle, reaching down to pet Wally with one finger. It takes up half the kitten’s head. “I won’t let you be mercilessly euthanized, Wally.”
Arthur watches the little cat scramble back to its feet and make a flying leap for the feather, failing miserably but getting up and waddling around after it as Eames trails it around the floor.
Arthur blinks.
"It- it waddles," he points out, startled enough that he's stating the obvious. Sure enough, the aforenamed Wally is indeed waddling, too tiny and ungainly to actually manage walking. Arthur's brow furrows. "I think it's a runt. Its mother probably abandoned it."
Wally looks up at him, then, and it would be plaintive if he were actually looking at Arthur, but unfortunately he is not. "You do know it's cross-eyed, too, right?" Hard to miss.
Looking scandalized, Eames actually reaches down to cover the kitten's ears. This is done with two fingers of each hand, and he still manages to nearly cover the entire head while Wally squirms a bit, trying to see him and ending up falling over. "Of course, but don't bring it up, it's a sensitive subject." Wally's wide, cross-eyed stare is one of the charming things about the cat, Eames thinks. There's really only so much adorable he can handle, but Wally is stretching his limits. Eames has been downright giddy since he first saw the kitten, and now with Arthur's permission to keep him, Eames can barely contain himself.
He lets Wally go after a moment in order to keep playing with the feather, and moves on to the rest of that subject. He knows Wally waddles. It's the most adorable thing he's ever seen in his life. "He does waddle. It's adorable." Eames does not seem to mind the fact that he's cooing over the kitten, or that he's more or less acting like a ten year old girl. "Some of the best kittens and people are runts. I was a runt." Oddly true, and although Eames might not be the tallest man in the world (Arthur has an inch or two on him, and he's not even particularly tall), there's no denying that Eames is no runt these days. Baggy trousers and tweed can only hide so much. The man is built like a brick wall, and Arthur knows that better than anyone. "I don't think I have ever waddled, though."
Arthur eyes Eames but doesn't argue, staring at the broad shoulders and shaking his head slowly. "So that means you're going to end up with a monster cat, when he grows up. Going by that logic."
Well, he'd meant what he'd said; he's not going to be the kitty babysitter while Eames is working. Of course, that probably means that Ariadne will end up doing it... actually, he doubts there's any question of that, since Ariadne has a cat, and will probably dissolve into cooing and giggling as soon as she sees the kitten.
At least it looks like there's a litter box in Eames' PetCo bag. He doesn't mention that the man should probably get a box and a blanket if he doesn't want to be chasing the little waddling thing all over the place... but then thinks the better of it. Eames can come up with that much on his own. "Congratulations," he says dryly, turning back to his desk. "I'm going to work now. Did you actually get anything on the mark?"
Eames manages to tear his eyes away from the kitten long enough to give Arthur the sort of look that speaks volumes, even if Arthur isn't facing him anymore. "Of course I did," he says, very nearly offended. "But he holed himself up in his study. No windows, and he goes in there for days at a time. It was useless to wait about, and it's much too early to be breaking and entering, especially since I've got an interview tomorrow."
Naturally, this interview was Eames' plan all along. Arthur may be the one with the actual plans worked out, might have back-up plans for his back-up plans, but Eames can be counted on to do his own work and to do it well. It's just a matter of whether or not what he's decided to do lines up with what was expected. He doesn't keep regular hours and he doesn't go about things in the typical manner, but in the end, Eames can be more than counted upon to do his part. Daring kitten-rescuing missions aside, the man is almost absurdly dedicated once he's actually on a job. Provided, of course, that the job doesn't cross his line- the one that says he won't do work if it's going to get him killed or turned into a mental vegetable- the way the Fischer job had when Cobb had sprung that bit about limbo on them. But even then, in the end, Eames had carried on.
Anyway, as compared to that job, this one is hardly worrisome. Eames forgets about Arthur's near-insult to his competence, then, smiling down at Wally as he leaps for the feather again, then falls down onto his side and stays there, worn out for a moment. Eames nearly melts, reaching down to pet him gently while he's still. "I must admit, the interview is really just a technicality. I'm absurdly overqualified, as the head-hunter who referred me well knows." Angela is still quite nice to him, despite the fact that he is no longer sleeping with her. He did get her in to meet Katy Perry, that once. Eames always has known how to make friends. Networking is really not a good word to cover what it is he does. As with most things, the forger tends to take "networking" a step beyond what most people do. "Suppose I'll need a haircut."
Arthur arches a brow. He hadn't heard about this interview development. Then again, he had kicked Eames out in order to begin his own preliminary work, so it's his own fault.
"What interview?" One corner of his mouth flicks upward as he eyes Eames up and down, taking his time about it. He had meant to keep from teasing, since he'd set down the moratorium on sex and related activities for the duration of the job, and to tease Eames would be unfair. But some things... just can't be helped.
The man is right there, looking like that. How is he supposed to do anything but appreciate it? "I think you'll need more than a haircut if you actually want the job." His slight smile proves that he's at least not entirely serious...
This all receives a smirk from Eames, who, while certainly willing to abide by Arthur's ridiculous rules if he insists- he is a professional himself, after all- will never be stopped from sexually harassing the other man. Professionalism be damned, Eames flirts with everyone. And no one more than Arthur, who Eames knows has more or less come to terms with that by now. And if Arthur is going to be eyeing him that way, Eames isn't going to be particularly bothered. In fact, he might have determined independently that he ought to make this abstaining as difficult as possible for Arthur. Because of course he has to make it difficult.
"Ah, nothing a shave and a ridiculously expensive suit won't fix," he says offhandedly, as though when he takes on the character of whoever this interviewee is supposed to be, it'll be nothing, just a costume. In reality, they both know Eames can appear entirely different even here, topside, not because of a costume but because of how he changes his entire demeanor. But even beyond that, he knows how much Arthur likes him in a nicely tailored, expensive suit. A la Arthur's entire wardrobe. Eames' grin widens. "You know I clean up well, darling."
"Mmm hmm," Arthur says absently, focused on the screen. He hits the print button, and then turns to look at Eames as the Lexmark starts spitting out pages. "What interview?" he repeats, arching a brow.
Wally takes this moment to let out the most pitiful mewl Arthur's heard in some time, and he listened to Ariadne whine the last time they wouldn't let her come under for a job. The kitten keeps the noise up as he clambers up from where he'd been lying and pounces on Eames' hand, biting and mewling repeatedly.
Scowling at the tiny cat, Arthur turns back to his printouts. "I've got a list of the scenarios we can use in the dream level. Hopefully Ariadne's seen some of these."
Eames is a bit distracted by the mewling and the biting, though, the pitiful little noise immediately catching his attention. And worry. "What?" he asks, looking down at Wally, who is clearly wanting something. Unless he wants to bite Eames' hand, and that's it. Eames will probably let him carry on, if that's the case. It isn't particularly painful; his teeth, though sharp, are tiny. "What do you want, kitten, it's all right," he says, using his other hand to gather Wally up again. The noise keeps up as the kitten then promptly attempts to climb up Eames' torso and fails.
"Perhaps he's hungry again?" Eames wonders, feeling a bit helpless. It could always be the litter box, too. Either of those things, Eames can take care of. He talked to his new friend at PetCo (Danielle) about such things for a long time, after all. She was quite knowledgeable. Eames is at least marginally prepared, but he doesn't know what the mewling means. This is not the first time it has occurred to him that he has next to no idea what he's doing. He's never had a cat, no pets at all, actually. It's not exactly easy to keep one, with his constant moving about. That has occurred to him, too, but he just couldn't leave Wally behind. Not this tiny little cat. The only time Eames can recall being more enamoured is when he met Arthur, not that he'd ever say that.
He looks up at Arthur with pleading eyes almost as wide as Wally's, wanting help figuring out what's wrong, but Arthur appears to be scowling and now looking away. Eames recalls that he'd asked a question. "Oh... as personal assistant," he says offhandedly. "His agent insists he have someone to keep track of things for him. He doesn't seem particularly interested..." The mewling keeps up. Eames loses track of what he was saying, wondering what biting him could possibly mean, if he's done something wrong? "...but... oh. I'll be hired. No worries. What's the list?"
"His movies," Arthur says, setting the printout aside and trying not to look concerned at the pitiful sound the kitten is making. He settles on annoyed as an appropriate substitute, and sighs, standing and walking over to the mini-fridge, where Ariadne keeps the milk for her coffee, eschewing creamer as she does.
He gets out a bowl and pours some in, walking over and setting it down in the circle between Eames' legs; the kitten promptly loses interest in Eames' hand and dives for the bowl, sticking a paw in and then lifting it to its mouth, licking the milk from it, repeating the process. Arthur shakes his head. "Unsanitary little beast."
The relief that had been obvious in Eames’ expression when the kitten had stopped making that sad little noise morphs- once again- into delight as he watches this display. Where Arthur is looking at Wally and worrying about how sanitary that might be, Eames can only see how very cute what he’s doing is. Eames might as well have little hearts in his eyes.
“I don’t think,” he starts slowly, watching Wally lick delicately at his tiny, tiny paw, to get what milk he’d managed to get out of the bowl off of it, “I have ever seen something so adorable in my life.” And Eames has lived a very interesting life. He has seen many things. Grinning, he reaches down to scratch Wally on the head with one finger (it’s difficult for Eames to pet him with much more than that), and Wally keeps licking at his paw, but his little eyes close, and he starts to purr.
Eames' eyes widen almost comically, and the expression on his face is nothing short of delighted. “I take it back. That tops it.”
Arthur smiles very slightly as he watches this. Eames is too busy staring at the kitten and won't notice, and Arthur's smile widens a little, although he doesn't say a word. He does pull out his phone and hold it up, taking a quick, silent picture. By the time Eames glances up again, his phone is back in his pocket and he's shuffling through papers again, sitting back down at his desk.
The next time he looks up, pulling out his earbuds and cutting off Nat King Cole, he sees Eames passed out on the sagging couch in the corner, one of the places they're using as a makeshift bed while they use the PASIV. But Eames is out, not under, and the kitten is conked out on his chest, flopped out and rising and falling as the forger breathes.
They have hotel rooms, but Eames looks comfortable enough, and Arthur doesn't want to disturb them. Not when Eames actually looks rather peaceful, a description that only applies when the other man is asleep. Instead of waking them, Arthur turns out the lights in that corner of the large room, going back into the cubicle he'd commandeered with a fresh cup of coffee. He'll sleep when he's finished.
---
Eames is mid-conversation with Walker as they wander through the dark carnival, feet getting muddy as they walk from one ride to the next. Eames had expected there to be a distinct lack of projections, but a few people wander here and there through the carnival; he supposes in this dream, it’s open and running. But when the roller coaster flies by, there’s no one in any of the seats- Eames does a double-take, blinking through Greg’s glasses as the wooden coaster rushes past above them. Is that blood on the inside of the last car…?
Shrugging it off, he turns back to Walker, who looks absolutely unaffected by the mood of the dark carnival around them. “I haven’t been to a carnival since I was a boy,” he finds himself saying, then pauses, realizing that that’s a complete lie. He’d never been to a carnival as a boy, hadn’t gone until he was much older. The lie doesn’t even register until he’s said it, and as with most dreams Eames has no trouble remembering what they’d been discussing in the dream before, even though the conversation had never truly happened. “Do you come here often?”
“No,” Walker says, not looking at him. He seems distracted; Eames would frown if he wasn’t so very busy being Greg. He has no idea what Walker’s attention is on, and it’s Eames’ job to keep him distracted, not whatever it is that has his attention. Not unless it can be useful. “Not since I started writing my scripts.”
Having appeared in the crowd behind them, Arthur allows himself a glance at the back of Eames' head, blending into the surrounding people (a surprising number of projections for this dingy carnival) before heading in the direction of the fun house and the safe.
The creepy guy in the ugly duster outside takes his ticket (he hadn't dreamt them up, but it seems only logical that he would have some, and so he has a whole strip of them), and holds open the black curtain for him. He steps into a musty-smelling space (an aroma like nothing so much as his parents' old attic), only catching a glimpse of it before the carny drops the curtain and he's stuck in the darkness, only the dim light filtering in from outside lighting his way.
And then a dim, flickering light snaps on ahead of him, and eerie, recorded cackling starts to play... on a ten-second loop. With a sigh, he steps into the spinning "barrel of fun," as Ariadne had termed it, and then onto the moving floor of the next part of the fun house. It is, in the way of dreams, much larger inside than it is outside, the first of the mazes to keep the projections from following him. There are metaphorical fire exits, of course, and he knows where they are, but Walker's projections don't.
The moving floor, which shifts back and forth, is cracked, and there is no handrail. He slips and grabs onto the wall to keep his balance, mentally cursing Ariadne and her authenticity.
Neither Eames nor Walker sees Arthur, and so they don’t know when he disappears into the fun house. But Eames is aware of the passage of time once the dream starts, and he knows that unless something has gone horribly wrong, Arthur is on his way to the safe now. With any luck, it shouldn’t take him long, and he’ll be back to let Eames know quick as possible and they can be done with this job.
For now, though, he simply follows Walker along the muddy path, vaguely aware that the lights- which had been flickering dimly before- are becoming less frequent, so that the only light comes from the dingy flashing of the strings of lights on the rides, or from undisclosed locations within the depths of the game booths.
They stop at one such booth at Eames’ insistence, the forger leading Walker there to test their strength with an old, worn-out looking mallet handed to them by a toothless old man with an eye missing. Eames gives it a go first- it barely registers, of course, no matter that Eames is well aware of the extent of his strength- and then turns to hand it to Walker. The mark takes it halfheartedly, and Eames turns around to watch in silence.
Walker’s attempt is no better than Eames’, but when Eames turns to hand the mallet back to the old man… he’s gone. Nowhere to be found. Up top, this is the sort of thing that would give Eames the shivers, but frankly, Ariadne made this place to be shiver-inducing. How a projection managed to disappear is anyone’s guess, but Eames has seen stranger things in his time in dreamshare. So he simply sets the mallet down carefully, turns back to Walker, and wonders if Arthur has made his way through the maze yet. “Can’t blame them for rigging it, I suppose.”
"No," Walker says, still distant, "I suppose you can't." He turns and wanders off in the general direction of the fun house, not appearing to notice the sudden desertion of the carnival. All of the carnies have disappeared, as have the rest of the projections who'd been enjoying the rides and the games. Even the clown that had been handing out cotton candy from has vanished, the huge tree filled with bags of spun sugar now lying in the mud.
But Walker doesn't seem to be paying attention to the sudden lack of people, or to anything at all. He ambles off down the main row of games, back the way they'd come, as the roller coaster zooms past them again, ruby red glistening wetly on its wheels now, too, the empty carriages rattling past.
Eames catches up to Walker just as he passes the carousel, which suddenly stops. There's no screeching to a halt, no whining of gears. Everything simply stops, and goes dark, from the Ferris wheel to the empty bumper cars to the little motorcycle children's ride.
Next to Walker now, Eames slows, turning to look at the carousel; Walker doesn’t seem to notice the way that everything has stopped, even though the lights have dimmed so far now that Eames doesn’t know how he can still see- it must simply be that it’s a dream, and therefore he has to see even without a visible light source- but Eames does. A moment ago, all of the rides were running, even if no one was on any of them. Now…
“Mr. Walker,” Eames calls quietly, a note of caution in his voice. He turns back around, catching sight of Walker yards ahead of him now, heading for the entrance to the roller coaster, and he hurries to catch up again. Walker might not know the danger they could be in, but Eames does. He’s the dreamer. When you can’t spot the projections, they’re probably about to attack you.
“Mr. Walker, hold on,” Eames nearly hisses. “Stop a moment. Everything’s gone-” Eames cuts himself off at the sound of a door slamming somewhere nearby, freezing and turning to look in that direction as a chill runs down his spine. He reminds himself, firmly, that he knows exactly what’s going on here, that he’s in control- it’s his dream, after all. But there’s just something about the way this dream is playing out that makes the projections being suddenly invisible in the near-pitch black that lends it an eerie quality, even for someone who understands what’s going on. Perhaps it’s the sense of being hunted. If he gets killed, after all, the whole dream will fall apart.
Walker halts, turning back towards him. He's lost his distant expression, but the look on his face now is worse. He's smiling, very faintly, despite the eerie atmosphere. Everything has gone very still and quiet. Walker's smile is widens to almost childlike proportions, and despite his near-silence for the duration of their time thus far in the dream, now he seems positively cheery. "This is just like when I was a kid." He's nearly beaming, now. "Greg, did I ever tell you about the summer I turned sixteen-"
He breaks off, his eyes lighting up as they fix on something behind Eames. "Look! Ponies."
Up until this point, Eames had been staring back at Walker with growing uncertainty, although he’d managed to keep his expression even; he has no idea what the hell is going on with the writer, but he’s not even a little bit frightened by this. In fact, he seems almost giddy. Which strikes Eames on a very basic level as just wrong- there is something wrong with this guy that he hadn’t noticed up top, more than you would expect from a horror writer, maybe-
He doesn’t have time to really consider that before he hears something behind him and turns as Walker points it out, just in time for the mallet they’d used at the strength-testing game comes down next to him, where a moment before his head had been.
Swearing violently, Eames ducks just as the mallet turns, aiming for his head, and the arm holding it swings just over him. Eames has half a second to see the old man with no teeth snarling at him as he swings the mallet, and then the forger dives at him, knocking them both over before scrambling back up to his feet and yanking the mallet with him. The old man makes a screeching noise that is utterly absurd sounding and pierces the silence utterly; Eames winces at the way their location has been given away and brings the mallet down on the old carny’s head, knocking him out rather than killing him.
Something is wrong; this is too early for projections to be attacking like this. He glances up, wanting to be sure of Walker’s position, and then pauses to stare. He’d just been attacked by an old man with no teeth who had screeched like a Banshee, and Walker is standing two meters away and not even looking at him. When Eames turns to look at what it is Walker is so interested in, all he sees is a fenced-in area with a broken rope tied to a pole in the middle and an open gate creaking. No ponies at all.
“All right,” Eames says, still clenching the mallet in one hand, “come on, Mr. Walker. We need to get out of here.”
"All right," Walker says easily enough, walking back toward Eames. "We can visit the ponies later."
He follows Eames down the midway, wearing a smile more suited for a sunny Midwest fairground than this place, and his eyes light on another darkened attraction. "Care to have your fortune told, Greg?"
A skeletal hand bedecked in rings and bangles pushes the curtain aside, gauzy sleeve hanging from the arm, and from the rest of the decrepit figure that lunges out at them. The old woman's turban is unraveling, dragging on the ground behind her as she goes for them, hands curled into claws and teeth unnaturally long and pointed. Not vampire fangs, mind you, but normally-placed teeth, inches long and needle-sharp.
She lunges for them and Eames falls back as Walker begins to laugh hysterically. "Look at her, Greg! Look at her!" He continues to laugh. "Ridiculous!" She lands a swipe at Eames with her clawed nails, drawing blood, and he ducks away again, grabbing the chortling Walker and turning to bolt in the other direction.
"Look!" Walker sounds delighted. "The ponies!"
This time, when Eames turns away from the fortune teller from hell to look ahead, he sees the ponies. Or rather, what had once ostensibly been ponies (in the dream). Now, they’re… well, there are three of them, and they are certainly pony-sized, and they have four legs and look more or less the right shape. But these are not the sort of ponies that Eames would let a child anywhere near, let alone ride. In fact, he feels vaguely ill just looking at them.
Eames doesn’t know whose mind these things came out of, but he has a good guess, judging by the way Walker is nearly giggling as he looks at the ruined flesh of the ponies, all greenish and gray, bones sticking out in places Eames isn’t sure they ought to have had bones in the first place. There’s no blood, but that’s only because what they might have had has dried or congealed into a thick pus that Eames does not spend a lot of time contemplating.
“Jesus Christ,” he spits as the things immediately turn and start for him. Safe to say this is the first time he has been chased down by zombie ponies. He makes a sharp turn, grabbing Walker’s wrist as he does and dragging him away from both the ponies and the old woman and her bloody teeth. “I’m beginning to see why you took up writing horror movies.” Crazy wanker is still giggling madly, even as the ponies gain on them.
---
part two
Authors: agaryulnaer86 and myself
Pairing/Character(s): Arthur/Eames, and Ariadne
Rating: R
Warnings: Graphic violence and disturbing imagery, the foulest of language, adult situations and sexual content, and an adorable kitten. But just the one.
Summary: Ariadne, Eames and Arthur work a job over the holidays. Hijinks ensue, including but not limited to: chicken soup, a stray kitten, avoidance of the casting couch, a clown, and a job gone a bit sideways. Also, Chrismukkah.
Author's Notes: Written for the prompts exploring dreamshare and canonverse and messy blowjobs.
master post
----
There's no way for Eames to tell how long he’s been out when he wakes, but it's difficult to miss his surroundings, and the cause of them. He's tied to what appears to be a hospital bed, held down with the leather straps used for recalcitrant or suicidal patients, and at the foot of the bed stands Walker, fussing with something on a tray. He turns, though, when Eames opens his eyes, almost as though he'd sensed it.
"Greg," he says with a pleasant smile, the mad giggling and laughter vanished, at least for the moment. "You're awake." He holds up the broken glasses. "I suppose you don't need these after all. You don't seem to be squinting. But then again." He moves over to Eames, and puts the broken glasses back on his face, the sharp glass uncomfortably close to his eyes. "There you go. The better for you to see me with." A flash of the mad grin returns, but then vanishes just as quickly. "Wouldn't want you to miss anything."
Eames stares up at Walker through the broken glass, his mind too fuzzy for him to properly understand what’s going on here. Or perhaps he just doesn’t understand because it makes no sense. He’d just been in the hallway of the hospital, and then…
“You drugged me,” he says, and it’s a credit to just how drugged he is that Eames doesn’t add an insult on to the end of that, or even swear. He just stares up at Walker, disbelieving. How could he have been taken so unawares, how could he have been such a buggering idiot? Ever since this job had really began, Eames knew something was wrong with Walker, he’d known something was going wrong, but he hadn’t had the sense to get out, to alert Arthur, and now-
Now he’s strapped to a hospital bed, and even when he begins to struggle in earnest, Eames can’t get out. He’s too confused, too weak from the drugs, and his position gives him no leverage. All of that time spent in the weight room, he thinks feverishly, almost hysterically, was for no good reason. He should have done something else with the time, like had a hamburger, watched a movie. Ravished Arthur-
“Yes,” Walker says, calmly. “Yes, I did.”
Eames gives up the struggling, slowly realizing through the haze that it’s useless at this point. Instead, he turns his attention on Walker. Or as much attention as he can. Focusing, thinking at all is like trying to wade through quicksand, and even when he blinks blearily up at the other man, Eames sees four different Walkers, distorted through the broken glass of the glasses that were only ever part of an act. A part. Now, Eames struggles to hold on to that. Because what would Greg do in this situation, how could anyone react properly here? Where is Arthur? “All right, that’s fair, my apologies. I believe what I meant to say was ‘why the fuck did you drug me?’”
"Well, I should think that was obvious," Walker says, mimicking Eames' accent mockingly (and surprisingly accurately) before switching back to his regular Midwest accent, rather startlingly similar to Arthur's, in point of fact. "No way in hell I'd ever take you down." He nudges Eames' flexed bicep, still tense despite the fact that he'd ceased actively struggling. "You pulled me along like a little girl, Greg. I have to say, I hired you half because of all... this." He gestures, somehow managing to encompass all of Eames.
Then he walks purposefully down to the cart at the end of the bed, and picks something up, keeping it down at his side while he returns to the head of the bed, his hand out of Eames' line of sight. Now his smile is reassuring, and a bit wistful. "It's too bad, really. You're very pretty." His visible hand hovers over Eames' hip, but then he looks up, and sees the expression on the other man's face, and he pulls back. "Yes, well. It's a shame. But you fell right into my lap, here. Can't pass up an opportunity like that."
The knot of uneasiness, of alarm and a different sort of fear that had hit Eames when Walker had started looking at him in that way, had nearly touched him, lessens and then shifts back into the same fear he’d felt since he woke up, since before then. That Walker is going to do something- obviously he’s going to do something. Eames tries to remain calm, professional, about this. After all, if Walker is going to kill him, there’s nothing he can do about it, he won’t burst into tears or beg or… or any of that.
Except that is bordering on exactly what Eames wants to do, because he’s strapped to a hospital bed and he has no idea where Arthur is or why he’s here in the first place, and Walker is hitting on him or something, he doesn’t quite know, and he has no idea what’s going on and why a hospital? God, he’s losing it. He can’t even think properly, everything is still so hazy…
And that’s when Walker lifts his other hand, revealing a scalpel. He doesn’t do anything with it yet, just gives Eames ample time to stare. Even through broken, fake glasses, Eames can see what it is well enough to know just how fucked he is.
“You’re going to have a very hard time,” Eames finally manages, staring bravely up at the other man even as he starts shaking despite himself. Thirty-four years of nonsense, a ridiculous bloody life, he’ll admit it, and this is what he’s reduced to. He’s shaking, and he knows he’s paled, he knows that he’s started pulling on the restraints again despite himself, but he’s not going to turn into a crying mess or beg. If he could just reach his gun-he just needs to get to his gun. “Finding another assistant after I tell the union about this.”
"Don't be ridiculous," Walker says calmly, his smile slight but still there, as though he's amused by Eames' struggles as much as by his quip. "There's no union."
He doesn't even bother adding that Eames, or rather Greg, to Walker, won't be telling anyone anything at all. That much is obvious, and made even more so as he lifts the scalpel to the larger man's throat. Eames has pushed his head as far off to the side and as far back into the pillow as it can go, but there's no way he can escape the blade, and they both know it.
"Stop struggling," Walker says calmly. Almost soothingly, really. "It'll be easier. You always struggle," he reflects, shaking his head, as the blade touches Eames' skin, pressing into his throat. The blood starts to run down the sides of his neck, staining the sheets crimson below him.
---
December in Queens is generally cold, even if, in a good year, fate doesn't start dumping snow on Long Island until after New Year's. This seems to be one of those years, so far; it's bitterly cold, the wind never quite letting up, but at least there's no snow.
It's probably dangerous for Arthur to be even thinking those words, but for now it's holding true.
Despite misgivings, he'd agreed to hire Ariadne on as architect again, and Eames had thanked him admirably; he suspects it's a long-term ploy to convince him to agree more easily more often, but then again, the opposite might be true, as well. He's given up trying to figure out how the forger's brain actually works, and just accepts it as the very illogical process it is. However, there will be no further thanking until the job's done, which is why, some four hours ago, he'd kicked Eames out of the office space he'd rented for a month to begin tailing the mark, so that he could actually make some progress.
He should have known, of course, that four hours was far too much to ask for. The stairwell door bangs open, admitting a large man looking even more broad-shouldered than usual in a thick wool overcoat, with a suspicious lump over his chest, beneath the heavy fabric.
Eschewing the idea of a greeting, he gets right to the point. Whatever it is, he's not going to like it, so he at least attempts to end the wheedling before it starts. "No," he says flatly, looking back down at his laptop.
Eames just smiles in response, not at all bothered by being greeted in such a manner. He's quite used to it, actually, and was totally prepared for resistance from Arthur about this. Even though Arthur doesn't know what "this" is, yet. Just as he's sure Arthur is prepared for his response to have no effect whatsoever on Eames carrying on with exactly what he'd planned. Which is, of course, wheedling. Arthur was right on that account.
"You don't even know what you're refusing, pet," he says, tsking. "I could have a giant diamond under my coat and might have been planning to share it with you." Arthur doesn't even look up. Obviously he is well aware that Eames does not have a diamond, despite the fact that Eames has a tendency to pickpocket at random. It's just that most people do not keep diamonds in their pockets or purses. Eames withholds a sigh. "Or I could've brought you dinner. That would be very thoughtful of me after you so cruelly sent me from your sight." Arthur does not look up, once again, despite the fact that Eames bringing him dinner is not outside the realm of possibility.
Well, all right. Two can play at this game. "All right, you're going to be difficult, I can see where this is going. But the fact is, I've grown very attached to Wally. It would be immeasurably cruel to separate us. Our love is the thing of legend and song. We've been through quite a lot together, haven't we, cupcake?" Here he pats the lump beneath his coat, glancing down and smiling as he opens it just enough to glance down at whatever he's got in there. "I very nearly died rescuing him from the roof. Fire escapes are just not as sturdy as they once were, and the drainage system for the rooftops in this city is utter rubbish. Thank God in heaven for elderly deaf women leaving their windows unlocked on the ninth floor, that's all we have to say about it." The grin on the forger's face as he stares down at whatever he's holding in his coat (it's definitely starting to squirm now) resembles something approaching childish delight, the same sort of expression Eames gets for a moment when he really laughs. He's practically cooing, and he looks much younger, somehow, smiling like that. It's entirely sappy, and Eames does not seem to notice or mind. He looks up at Arthur, and the expression doesn't go away when he does, although it does take on a measure of pleading. "She adored Wally as well, but is sadly quite allergic. You just can't say no to this face, Arthur, just look at him."
At that, Arthur actually does look up, seeing Eames' coat squirming and the expression on the other man's face. "He," he repeats dubiously, pushing his chair back and standing from his desk. He stretches for a moment, as though that was his only reason for getting up in the first place, and then takes a few steps closer to the other man. "Who, or what, exactly, is Wally? And what was he doing on a roof?"
He pauses, seeing the plastic bag Eames sets down, with its recognizable red and blue logo. It makes a jangling noise as it's set down.
"Oh, no." He stops in his tracks, shaking his head. "Noooo no."
“You didn’t even look!” Eames protests. That does it. It’s obviously time to pull out the big guns. Or the little ones, if they’re being literal. Before Arthur can turn away or anything silly like that, Eames reaches carefully into his coat, the not-really-such-a-mystery lump explained a moment later when he emerges with a tiny, squirming kitten in hand.
Literally in hand, in one hand. It’s tiny; it fits in Eames’ large palm, where he cradles it very gently. It makes his hands look huge and coarse, but Eames has always been surprisingly gentle for a man of his large build.
It’s small, smaller than it should be, even though it’s clearly a very young kitten; Eames can make out ribs, there. And it’s still a bit dirty despite the bit of cleaning Eames had managed. More of a brushing off, really, since he wanted to get it warm and a bit fed before bothering with cleaning. But from what he can tell, it’s tan, part Siamese, with the darker ears and paws, and a bit of the tail. And huge, seemingly perpetually wide blue eyes. Eames wasn’t lying about the love bit. He fell quite in love the moment he saw the little thing. That would be why he risked his life to get Wally off the roof.
He holds the kitten up so Arthur can’t help but see it, not to mention how difficult it would be for Arthur to miss the half smitten, half pleading look on the forger’s face behind the wide-eyed kitten. “Arthur, look at him. He’s so little. And it’s cold outside.”
And it’s nearly Christmas. Arthur can hear the next part of that argument coming a mile away, and he sets his jaw, prepared to argue... but Eames doesn't keep going. He just stands there, with eyes as big as the kitten's and an almost pout on his face, still right next to it.
And Arthur relents.
"Fine," he says grudgingly. "But I'm not cat-sitting, and it had better not interfere with the job."
It is Christmas. And Eames looks so delighted as soon as Arthur caves- he can't really be all that mad.
But he doesn't give up the act, turning and heading back to his desk with another sidelong look at the beast. And he's not referring to the cat. "Have you ever had one before? Much less a kitten? They're a lot of work, and you have a mark to be tailing."
Arthur carrying on the act or not, Eames looks absolutely delighted by Arthur’s grudging capitulation. He’d thought it would take much more convincing. He had quite a few arguments entirely planned out. A whole bit about Christmas. He might have resorted to tears. Not his own tears, Arthur would be a fool to believe it when Eames cried. Ariadne’s tears. Because Eames is totally certain he could get Ariadne’s help with this.
But he hadn’t had to. Arthur had agreed. Eames can’t recall ever being this sort of happy before. He doesn’t care if Arthur is grudging. Arthur is always grudging. Arthur was grudging about sleeping with him, until he wasn’t. Hell, he was grudging about being friendly. It took Eames ages to get in his trousers, and he’s still half surprised that he managed at all.
So this is practically a giddy reaction, from the point man. Eames takes it for what it is and grins widely, leaning forward to snuggle the tiny kitten a bit. It makes a high pitched, small mewling noise, and Eames nearly keels over from cute overload. It’s about half a second before Eames is sitting on the ground, legs out in front of him to form a circle with his feet touching, creating a small circle with a barrier that he places the cat in the middle of. This way, Wally can’t get very far. And Eames can reach up and get the little feather toy he bought to play with.
Wally makes a poorly-executed attempt to climb up and over Eames’ leg as he’s getting the toy; the kitten promptly falls, rolling back and looking surprised as hell as he does it before climbing awkwardly back on four paws. Eames is a bit overwhelmed by cute, but he manages to look up at Arthur, looking for all the world like a thrilled little boy. “No, I’ve never, but I have no choice, love,” he says, totally serious despite the huge (and rather silly) grin on his face. “I’ll simply have to figure it out. Because Wally’s other options are the streets- where he’ll certainly starve to a slow and horrendously painful death if he’s not ripped to pieces by other wild New York cats or run over by a cab- or a shelter, where he’ll be cast into a tiny cage with eight bigger, meaner cats, who will certainly gang-rape and assault him. And he’ll be passed over again and again for adoption by the children looking for a kitten of their own to love, because he’s so malnourished and terrified that they simply can’t see how adorable he once was, before his ordeal shattered him emotionally. So that when he’s at last given up all hope and his adorable little spirit is finally broken and nothing more can be done, he’ll be coldly and efficiently euthanized.” Wally chooses this moment to trip over his own feet in the circle of Eames’ legs. Eames bursts into laughter that is perilously close to a giggle, reaching down to pet Wally with one finger. It takes up half the kitten’s head. “I won’t let you be mercilessly euthanized, Wally.”
Arthur watches the little cat scramble back to its feet and make a flying leap for the feather, failing miserably but getting up and waddling around after it as Eames trails it around the floor.
Arthur blinks.
"It- it waddles," he points out, startled enough that he's stating the obvious. Sure enough, the aforenamed Wally is indeed waddling, too tiny and ungainly to actually manage walking. Arthur's brow furrows. "I think it's a runt. Its mother probably abandoned it."
Wally looks up at him, then, and it would be plaintive if he were actually looking at Arthur, but unfortunately he is not. "You do know it's cross-eyed, too, right?" Hard to miss.
Looking scandalized, Eames actually reaches down to cover the kitten's ears. This is done with two fingers of each hand, and he still manages to nearly cover the entire head while Wally squirms a bit, trying to see him and ending up falling over. "Of course, but don't bring it up, it's a sensitive subject." Wally's wide, cross-eyed stare is one of the charming things about the cat, Eames thinks. There's really only so much adorable he can handle, but Wally is stretching his limits. Eames has been downright giddy since he first saw the kitten, and now with Arthur's permission to keep him, Eames can barely contain himself.
He lets Wally go after a moment in order to keep playing with the feather, and moves on to the rest of that subject. He knows Wally waddles. It's the most adorable thing he's ever seen in his life. "He does waddle. It's adorable." Eames does not seem to mind the fact that he's cooing over the kitten, or that he's more or less acting like a ten year old girl. "Some of the best kittens and people are runts. I was a runt." Oddly true, and although Eames might not be the tallest man in the world (Arthur has an inch or two on him, and he's not even particularly tall), there's no denying that Eames is no runt these days. Baggy trousers and tweed can only hide so much. The man is built like a brick wall, and Arthur knows that better than anyone. "I don't think I have ever waddled, though."
Arthur eyes Eames but doesn't argue, staring at the broad shoulders and shaking his head slowly. "So that means you're going to end up with a monster cat, when he grows up. Going by that logic."
Well, he'd meant what he'd said; he's not going to be the kitty babysitter while Eames is working. Of course, that probably means that Ariadne will end up doing it... actually, he doubts there's any question of that, since Ariadne has a cat, and will probably dissolve into cooing and giggling as soon as she sees the kitten.
At least it looks like there's a litter box in Eames' PetCo bag. He doesn't mention that the man should probably get a box and a blanket if he doesn't want to be chasing the little waddling thing all over the place... but then thinks the better of it. Eames can come up with that much on his own. "Congratulations," he says dryly, turning back to his desk. "I'm going to work now. Did you actually get anything on the mark?"
Eames manages to tear his eyes away from the kitten long enough to give Arthur the sort of look that speaks volumes, even if Arthur isn't facing him anymore. "Of course I did," he says, very nearly offended. "But he holed himself up in his study. No windows, and he goes in there for days at a time. It was useless to wait about, and it's much too early to be breaking and entering, especially since I've got an interview tomorrow."
Naturally, this interview was Eames' plan all along. Arthur may be the one with the actual plans worked out, might have back-up plans for his back-up plans, but Eames can be counted on to do his own work and to do it well. It's just a matter of whether or not what he's decided to do lines up with what was expected. He doesn't keep regular hours and he doesn't go about things in the typical manner, but in the end, Eames can be more than counted upon to do his part. Daring kitten-rescuing missions aside, the man is almost absurdly dedicated once he's actually on a job. Provided, of course, that the job doesn't cross his line- the one that says he won't do work if it's going to get him killed or turned into a mental vegetable- the way the Fischer job had when Cobb had sprung that bit about limbo on them. But even then, in the end, Eames had carried on.
Anyway, as compared to that job, this one is hardly worrisome. Eames forgets about Arthur's near-insult to his competence, then, smiling down at Wally as he leaps for the feather again, then falls down onto his side and stays there, worn out for a moment. Eames nearly melts, reaching down to pet him gently while he's still. "I must admit, the interview is really just a technicality. I'm absurdly overqualified, as the head-hunter who referred me well knows." Angela is still quite nice to him, despite the fact that he is no longer sleeping with her. He did get her in to meet Katy Perry, that once. Eames always has known how to make friends. Networking is really not a good word to cover what it is he does. As with most things, the forger tends to take "networking" a step beyond what most people do. "Suppose I'll need a haircut."
Arthur arches a brow. He hadn't heard about this interview development. Then again, he had kicked Eames out in order to begin his own preliminary work, so it's his own fault.
"What interview?" One corner of his mouth flicks upward as he eyes Eames up and down, taking his time about it. He had meant to keep from teasing, since he'd set down the moratorium on sex and related activities for the duration of the job, and to tease Eames would be unfair. But some things... just can't be helped.
The man is right there, looking like that. How is he supposed to do anything but appreciate it? "I think you'll need more than a haircut if you actually want the job." His slight smile proves that he's at least not entirely serious...
This all receives a smirk from Eames, who, while certainly willing to abide by Arthur's ridiculous rules if he insists- he is a professional himself, after all- will never be stopped from sexually harassing the other man. Professionalism be damned, Eames flirts with everyone. And no one more than Arthur, who Eames knows has more or less come to terms with that by now. And if Arthur is going to be eyeing him that way, Eames isn't going to be particularly bothered. In fact, he might have determined independently that he ought to make this abstaining as difficult as possible for Arthur. Because of course he has to make it difficult.
"Ah, nothing a shave and a ridiculously expensive suit won't fix," he says offhandedly, as though when he takes on the character of whoever this interviewee is supposed to be, it'll be nothing, just a costume. In reality, they both know Eames can appear entirely different even here, topside, not because of a costume but because of how he changes his entire demeanor. But even beyond that, he knows how much Arthur likes him in a nicely tailored, expensive suit. A la Arthur's entire wardrobe. Eames' grin widens. "You know I clean up well, darling."
"Mmm hmm," Arthur says absently, focused on the screen. He hits the print button, and then turns to look at Eames as the Lexmark starts spitting out pages. "What interview?" he repeats, arching a brow.
Wally takes this moment to let out the most pitiful mewl Arthur's heard in some time, and he listened to Ariadne whine the last time they wouldn't let her come under for a job. The kitten keeps the noise up as he clambers up from where he'd been lying and pounces on Eames' hand, biting and mewling repeatedly.
Scowling at the tiny cat, Arthur turns back to his printouts. "I've got a list of the scenarios we can use in the dream level. Hopefully Ariadne's seen some of these."
Eames is a bit distracted by the mewling and the biting, though, the pitiful little noise immediately catching his attention. And worry. "What?" he asks, looking down at Wally, who is clearly wanting something. Unless he wants to bite Eames' hand, and that's it. Eames will probably let him carry on, if that's the case. It isn't particularly painful; his teeth, though sharp, are tiny. "What do you want, kitten, it's all right," he says, using his other hand to gather Wally up again. The noise keeps up as the kitten then promptly attempts to climb up Eames' torso and fails.
"Perhaps he's hungry again?" Eames wonders, feeling a bit helpless. It could always be the litter box, too. Either of those things, Eames can take care of. He talked to his new friend at PetCo (Danielle) about such things for a long time, after all. She was quite knowledgeable. Eames is at least marginally prepared, but he doesn't know what the mewling means. This is not the first time it has occurred to him that he has next to no idea what he's doing. He's never had a cat, no pets at all, actually. It's not exactly easy to keep one, with his constant moving about. That has occurred to him, too, but he just couldn't leave Wally behind. Not this tiny little cat. The only time Eames can recall being more enamoured is when he met Arthur, not that he'd ever say that.
He looks up at Arthur with pleading eyes almost as wide as Wally's, wanting help figuring out what's wrong, but Arthur appears to be scowling and now looking away. Eames recalls that he'd asked a question. "Oh... as personal assistant," he says offhandedly. "His agent insists he have someone to keep track of things for him. He doesn't seem particularly interested..." The mewling keeps up. Eames loses track of what he was saying, wondering what biting him could possibly mean, if he's done something wrong? "...but... oh. I'll be hired. No worries. What's the list?"
"His movies," Arthur says, setting the printout aside and trying not to look concerned at the pitiful sound the kitten is making. He settles on annoyed as an appropriate substitute, and sighs, standing and walking over to the mini-fridge, where Ariadne keeps the milk for her coffee, eschewing creamer as she does.
He gets out a bowl and pours some in, walking over and setting it down in the circle between Eames' legs; the kitten promptly loses interest in Eames' hand and dives for the bowl, sticking a paw in and then lifting it to its mouth, licking the milk from it, repeating the process. Arthur shakes his head. "Unsanitary little beast."
The relief that had been obvious in Eames’ expression when the kitten had stopped making that sad little noise morphs- once again- into delight as he watches this display. Where Arthur is looking at Wally and worrying about how sanitary that might be, Eames can only see how very cute what he’s doing is. Eames might as well have little hearts in his eyes.
“I don’t think,” he starts slowly, watching Wally lick delicately at his tiny, tiny paw, to get what milk he’d managed to get out of the bowl off of it, “I have ever seen something so adorable in my life.” And Eames has lived a very interesting life. He has seen many things. Grinning, he reaches down to scratch Wally on the head with one finger (it’s difficult for Eames to pet him with much more than that), and Wally keeps licking at his paw, but his little eyes close, and he starts to purr.
Eames' eyes widen almost comically, and the expression on his face is nothing short of delighted. “I take it back. That tops it.”
Arthur smiles very slightly as he watches this. Eames is too busy staring at the kitten and won't notice, and Arthur's smile widens a little, although he doesn't say a word. He does pull out his phone and hold it up, taking a quick, silent picture. By the time Eames glances up again, his phone is back in his pocket and he's shuffling through papers again, sitting back down at his desk.
The next time he looks up, pulling out his earbuds and cutting off Nat King Cole, he sees Eames passed out on the sagging couch in the corner, one of the places they're using as a makeshift bed while they use the PASIV. But Eames is out, not under, and the kitten is conked out on his chest, flopped out and rising and falling as the forger breathes.
They have hotel rooms, but Eames looks comfortable enough, and Arthur doesn't want to disturb them. Not when Eames actually looks rather peaceful, a description that only applies when the other man is asleep. Instead of waking them, Arthur turns out the lights in that corner of the large room, going back into the cubicle he'd commandeered with a fresh cup of coffee. He'll sleep when he's finished.
---
Eames is mid-conversation with Walker as they wander through the dark carnival, feet getting muddy as they walk from one ride to the next. Eames had expected there to be a distinct lack of projections, but a few people wander here and there through the carnival; he supposes in this dream, it’s open and running. But when the roller coaster flies by, there’s no one in any of the seats- Eames does a double-take, blinking through Greg’s glasses as the wooden coaster rushes past above them. Is that blood on the inside of the last car…?
Shrugging it off, he turns back to Walker, who looks absolutely unaffected by the mood of the dark carnival around them. “I haven’t been to a carnival since I was a boy,” he finds himself saying, then pauses, realizing that that’s a complete lie. He’d never been to a carnival as a boy, hadn’t gone until he was much older. The lie doesn’t even register until he’s said it, and as with most dreams Eames has no trouble remembering what they’d been discussing in the dream before, even though the conversation had never truly happened. “Do you come here often?”
“No,” Walker says, not looking at him. He seems distracted; Eames would frown if he wasn’t so very busy being Greg. He has no idea what Walker’s attention is on, and it’s Eames’ job to keep him distracted, not whatever it is that has his attention. Not unless it can be useful. “Not since I started writing my scripts.”
Having appeared in the crowd behind them, Arthur allows himself a glance at the back of Eames' head, blending into the surrounding people (a surprising number of projections for this dingy carnival) before heading in the direction of the fun house and the safe.
The creepy guy in the ugly duster outside takes his ticket (he hadn't dreamt them up, but it seems only logical that he would have some, and so he has a whole strip of them), and holds open the black curtain for him. He steps into a musty-smelling space (an aroma like nothing so much as his parents' old attic), only catching a glimpse of it before the carny drops the curtain and he's stuck in the darkness, only the dim light filtering in from outside lighting his way.
And then a dim, flickering light snaps on ahead of him, and eerie, recorded cackling starts to play... on a ten-second loop. With a sigh, he steps into the spinning "barrel of fun," as Ariadne had termed it, and then onto the moving floor of the next part of the fun house. It is, in the way of dreams, much larger inside than it is outside, the first of the mazes to keep the projections from following him. There are metaphorical fire exits, of course, and he knows where they are, but Walker's projections don't.
The moving floor, which shifts back and forth, is cracked, and there is no handrail. He slips and grabs onto the wall to keep his balance, mentally cursing Ariadne and her authenticity.
Neither Eames nor Walker sees Arthur, and so they don’t know when he disappears into the fun house. But Eames is aware of the passage of time once the dream starts, and he knows that unless something has gone horribly wrong, Arthur is on his way to the safe now. With any luck, it shouldn’t take him long, and he’ll be back to let Eames know quick as possible and they can be done with this job.
For now, though, he simply follows Walker along the muddy path, vaguely aware that the lights- which had been flickering dimly before- are becoming less frequent, so that the only light comes from the dingy flashing of the strings of lights on the rides, or from undisclosed locations within the depths of the game booths.
They stop at one such booth at Eames’ insistence, the forger leading Walker there to test their strength with an old, worn-out looking mallet handed to them by a toothless old man with an eye missing. Eames gives it a go first- it barely registers, of course, no matter that Eames is well aware of the extent of his strength- and then turns to hand it to Walker. The mark takes it halfheartedly, and Eames turns around to watch in silence.
Walker’s attempt is no better than Eames’, but when Eames turns to hand the mallet back to the old man… he’s gone. Nowhere to be found. Up top, this is the sort of thing that would give Eames the shivers, but frankly, Ariadne made this place to be shiver-inducing. How a projection managed to disappear is anyone’s guess, but Eames has seen stranger things in his time in dreamshare. So he simply sets the mallet down carefully, turns back to Walker, and wonders if Arthur has made his way through the maze yet. “Can’t blame them for rigging it, I suppose.”
"No," Walker says, still distant, "I suppose you can't." He turns and wanders off in the general direction of the fun house, not appearing to notice the sudden desertion of the carnival. All of the carnies have disappeared, as have the rest of the projections who'd been enjoying the rides and the games. Even the clown that had been handing out cotton candy from has vanished, the huge tree filled with bags of spun sugar now lying in the mud.
But Walker doesn't seem to be paying attention to the sudden lack of people, or to anything at all. He ambles off down the main row of games, back the way they'd come, as the roller coaster zooms past them again, ruby red glistening wetly on its wheels now, too, the empty carriages rattling past.
Eames catches up to Walker just as he passes the carousel, which suddenly stops. There's no screeching to a halt, no whining of gears. Everything simply stops, and goes dark, from the Ferris wheel to the empty bumper cars to the little motorcycle children's ride.
Next to Walker now, Eames slows, turning to look at the carousel; Walker doesn’t seem to notice the way that everything has stopped, even though the lights have dimmed so far now that Eames doesn’t know how he can still see- it must simply be that it’s a dream, and therefore he has to see even without a visible light source- but Eames does. A moment ago, all of the rides were running, even if no one was on any of them. Now…
“Mr. Walker,” Eames calls quietly, a note of caution in his voice. He turns back around, catching sight of Walker yards ahead of him now, heading for the entrance to the roller coaster, and he hurries to catch up again. Walker might not know the danger they could be in, but Eames does. He’s the dreamer. When you can’t spot the projections, they’re probably about to attack you.
“Mr. Walker, hold on,” Eames nearly hisses. “Stop a moment. Everything’s gone-” Eames cuts himself off at the sound of a door slamming somewhere nearby, freezing and turning to look in that direction as a chill runs down his spine. He reminds himself, firmly, that he knows exactly what’s going on here, that he’s in control- it’s his dream, after all. But there’s just something about the way this dream is playing out that makes the projections being suddenly invisible in the near-pitch black that lends it an eerie quality, even for someone who understands what’s going on. Perhaps it’s the sense of being hunted. If he gets killed, after all, the whole dream will fall apart.
Walker halts, turning back towards him. He's lost his distant expression, but the look on his face now is worse. He's smiling, very faintly, despite the eerie atmosphere. Everything has gone very still and quiet. Walker's smile is widens to almost childlike proportions, and despite his near-silence for the duration of their time thus far in the dream, now he seems positively cheery. "This is just like when I was a kid." He's nearly beaming, now. "Greg, did I ever tell you about the summer I turned sixteen-"
He breaks off, his eyes lighting up as they fix on something behind Eames. "Look! Ponies."
Up until this point, Eames had been staring back at Walker with growing uncertainty, although he’d managed to keep his expression even; he has no idea what the hell is going on with the writer, but he’s not even a little bit frightened by this. In fact, he seems almost giddy. Which strikes Eames on a very basic level as just wrong- there is something wrong with this guy that he hadn’t noticed up top, more than you would expect from a horror writer, maybe-
He doesn’t have time to really consider that before he hears something behind him and turns as Walker points it out, just in time for the mallet they’d used at the strength-testing game comes down next to him, where a moment before his head had been.
Swearing violently, Eames ducks just as the mallet turns, aiming for his head, and the arm holding it swings just over him. Eames has half a second to see the old man with no teeth snarling at him as he swings the mallet, and then the forger dives at him, knocking them both over before scrambling back up to his feet and yanking the mallet with him. The old man makes a screeching noise that is utterly absurd sounding and pierces the silence utterly; Eames winces at the way their location has been given away and brings the mallet down on the old carny’s head, knocking him out rather than killing him.
Something is wrong; this is too early for projections to be attacking like this. He glances up, wanting to be sure of Walker’s position, and then pauses to stare. He’d just been attacked by an old man with no teeth who had screeched like a Banshee, and Walker is standing two meters away and not even looking at him. When Eames turns to look at what it is Walker is so interested in, all he sees is a fenced-in area with a broken rope tied to a pole in the middle and an open gate creaking. No ponies at all.
“All right,” Eames says, still clenching the mallet in one hand, “come on, Mr. Walker. We need to get out of here.”
"All right," Walker says easily enough, walking back toward Eames. "We can visit the ponies later."
He follows Eames down the midway, wearing a smile more suited for a sunny Midwest fairground than this place, and his eyes light on another darkened attraction. "Care to have your fortune told, Greg?"
A skeletal hand bedecked in rings and bangles pushes the curtain aside, gauzy sleeve hanging from the arm, and from the rest of the decrepit figure that lunges out at them. The old woman's turban is unraveling, dragging on the ground behind her as she goes for them, hands curled into claws and teeth unnaturally long and pointed. Not vampire fangs, mind you, but normally-placed teeth, inches long and needle-sharp.
She lunges for them and Eames falls back as Walker begins to laugh hysterically. "Look at her, Greg! Look at her!" He continues to laugh. "Ridiculous!" She lands a swipe at Eames with her clawed nails, drawing blood, and he ducks away again, grabbing the chortling Walker and turning to bolt in the other direction.
"Look!" Walker sounds delighted. "The ponies!"
This time, when Eames turns away from the fortune teller from hell to look ahead, he sees the ponies. Or rather, what had once ostensibly been ponies (in the dream). Now, they’re… well, there are three of them, and they are certainly pony-sized, and they have four legs and look more or less the right shape. But these are not the sort of ponies that Eames would let a child anywhere near, let alone ride. In fact, he feels vaguely ill just looking at them.
Eames doesn’t know whose mind these things came out of, but he has a good guess, judging by the way Walker is nearly giggling as he looks at the ruined flesh of the ponies, all greenish and gray, bones sticking out in places Eames isn’t sure they ought to have had bones in the first place. There’s no blood, but that’s only because what they might have had has dried or congealed into a thick pus that Eames does not spend a lot of time contemplating.
“Jesus Christ,” he spits as the things immediately turn and start for him. Safe to say this is the first time he has been chased down by zombie ponies. He makes a sharp turn, grabbing Walker’s wrist as he does and dragging him away from both the ponies and the old woman and her bloody teeth. “I’m beginning to see why you took up writing horror movies.” Crazy wanker is still giggling madly, even as the ponies gain on them.
---
part two