Arthur/Eames, amnesia, h/c, PG-13
Title: if you can forget, don't worry about me (Part II)
Fandom: Inception
Summary: When memory loss from a dream-sustained injury carries over into reality, Arthur is suddenly faced with his entire life, which may or may not include a lover, boyfriend... whatever he is.
Pairing: Arthur/Eames (pre-slash, but almost)
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 7,082 (this part), 16,321 (total)
Notes: Thanks to all for such an incredible response to part I!!! Good god damn! Keep on trucking. This is probably only going to have four, maybe five parts, total, and I'm really glad y'all seemed to be enjoying it so far.
previous parts: PART I
There's music in the air. It's French, Edith Piaf, and Arthur's not quite sure he likes it.
Ariadne, whose name finally sticks in Arthur's memory, is sitting cross legged on top of a desk, fiddling with an mp3 player and a set of pink speakers. "Hey, Arthur," she says, not getting up to greet him today. Possibly because Eames has a hand on Arthur's shoulder and is pulling him away before he even has time to take his coat off.
"This way, love," he says, gesturing to the four lawn chairs in an open area that looks, from the stains and dents in the carpet, like it had once been full of desks.
Arthur rolls his shoulder, twisting out of Eames' grip. "What did I tell you about calling me that," he says coolly.
"That you love it," Eames replies. "I'm sorry," he adds quietly, so that only Arthur can hear him. "I'll try to not be so forgetful."
Arthur doesn't want to look at him, doesn't want to see whatever look is presently on his face, whatever look he is predestined to one day become attracted to, a look that will one day make him want to do no nothing more than press a kiss onto Eames' mouth and say I forgive you, I forgive you, alright? So please, please don't do this.
"I wish I could do the same," he says instead, and tries not to let his surprise show on his face.
Especially not when Dom is making a beeline for the two of them, grinning and still managing to look apprehensive as he asks, "Hey, Arthur. Any memories coming up?"
"Coffee," Arthur blurts out at the exact same moment that Eames says, "Nothing yet."
"I remembered how to make coffee," Arthur continues, confident, a little arrogant even, to compensate for how ridiculous he realizes it is to be proud of remembering how to make coffee. Still, there's no shame in it, as it's something he remembered nonetheless.
"That's," Dom starts to say before Eames cuts him off.
"You're absolutely right. We can do better," he says, determined.
Already, Arthur feels like the conversation is slipping away from him, with something so small as Eames speaking for him, about the coffee and nothing else, and Arthur can feel that Eames and Dom are about to bring up something that should be familiar to him but will inevitably be something confusing and possibly terrifying, and there it is in the suitcase on top of the desk near the lawn chairs and Arthur remembers it only from when he woke up connected to the machine inside, and he has a scab, he accidentally scratched at it that morning, from where he ripped the IV out of his wrist, after he died...
And Eames is saying something, Eames with his hand on Arthur's shoulder again, and Arthur wants to shrug him off like he did before, except Eames shakes him, hard, and Eames is saying something that Arthur thinks he really should be able to hear, especially with Eames' face sliding into view, sliding in front of the suitcase...
"Arthur! Arthur, listen to me. Deep breaths, come on."
He doesn't even realize he isn't breathing normally until then, but Eames is yelling at him, and shaking him again, and he can feel himself hyperventilating because the suitcase is right behind Eames, the one that Arthur woke up connected to, needle in his arm, he has a scab there, now, and then everything goes black.
Arthur wakes up on his back, on one of the lawn chairs.
He springs up immediately, knowing what these lawn chairs mean and not wanting to be anywhere near them.
"Hey, alright, stop. Calm down."
"Don't - tell me to calm..."
"Arthur," Eames says carefully, so careful, holding him down from behind, an arm wrapped tight around his chest so that all Arthur's kicking and twisting is to no effect. "You're alright," Eames is saying, with Dom nodding in agreement from where he's crouched beside the chair.
"I know," Arthur snaps, prying Eames hand from his chest and sitting up properly, swinging his legs over to one side.
"Slowly. Careful."
"Hey, what's going...?"
"Ariadne," Dom says brightly, jumping up to his feet.
"Be a dear, would you," Eames says, also getting up, "and get us some coffees. I'm afraid we didn't have time to pick anything up for ourselves."
"Um," Ariadne pauses for a moment, her voice small and uncertain before realization kicks in. "Oh. Sure. Absolutely."
The moment passes quickly, but Arthur takes full advantage of these few seconds where Dom and Eames aren't looking at him. He feels stupid enough just sitting in the lawn chair without being cared for like the emotional wreck he really wasn't expecting to be, and so he gets up, putting as much distance between himself and Dom and Eames (and the machine, although he will not be thinking about that) as he can in the time it takes Ariadne to get the hint and leave.
"You didn't have to send her away," Arthur says, halfway across the room by the time Dom and Eames notice.
"We wanted to give you some space."
"So give me some space. I'm fine." It bothers him how plaintive and not fine he actually sounds, but there's nothing he can do about that now. "I just saw the thing and got scared."
"You got scared," Dom says slowly, as if he's processing it for himself.
In actuality, Arthur saw the machine and got terrified, forgot how to even breathe properly. The world went away and all that was left was this incredibly strong, all encompassing fear of death and the need to stay alive, to get as far away from it as possible.
"The first thing I remember, the first memory of my entire life, was of Eames throwing me off a roof." Arthur tries very hard not to relive that memory as he explains it, tries very hard not to remember the roof, the wind, the blood, the hands on his shoulders. He thinks it would do to be explained, though, if only to keep Eames and Dom from thinking he's so unstable.
"It didn't actually happen," Eames says, hands gripping the back of the lawn chair he had held Arthur down on. "Arthur, it wasn't real."
"I know it wasn't real," Arthur agrees before Eames can get worked up and think that he doesn't know the difference between reality and the strange, fucked up dream world they'd brought him into. "I know it wasn't. But it did happen."
You did kill me, he doesn't say, because Eames is looking guilty enough already.
"That's... that's good," Dom says. "That makes sense."
Arthur almost laughs at this. There's absolutely nothing about any of this that makes any sense, not really. Not his memory loss, not a machine that can put people into the same nightmares, not lawn chairs in an abandoned office, not being in a relationship, not having been in love, with Eames. Not even how easily he succumbed to the all-consuming fear of just seeing the machine.
But at least Dom and Eames aren't holding him down, sticking an IV into his wrist, he already has a scab...
"Just don't put me under again, and I should be fine," he says.
"Oh," Eames says.
"About that," Dom starts, and Arthur swears under his breath, nodding for him to continue. "Since your memories were lost while you were inside your subconscious, it would seem that going back into your subconscious would be the only way to get your memories back."
Already, Arthur can feel his heart starting to beat faster, his pulse quickening in the face of the only thing he can remember ever being afraid of. "Can't you do that without me?"
"Not if we want to access your mind. We'd need you with us."
"And that's the only way to get my memories back," Arthur concludes. "You're sure?"
"I'm not sure," Dom says, defensive. "But it seems like the only viable method so far. I mean, you're not remembering anything on your own."
"The coffee," Arthur says. "I remembered how to make..." he already knows that it's a lost cause, though, that there is really nothing to be said about the fact that he managed to use what really is, no matter how complicated, just a coffee machine.
"That was an exception," Eames says.
"What if it's not? You can't know for sure. You don't know." He knows that he's babbling, that he's being completely unreasonable. But that's the thing about fear, Arthur realizes: no rationality whatsoever. "I could remember..."
"It's your call," Eames says, sounding almost cruel. "Dom and I only want to help you. But if you want to figure it out for yourself, by all means. Live the rest of your life not knowing who you are. It wouldn't make any bloody difference to me."
"It would and you know it," Arthur says quietly, grateful for the space between him and Eames. He doubts he would be even half as brave as this if Eames was still coddling him, holding him down like a lunatic. "You wouldn't be able to handle it."
"Neither would you."
It's subtle, but Arthur sees Eames hands tighten, just a little, around the back of the lawn chair.
Dom, who has been blessedly quiet during this little lover's spat of theirs, takes the opportunity to come forward. He doesn't come too close, though, still giving Arthur plenty of space.
"This job, this work, it's what I do. I'm good at it. We all are, and I'm confident that we can help you find what you lost, down there."
"I'm..." Arthur says, helplessly trailing off.
"Afraid," Don accurately suggests. "I don't blame you."
"I don't want - I don't think I can go under. Into the dreams," Arthur says, meaning it genuinely. Completely honest. "I don't think I can do it."
"We could go inside your mind while you're asleep," Dom suggests, making it very clear by his tone that he doesn't like this plan nearly as much as the other one, "but I'd much rather have you on our side. Without you, there's no telling if we'd even be able to find you, once we went inside."
"No - don't do that! Don't," Arthur says, feeling sick at the thought of Dom and Eames sneaking into his mind without him even being aware of it.
"Fine. It's fine." Dom takes a few steps away from Arthur, giving him space. "I'm just telling you your options."
Arthur shifts from foot to foot, feeling trapped even in spite of the space. Cornered. Either have his mind invaded, or face yet another horrifying death within the confines of his own dreams. Neither option sounds particularly appealing, and in the face of such a tricky decision Arthur would much rather start his life over from scratch than choose either one of them.
But he knows it's not an option, not really. Not with Eames standing right there, a tangible and pissed off looking reminder that Arthur is not the only factor in this decision.
"I want," he says, "I want to think about it."
After that, the tension seems to let up. Eames finally raises anchor and breaks away from the lawn chair, grabbing his fat notebook and relocating to a desk all the way on the other side of the room, by the stairwell. Whenever Arthur steals a glance at him, his face is tight, a storm in his eyes, a crease between his brows.
When Ariadne returns, Arthur does a passable job at pretending he's fine when she brings his coffee over to him.
"Thanks," he says, forcing a smile. "I, uh, really wanted coffee. Thank you."
Ariadne gives him a sad smile in return. "Arthur. It's okay. It's really okay."
Quite frankly, Arthur is sick of hearing these empty sentiments. From the snort he hears from near the stairwell, he can tell that Eames is, too.
By the end of the day, Eames has seemingly forgotten all about the events of the morning, and is all smiles when he asks Arthur if he'd prefer to take a taxi or the metro back home.
"Metro," Arthur decides. "You can show me around our neighborhood. And teach me the right way to get home, for fuck's sake," he adds.
So Eames follows Arthur into the metro station once again, directing him from behind. After only five metro stops, Arthur has to try very hard not to punch Eames when he tells him that this is it. He really, really wants to, though, and clenches his fists at his sides.
It infuriates him even more now, that Eames had let him go through the whole show of trying to find his own way home when in actually, when they live only five stops away. It's basically walking distance, a walk that Arthur assumes is probably quite lovely.
"But you're so independent," is Eames' response. "Who would I be if I didn't let you try figuring things out on your own first?"
"Sadist," Arthur bites back.
The whole thing puts him in such a foul mood that he decides to skip out on the part where Eames shows him around the neighborhood. Storming past beautiful tree-lined streets, hidden alleys, an ancient fountain, Arthur ignores it all, stopping only to order some takeout from a Chinese restaurant. As he does, he catches himself giving his order in French, and it hits him that he hasn't forgotten this language he doesn't remember even speaking.
It's weird, because when he tries to consciously think about something in French, he can't come up with even one word, but he's just ordered lo mein and chicken and vegetables and soups in what clearly was perfect French. The sudden awareness throws him off so that he feels too self conscious to try speaking even in English.
He ends up having to thank the cashier with a thumbs up, of all things, before striding out and making a silent vow to never come back here again.
*
Nighttime is difficult. Arthur knows that when he closes his eyes, he's going to dream of falling, dream of death and blood and being more terrified than he's ever been, more than he can remember ever being. He knows he's going to wake up disoriented, possibly screaming, definitely terrified, and he would rather hold such tedium at bay for as long as he can.
He convinces himself that if he gets tired enough, he'll sleep like a stone, without any dreams at all. Anyway, it's already past one in the morning, and Arthur's not nearly as tired as he's going to need to be. He's bored, though.
He goes to feel his way through darkened hallways to the library, study, that room with all the books. It being so late in the evening, he makes a quick stop to extricate some leftover lo mein from the fridge.
On his way, he notices that the bedroom light is still on, and so he lets himself in. It is his apartment, after all. And anyway, he's had something he'd been wanting to ask Eames since that morning at the office. He isn't really sure where the thought came from. Maybe he's remembering something. Maybe he's just naturally inquisitive. Either way, he decides to try his luck.
Unfortunately, the sight of Eames, shirtless, sitting up against the headboard, reading from a leather bound notebook, is distracting.
"What's that?" Arthur says, gesturing with his carton of leftovers.
Eames looks entirely unsurprised to see Arthur, and makes no move to cover himself up. "Journal," he says, shutting the book, although whether to be private or polite, Arthur can't tell.
"Yours or mine?"
This gets a tired sounding laugh out of Eames, which Arthur feels inexplicably proud of. Bolstered by this rush of newfound pride, Arthur makes the decision then to begin circling around the point he hopes he has the courage to make.
"Did we fuck?" he says, directing his attention to his leftover noodles and not the look of amusement that's probably creeping onto Eames' face at that very moment.
"Pardon?"
"Have sex," Arthur says to his food. "Make love. Fuck. Did we?"
"We were together," Eames says, as if that explains everything. "What else is there to say?"
"Are," Arthur stresses. "We are together."
Eames regards him warily. "I really don't think we should think about it like that."
"No, stop talking. We'd still be together if I hadn't lost my memory, and I'm thinking about trying this new thing," he says, idly stirring his noodles around his fork, "where I pretend to be optimistic and confident that I'll be getting my memories back soon. And then I'll remember us again, and whatever we are is going to make sense again."
The speech leaves him feeling hopeful, even confident, and he uses his newfound strength to finally look up from his takeout container and meet Eames' gaze.
Eames looks like he wants to say a whole lot more than what he ends up saying: "Alright. Are." It comes out in a breath, sounding somewhat regretful, so different than the Eames that Arthur knows, that Arthur wishes he could remember the Eames he's supposed to know, the Eames he used to know, instead.
But there's finality in his words, and so Arthur shifts the subject. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"That we're..."
"Yeah," Arthur cuts him off. Despite not knowing Eames for that much time, at least that he can remember, Arthur knows how creative he can be with his words, and doesn't want to hear what he might come up with to supplement what it was they've done.
Eames smirks at him. "I did tell you, though, didn't I?"
"Eventually," Arthur concedes, "and not about the sex."
"I guess I supposed you wouldn't believe me. You do believe me, yeah?"
"I'm letting you sleep in your bed, aren't I?"
"Our bed," Eames corrects him.
"Yours for now," Arthur says.
"Fine. Mine for now. Ours for when you can remember which side you sleep on. And no guessing."
And then it's over, this moment between lovers. Eames shuts the journal and sets it down on the nightstand in a definitive end to the conversation. Arthur can't help but feel like he and Eames should be doing much more than just shutting off a lamp and, respectively, ducking out of the bedroom that had once belonged to both of them.
Just when Arthur thinks he's free, Eames calls after him, "You sure you don't want the bed?"
"I'm sure."
"There's room for both of us, if you're really so torn up about asking me to sleep on the couch."
"I know."
It would be more comfortable than the couch. But Arthur hardly knows the man in it, doesn't know what his arms would feel like wrapped around him; that is, if they even are the kind of people to sleep wrapped up like that. Like lovers.
Before Arthur leaves, before he resigns himself back to the couch, and the nightmares, and the being afraid, he realizes that he still hasn't asked the big question he'd been tossing around his head all evening, no, ever since he found out that he and Eames were together. "Would you fuck me?"
"I would, yes," Eames replies immediately, not a trace of sarcasm in his voice. "Have done so on many occasions and I hope to do on many more occasions to come."
"Let me finish," Arthur says, and Eames snaps his mouth shut obediently. "Would you fuck me, if you think it would help me remember?"
At length, probably time enough for Eames to think of the right thing to say back (and Arthur knows he's putting Eames in an awkward position, and he does feel bad about it, but emotions don't take precedence over the fact that he would rather not have to live through another world-shattering dream murder), Eames replies.
"Unless that's a come on," he says slowly, like he's still deciding on what to say, having only decided, up until that point, to say no, and in the least offensive way possible, "don't even think about it until you get your memories back. I don't sleep with strangers."
"It could help me," Arthur says, feeling strange about how he's all but begging for sex like this. He thinks it might help, though, or at the very least, he's so desperate to avoid being plugged into that machine again that he's tricked his brain into believing that sex with Eames might actually jog his memory. He is very, very desperate, though, and makes no move to hide this from Eames, assuming that he's already figured it out.
"You can't really remind me of anything, not the way things really were for me, except for this."
"Darling," Eames says, shutting Arthur up, "I'd fuck you black and blue and out of your mind, if I thought it would get you your memories back. I'd do anything for you."
"But...?" Arthur says, sensing that Eames still has a conclusion to make.
"Sex doesn't work like that," Eames says, and thank all that is holy he isn't smiling. Arthur doesn't think he'd have been able to even ask to be fucked in the first place if Eames had been smiling at him. Instead, he just looks thoughtful, curious, even, as he sits up from the headboard, leaning on his knees, and drops a significant bomb of a question: "Do you want to fuck me, Arthur?"
"I want my memories back," Arthur replies in earnest.
"So you don't want to fuck me," comes decidedly as a statement, because Eames has probably already figured out Arthur's plan. Of course he knows Arthur better than Arthur does right now because Eames and this other Arthur he likes to talk about have lived together for what seems like a significant number of years.
Arthur, knowing neither Eames nor himself, is at a significant disadvantage. He does know, however, that what he wants to say is not going to make Eames all too happy. At length, he says again, "I want my memories back."
"Then no," Eames says. "I'm not going to fuck you."
In retrospect, wrapped up in a comforter, lying awkwardly on the couch, Arthur thinks that Eames had no right to sound as sad as he did about refusing to sleep with him. Even without his memories, Arthur's not blind, and he can see that Eames is an attractive man. He can acknowledge, without any prior knowledge of Eames, how confident he is in Eames' ability to go out and get himself some action if he was desperate enough to sound sad when Arthur denied him.
As if he hadn't denied Arthur first.
Perhaps, he thinks, Eames just needs to be told that it would be alright if he went out and got laid, that Arthur is only maintaining their semblance of a relationship for Eames' sake, because Eames was the one to tell him about it in the first place and, in turn, guilt him into inviting him in, giving him the bed, making him coffee, and eventually propositioning him for sex.
It is the first time in his life that Arthur can remember feeling mortified, and his cheeks burn hot under careful comforter concealment.
*
"That thing you said last night," Arthur says in the morning, bringing the subject back up out of the grave where it should have stayed buried, because he can already feel a blush creeping up his neck, a prickling in his cheeks.
Eames is puzzling over Arthur's ridiculous coffee machine, and looks up with relief, grateful for the reprieve. "What about, love?"
"Love," Arthur says, following it up with a twitchy sort of gesture that he isn't sure why he even did. Just that his hands are moving on their own volition, free of the logic of his damaged brain. "I mean, sex. That thing you said. About the black and blue..."
He doesn't want to finish the thought, and he hopes beyond all other hope, that, with his memories and self awareness back, he isn't this much of a child when it comes to sexual topics. He takes a moment to pray to every god he can think of that he's a qualified, competent adult on the subject that is currently causing him to blush and fidget in front of Eames like an idiot.
"I remember," Eames says, waiting for what he must think is bound to be a promising payoff.
"You said," Arthur says carefully now, "you'd do anything for me. My question is... have you ever said that to me before?"
For a moment, Eames looks like he is considering actually answering Arthur, who waits, continuing to fidget impatiently. But Eames eventually decides to stay quiet, turning back to the coffee machine with the intense stare that makes Arthur believe, for just a second, that the entire world hangs in the balance of Eames discovering this machine's complexities and inner workings.
"I'm just asking," Arthur continues, when Eames continues to say nothing. "It's not personal. I've only known you for a couple of days. I could care less if you cared about me."
"You're just curious, then? Is that it?"
"Just doing my research."
Arthur knows, though, that the conversation is over, as Eames fails to meet his eyes, as Eames chews nervously on his bottom lip, as Eames doesn't say anything more on the subject. In the face of this revelation, a whole slew of questions emerge from out of the blue. What if Eames never told me he loved me? Am I the kind of person to stay with that kind of person? Does he love me? Did he? Do I love him? Did I love anyone?
He distracts himself from them quickly, replacing them all with a much more simple, much more relevant one: Does Eames know he's supposed to light a fire under the coffee machine in order for it to brew? Because in that moment, Eames is not treating the machine properly at all.
*
At work, the machine is nowhere to be seen. Arthur says nothing about it, about being spooked, about dreading it with all his heart, throwing himself into research instead. He spends all morning running background checks on the top ranked basenji breeders in North America, going through dog show after dog show, checking the champions breeding history and gathering all the facts. He's just started to find what could possibly be a connection, something that would explain the whole basis of their job, when Dom comes in, a silver briefcase in his hands, carried like a child or something more precious, and Arthur can no longer focus on his work.
It's the machine, and Arthur knows it. He refuses to make a scene, though, refuses to give in to his impulses. He doesn't think he's the type of man to give into flight when he isn't even being provoked by anything.
"Hello," he says, deliberately trying to sound composed. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Eames lift his head the way a dog's ears perk up at the first sign of trouble. Clearly, Arthur didn't sound as composed as he would have liked.
Dom looks concerned as well, his stride slowing almost imperceptibly. Arthur notices, though, as he has come to learn that he is a very detail-oriented person.
"Afternoon," he says, setting the briefcase down on a nearby conference table. "Sorry I'm late."
"Is that it?" Arthur says, his eyes fixed on what he already knows is the machine.
Dom nods, and is so obviously trying to downplay the fact that he's trying so hard to tiptoe around Arthur's sensitivity that he ends up just looking pinched and uncomfortable, a bad actor in a costume that doesn't quite fit.
"Alright, fine," Arthur says, hating himself a little for giving in so quickly but also unable to keep his mouth shut. He knows that Dom is going to spend the rest of the day dropping subtle hints, and sharing seemingly random facts about the device to try and ease Arthur's fears, and what Arthur really doesn't want is another day of everyone being careful with him, of Eames being gentle and Dom being protective and Ariadne looking like she's about to cry because of how bad sorry she feels about Arthur losing his memories.
So Arthur gives up, or gives in, or just starts caring so that everyone else can stop. "If it's just going to sit there all day, then fine. Tell me how it works. Tell me what you want me to know."
It seems, from the way Dom all but leaps across the room and into the chair on the other side of Arthur's desk, that Arthur's concession was pretty much the only reason he came into work that day.
"The plan is this," he says, leaning forward, fingers spread wide across the surface of the desk. "We go inside your head, to protect you from projections, while you look around for anything familiar."
And that's that, Dom looking up at him expectantly, waiting to hear his thoughts, like sneaking into other people's minds is commonplace.
Arthur stammers through a few false stops and starts before he finds what sounds like the right kind of question to ask. "What are projections?"
"Projections of your subconscious," Ariadne says, from out of nowhere, otherwise known as over Arthur's left shoulder, where he hadn't seen her come over to. "I mean, the subconscious of whoever's head we go into. In this case, it's yours."
"And I'd need to be protected from them?"
"Not that we're saying you need to be protected," Ariadne says quickly, covering her tracks. "It's just that projections are tricky. Most of our job is spent fighting them anyway."
"They attack foreign bodies," says Eames, because why not make this little information session a family affair? It's not like Arthur isn't already mortified, confused, and trying very hard not to be afraid of this impossible logic. Now he has Eames to worry about too, because all Arthur can think about, when Eames is near him, is standing awkwardly in what is supposed to be his bedroom and all but begging for Eames to fuck him. "Like, we can go into your head, but we're not really supposed to. We don't belong there, and your mind didn't like it even before you got your head messed up."
"Your subconscious will treat it like an invasion, and attack us," Dom says. "As Ariadne said, our job is to outsmart them."
"Or kill them," Ariadne adds brightly.
"If we brought you into someone else's head, that would put you at risk," says Eames, ever trying to keep Arthur safe, or so it seems. "Since it's your own head we'd be going into, though, they won't bother you. They're your subconscious."
"Great," Arthur breathes. "At least my brain won't attack... my brain."
"Eloquent as always, love," Eames says, beaming at him.
"So you're going to be the targets instead?" Arthur says, rather than address the fact that Eames has just called him 'love' again. He's never gotten anywhere by saying that he doesn't like it, and there's no reason why Eames would all of a sudden decide to respect Arthur's wishes.
"We," Eames says, "are going to do our best to tread lightly, try not to change too much, and see if your subconscious leaves us alone."
"And I can't control them because they're my subconscious," Arthur says, piecing it together himself. "Right?"
"Correct," Dom says. Eames flashes him a quick smile, which Arthur doesn't return.
"So. How am I going to wake up? After all, this isn't going to be a natural sleep. I doubt we just wake up on our own..."
"Last time, when Eames," Dom pauses, "killed you, it was to induce a feeling of falling, which will give your brain the jolt it needs to come awake."
Arthur's eyes dart quickly to Eames, to see how he reacts to this criminalization. He looks away quickly, though, before Eames can see him staring. Dom continues, oblivious.
"Since we're only planning on exploring, we won't need a kick. We're just wake up when the timer runs out. It happens naturally, and we won't have to do anything about it."
"Is that it?" Arthur says, when the room falls silent once again. Eames clears his throat, says nothing. Ariadne leans back so that she's half sitting, half leaning on Arthur's desk. Even Dom looks a little deflated. Arthur can clearly see that this is decision time. He can also see, just as clearly, that there's really no decision at all. His memories aren't coming back, and he doubts he has the patience to grit his teeth and endure too much more of frustration realization after frustration realization: check out this life you used to have, but only just a hint, don't want to ruin the surprise.
He takes a deep breath, sits back in his chair, feeling that, for once, he is in control, even if he really isn't, and says, "Yeah, fine. Can we do it today?"
Dom tries to hide the fact that he really wants to smile right now, which is plain to see in how tight his face is when Arthur agrees. "We can do it now, if you're up for it."
"Sure. Let's just get it over with."
The tremors start when Arthur rolls up the left sleeve of the button down shirt he wore because he thought he might remember about this Arthur person if he dressed like him. It was just a few steps further from sleeping in Arthur's apartment, using Arthur's coffee maker, and trying to sleep with Arthur's boyfriend. It's when he fumbles with the button at his wrist that he realizes that he might be starting to panic.
"Arthur," Eames says carefully from a few feet away, where he's messing about with the machine, unwinding wires, and slotting canisters into place.
"It's nothing," Arthur says quickly, trying to will his hands to stop shaking. But he notices that his hands are shaking because his arms are shaking, and his shoulders, and what do you know, so is his torso. And then Arthur drags his attention away from his pathetic body, pathetic for giving in so easily to his pathetic brain, to stare Eames down, daring him to come over and stroke his brow or rub circles on his back, cooing softly in his ear. "Do what you need to do."
With a quick nod, Eames turns back to the machine, Arthur's message clearly understood.
Arthur breathes through his nose, struggling to roll his sleeve up to his elbow. He does manage it, though, just barely, and he's still shaking when Eames comes over to him with the needle.
Thankfully, Eames doesn't say anything, doesn't ask Arthur, yet again, if he's ready. He just turns Arthur's hand palm up, then pressing down, hard, to still his shaking long enough to slip the needle into his vein. Arthur stares at the floor, feeling sick, but he doesn't dare say anything now.
He just stares at the floor until his vision goes fuzzy, and then he's asleep.
*
I forgive you, Arthur thinks, though he doesn't know why. He's in his apartment, the one that Eames had shown him, the one that Eames had eventually admitted to also living in. It's almost empty, though, boxes stacked all over the black hardwood.
He's alone, and he thinks, for some reason he can't initially explain, that this is wrong. He remembers that he came with other people, with Dom, and Ariadne, and with Eames.
He remembers that he's dreaming.
He remembers that he's supposed to look for something. His memories. Familiar things.
There's nothing familiar about this apartment, though, with all the taped up boxes, duffel bags and backpacks all stuffed almost to bursting, and Eames nowhere to be seen.
"Hello?" Arthur calls, and heads for the bedroom. He doesn't really know why, all he did was think of Eames and his feet seemed to act on their own accord.
"Hello," he tries again, losing interest as his mind drifts to Dom and Ariadne and Eames, and he wonders if his subconscious is trying to kill them. He feels relatively at peace, and so he chooses to believe that they're safe.
Someone's in the bathroom, though. The door is shut and it's nighttime so Arthur can clearly see the rectangle of light. He walks right up to the door and knocks, feeling strangely confident. This is his apartment, after all. He should feel at home here.
Someone's in the bathroom, and they're saying I forgive you, I forgive you, alright? over and over again, please, please don't do this.
"I have to," Arthur replies, and he opens the door.
Don't do this, says the man leaning over the sink, don't do this, don't do this, please, don't.
His back is turned, charcoal grey suit rumpled and torn, but Arthur can see his face reflected in the mirror. I forgive you, he says, half of his face caked in blood that Arthur thinks is still flowing from a gash on the side of his head. Please, please!
"I'm sorry, but I'm already here," Arthur says, unsure of how to proceed. "Are you alright?"
It is, apparently, the wrong thing to say, as the man suddenly whips around, his hands immediately closing around Arthur's throat, ramming him up against the wall. Arthur doesn't even have time to fight back, doesn't even have time to struggle for breath, when the man pulls a gun out of the waistband of his pants, and presses the muzzle to Arthur's forehead.
Arthur can still feel the gun, pressed against his left eyebrow, when he wakes up, paralyzed, his body on fire and too heavy for him to move, too heavy for him to do anything but watch his vision go fuzzy again because he isn't breathing, because he can still feel the hands crushing his windpipe.
And then someone's shaking him, or he's shaking, or both, and Eames is holding him now, face pressed into the crook of his neck, Eames' arms holding him tight, holding him close, keeping him from moving. He can't keep Arthur from shaking, though, shivering like he's freezing, his heart beating so fast it feels like it's about to give up completely.
He feels lost, he feels dead, he's scared, more scared than he's ever been. Again. His hands claw at Eames' hands, trying to pull him closer, push him away, tear him open, anything and nothing because he doesn't know what he's supposed to do when someone put a bullet through his brain, he doesn't know what he's supposed to do...
And this time, Eames isn't yelling, he's just whispering, his mouth centimeters from Arthur's right ear. Eames is just saying his name over and over, so quiet, but also urgent, like it's of utmost importance that Arthur just hears him, listens to him. Like all he has to do is just hear him, and then maybe he'll be able to breathe.
"Eames," Arthur says, his voice breaking, and he sounds so far away but he wants Eames to know that he can hear him.
"Arthur. Arthur, please just breathe, just relax, just let me... god, I don't know."
" 'm dead," Arthur whispers, as Eames pulls back so that he can get a better look at Arthur's face, tipping his chin up and locking eyes with him.
"Do you remember the red die you found in your pocket?"
"Died again," Arthur tells him. "No time for games."
"Damnit, Arthur, this is important," Eames says, his hands tightening around Arthur's face, forcing him to listen. "It's on that desk, right beside you. You put it there. Do you remember?"
Arthur wants to tell him that he doesn't remember anything, that everything he knows now has been taught to him, has been learned while he struggles to find normalcy in this life he's been walking through like he's half awake and half dead. He wants to, but he can't seem to stop shaking, even though Eames is holding him so tight.
"It's yours," Eames continues, insistent, and Arthur just wants him to be quiet, or to make sense. "None of us have touched it."
"Why would I-?" He takes a gulp of air, fighting past the tightness in his chest. "Die? You... killed me."
"That was a dream. This is different. Arthur-"
"No, he killed me," Arthur says, feeling so strong, remembering it, just like he remembers Eames killing him, the first thing he can remember. "You killed me. He killed me."
"Come on, Arthur, just take the die, pick it up. Can you do that for me?"
"Eames," he says, pleading, not understanding what he wants him to do.
"The dream fell apart. You could have been killed by anything. A falling building, a car crash, anything."
"No," Arthur insists with sudden vehemence, since his chest is still too tight for him to breathe properly. "He killed me. He shot me."
He's staring at Eames now, and Eames looks suddenly confused. "Arthur, I didn't shoot you. Who are you talking about?"
"Me," he says quietly, afraid that putting it into words would make the nightmare real. But there's no denying it, really, and Arthur knows it isn't healthy to deny what he knows with all his heart really did happen.
"You shot yourself," Eames says, with disbelief.
"No," Arthur says, and, slowly, he lets go of Eames so that he can reach over and pick up the small red die sitting on the desk, just like Eames said. Eames, who had wanted him to take it, Eames, and Arthur thinks, no, he knows that he would fall if Eames wasn't holding him.
"I didn't," he continues, his voice getting stronger, the tighter he grips the die, clutching his hand to his chest, "the man with the gun..."
He doesn't know what it is about the red little piece of plastic, but it feels right as he squeezes it to the point where he knows he'll find a square little imprint in his palm when he opens his fingers again. If he ever opens his fingers again. Because this feels more right than anything he can remember. He brings his hand in close, protective of this newfound comfort, and somehow manages to find the courage to remember not his life, he can't remember that, but the dream, the one where the man in the suit was in his bathroom, the man who Arthur saw in the mirror, who Arthur recognized.
"It was me."
*
Here, have another adorable basenji for getting through that. I know I need one.
Fandom: Inception
Summary: When memory loss from a dream-sustained injury carries over into reality, Arthur is suddenly faced with his entire life, which may or may not include a lover, boyfriend... whatever he is.
Pairing: Arthur/Eames (pre-slash, but almost)
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 7,082 (this part), 16,321 (total)
Notes: Thanks to all for such an incredible response to part I!!! Good god damn! Keep on trucking. This is probably only going to have four, maybe five parts, total, and I'm really glad y'all seemed to be enjoying it so far.
previous parts: PART I
There's music in the air. It's French, Edith Piaf, and Arthur's not quite sure he likes it.
Ariadne, whose name finally sticks in Arthur's memory, is sitting cross legged on top of a desk, fiddling with an mp3 player and a set of pink speakers. "Hey, Arthur," she says, not getting up to greet him today. Possibly because Eames has a hand on Arthur's shoulder and is pulling him away before he even has time to take his coat off.
"This way, love," he says, gesturing to the four lawn chairs in an open area that looks, from the stains and dents in the carpet, like it had once been full of desks.
Arthur rolls his shoulder, twisting out of Eames' grip. "What did I tell you about calling me that," he says coolly.
"That you love it," Eames replies. "I'm sorry," he adds quietly, so that only Arthur can hear him. "I'll try to not be so forgetful."
Arthur doesn't want to look at him, doesn't want to see whatever look is presently on his face, whatever look he is predestined to one day become attracted to, a look that will one day make him want to do no nothing more than press a kiss onto Eames' mouth and say I forgive you, I forgive you, alright? So please, please don't do this.
"I wish I could do the same," he says instead, and tries not to let his surprise show on his face.
Especially not when Dom is making a beeline for the two of them, grinning and still managing to look apprehensive as he asks, "Hey, Arthur. Any memories coming up?"
"Coffee," Arthur blurts out at the exact same moment that Eames says, "Nothing yet."
"I remembered how to make coffee," Arthur continues, confident, a little arrogant even, to compensate for how ridiculous he realizes it is to be proud of remembering how to make coffee. Still, there's no shame in it, as it's something he remembered nonetheless.
"That's," Dom starts to say before Eames cuts him off.
"You're absolutely right. We can do better," he says, determined.
Already, Arthur feels like the conversation is slipping away from him, with something so small as Eames speaking for him, about the coffee and nothing else, and Arthur can feel that Eames and Dom are about to bring up something that should be familiar to him but will inevitably be something confusing and possibly terrifying, and there it is in the suitcase on top of the desk near the lawn chairs and Arthur remembers it only from when he woke up connected to the machine inside, and he has a scab, he accidentally scratched at it that morning, from where he ripped the IV out of his wrist, after he died...
And Eames is saying something, Eames with his hand on Arthur's shoulder again, and Arthur wants to shrug him off like he did before, except Eames shakes him, hard, and Eames is saying something that Arthur thinks he really should be able to hear, especially with Eames' face sliding into view, sliding in front of the suitcase...
"Arthur! Arthur, listen to me. Deep breaths, come on."
He doesn't even realize he isn't breathing normally until then, but Eames is yelling at him, and shaking him again, and he can feel himself hyperventilating because the suitcase is right behind Eames, the one that Arthur woke up connected to, needle in his arm, he has a scab there, now, and then everything goes black.
Arthur wakes up on his back, on one of the lawn chairs.
He springs up immediately, knowing what these lawn chairs mean and not wanting to be anywhere near them.
"Hey, alright, stop. Calm down."
"Don't - tell me to calm..."
"Arthur," Eames says carefully, so careful, holding him down from behind, an arm wrapped tight around his chest so that all Arthur's kicking and twisting is to no effect. "You're alright," Eames is saying, with Dom nodding in agreement from where he's crouched beside the chair.
"I know," Arthur snaps, prying Eames hand from his chest and sitting up properly, swinging his legs over to one side.
"Slowly. Careful."
"Hey, what's going...?"
"Ariadne," Dom says brightly, jumping up to his feet.
"Be a dear, would you," Eames says, also getting up, "and get us some coffees. I'm afraid we didn't have time to pick anything up for ourselves."
"Um," Ariadne pauses for a moment, her voice small and uncertain before realization kicks in. "Oh. Sure. Absolutely."
The moment passes quickly, but Arthur takes full advantage of these few seconds where Dom and Eames aren't looking at him. He feels stupid enough just sitting in the lawn chair without being cared for like the emotional wreck he really wasn't expecting to be, and so he gets up, putting as much distance between himself and Dom and Eames (and the machine, although he will not be thinking about that) as he can in the time it takes Ariadne to get the hint and leave.
"You didn't have to send her away," Arthur says, halfway across the room by the time Dom and Eames notice.
"We wanted to give you some space."
"So give me some space. I'm fine." It bothers him how plaintive and not fine he actually sounds, but there's nothing he can do about that now. "I just saw the thing and got scared."
"You got scared," Dom says slowly, as if he's processing it for himself.
In actuality, Arthur saw the machine and got terrified, forgot how to even breathe properly. The world went away and all that was left was this incredibly strong, all encompassing fear of death and the need to stay alive, to get as far away from it as possible.
"The first thing I remember, the first memory of my entire life, was of Eames throwing me off a roof." Arthur tries very hard not to relive that memory as he explains it, tries very hard not to remember the roof, the wind, the blood, the hands on his shoulders. He thinks it would do to be explained, though, if only to keep Eames and Dom from thinking he's so unstable.
"It didn't actually happen," Eames says, hands gripping the back of the lawn chair he had held Arthur down on. "Arthur, it wasn't real."
"I know it wasn't real," Arthur agrees before Eames can get worked up and think that he doesn't know the difference between reality and the strange, fucked up dream world they'd brought him into. "I know it wasn't. But it did happen."
You did kill me, he doesn't say, because Eames is looking guilty enough already.
"That's... that's good," Dom says. "That makes sense."
Arthur almost laughs at this. There's absolutely nothing about any of this that makes any sense, not really. Not his memory loss, not a machine that can put people into the same nightmares, not lawn chairs in an abandoned office, not being in a relationship, not having been in love, with Eames. Not even how easily he succumbed to the all-consuming fear of just seeing the machine.
But at least Dom and Eames aren't holding him down, sticking an IV into his wrist, he already has a scab...
"Just don't put me under again, and I should be fine," he says.
"Oh," Eames says.
"About that," Dom starts, and Arthur swears under his breath, nodding for him to continue. "Since your memories were lost while you were inside your subconscious, it would seem that going back into your subconscious would be the only way to get your memories back."
Already, Arthur can feel his heart starting to beat faster, his pulse quickening in the face of the only thing he can remember ever being afraid of. "Can't you do that without me?"
"Not if we want to access your mind. We'd need you with us."
"And that's the only way to get my memories back," Arthur concludes. "You're sure?"
"I'm not sure," Dom says, defensive. "But it seems like the only viable method so far. I mean, you're not remembering anything on your own."
"The coffee," Arthur says. "I remembered how to make..." he already knows that it's a lost cause, though, that there is really nothing to be said about the fact that he managed to use what really is, no matter how complicated, just a coffee machine.
"That was an exception," Eames says.
"What if it's not? You can't know for sure. You don't know." He knows that he's babbling, that he's being completely unreasonable. But that's the thing about fear, Arthur realizes: no rationality whatsoever. "I could remember..."
"It's your call," Eames says, sounding almost cruel. "Dom and I only want to help you. But if you want to figure it out for yourself, by all means. Live the rest of your life not knowing who you are. It wouldn't make any bloody difference to me."
"It would and you know it," Arthur says quietly, grateful for the space between him and Eames. He doubts he would be even half as brave as this if Eames was still coddling him, holding him down like a lunatic. "You wouldn't be able to handle it."
"Neither would you."
It's subtle, but Arthur sees Eames hands tighten, just a little, around the back of the lawn chair.
Dom, who has been blessedly quiet during this little lover's spat of theirs, takes the opportunity to come forward. He doesn't come too close, though, still giving Arthur plenty of space.
"This job, this work, it's what I do. I'm good at it. We all are, and I'm confident that we can help you find what you lost, down there."
"I'm..." Arthur says, helplessly trailing off.
"Afraid," Don accurately suggests. "I don't blame you."
"I don't want - I don't think I can go under. Into the dreams," Arthur says, meaning it genuinely. Completely honest. "I don't think I can do it."
"We could go inside your mind while you're asleep," Dom suggests, making it very clear by his tone that he doesn't like this plan nearly as much as the other one, "but I'd much rather have you on our side. Without you, there's no telling if we'd even be able to find you, once we went inside."
"No - don't do that! Don't," Arthur says, feeling sick at the thought of Dom and Eames sneaking into his mind without him even being aware of it.
"Fine. It's fine." Dom takes a few steps away from Arthur, giving him space. "I'm just telling you your options."
Arthur shifts from foot to foot, feeling trapped even in spite of the space. Cornered. Either have his mind invaded, or face yet another horrifying death within the confines of his own dreams. Neither option sounds particularly appealing, and in the face of such a tricky decision Arthur would much rather start his life over from scratch than choose either one of them.
But he knows it's not an option, not really. Not with Eames standing right there, a tangible and pissed off looking reminder that Arthur is not the only factor in this decision.
"I want," he says, "I want to think about it."
After that, the tension seems to let up. Eames finally raises anchor and breaks away from the lawn chair, grabbing his fat notebook and relocating to a desk all the way on the other side of the room, by the stairwell. Whenever Arthur steals a glance at him, his face is tight, a storm in his eyes, a crease between his brows.
When Ariadne returns, Arthur does a passable job at pretending he's fine when she brings his coffee over to him.
"Thanks," he says, forcing a smile. "I, uh, really wanted coffee. Thank you."
Ariadne gives him a sad smile in return. "Arthur. It's okay. It's really okay."
Quite frankly, Arthur is sick of hearing these empty sentiments. From the snort he hears from near the stairwell, he can tell that Eames is, too.
By the end of the day, Eames has seemingly forgotten all about the events of the morning, and is all smiles when he asks Arthur if he'd prefer to take a taxi or the metro back home.
"Metro," Arthur decides. "You can show me around our neighborhood. And teach me the right way to get home, for fuck's sake," he adds.
So Eames follows Arthur into the metro station once again, directing him from behind. After only five metro stops, Arthur has to try very hard not to punch Eames when he tells him that this is it. He really, really wants to, though, and clenches his fists at his sides.
It infuriates him even more now, that Eames had let him go through the whole show of trying to find his own way home when in actually, when they live only five stops away. It's basically walking distance, a walk that Arthur assumes is probably quite lovely.
"But you're so independent," is Eames' response. "Who would I be if I didn't let you try figuring things out on your own first?"
"Sadist," Arthur bites back.
The whole thing puts him in such a foul mood that he decides to skip out on the part where Eames shows him around the neighborhood. Storming past beautiful tree-lined streets, hidden alleys, an ancient fountain, Arthur ignores it all, stopping only to order some takeout from a Chinese restaurant. As he does, he catches himself giving his order in French, and it hits him that he hasn't forgotten this language he doesn't remember even speaking.
It's weird, because when he tries to consciously think about something in French, he can't come up with even one word, but he's just ordered lo mein and chicken and vegetables and soups in what clearly was perfect French. The sudden awareness throws him off so that he feels too self conscious to try speaking even in English.
He ends up having to thank the cashier with a thumbs up, of all things, before striding out and making a silent vow to never come back here again.
*
Nighttime is difficult. Arthur knows that when he closes his eyes, he's going to dream of falling, dream of death and blood and being more terrified than he's ever been, more than he can remember ever being. He knows he's going to wake up disoriented, possibly screaming, definitely terrified, and he would rather hold such tedium at bay for as long as he can.
He convinces himself that if he gets tired enough, he'll sleep like a stone, without any dreams at all. Anyway, it's already past one in the morning, and Arthur's not nearly as tired as he's going to need to be. He's bored, though.
He goes to feel his way through darkened hallways to the library, study, that room with all the books. It being so late in the evening, he makes a quick stop to extricate some leftover lo mein from the fridge.
On his way, he notices that the bedroom light is still on, and so he lets himself in. It is his apartment, after all. And anyway, he's had something he'd been wanting to ask Eames since that morning at the office. He isn't really sure where the thought came from. Maybe he's remembering something. Maybe he's just naturally inquisitive. Either way, he decides to try his luck.
Unfortunately, the sight of Eames, shirtless, sitting up against the headboard, reading from a leather bound notebook, is distracting.
"What's that?" Arthur says, gesturing with his carton of leftovers.
Eames looks entirely unsurprised to see Arthur, and makes no move to cover himself up. "Journal," he says, shutting the book, although whether to be private or polite, Arthur can't tell.
"Yours or mine?"
This gets a tired sounding laugh out of Eames, which Arthur feels inexplicably proud of. Bolstered by this rush of newfound pride, Arthur makes the decision then to begin circling around the point he hopes he has the courage to make.
"Did we fuck?" he says, directing his attention to his leftover noodles and not the look of amusement that's probably creeping onto Eames' face at that very moment.
"Pardon?"
"Have sex," Arthur says to his food. "Make love. Fuck. Did we?"
"We were together," Eames says, as if that explains everything. "What else is there to say?"
"Are," Arthur stresses. "We are together."
Eames regards him warily. "I really don't think we should think about it like that."
"No, stop talking. We'd still be together if I hadn't lost my memory, and I'm thinking about trying this new thing," he says, idly stirring his noodles around his fork, "where I pretend to be optimistic and confident that I'll be getting my memories back soon. And then I'll remember us again, and whatever we are is going to make sense again."
The speech leaves him feeling hopeful, even confident, and he uses his newfound strength to finally look up from his takeout container and meet Eames' gaze.
Eames looks like he wants to say a whole lot more than what he ends up saying: "Alright. Are." It comes out in a breath, sounding somewhat regretful, so different than the Eames that Arthur knows, that Arthur wishes he could remember the Eames he's supposed to know, the Eames he used to know, instead.
But there's finality in his words, and so Arthur shifts the subject. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"That we're..."
"Yeah," Arthur cuts him off. Despite not knowing Eames for that much time, at least that he can remember, Arthur knows how creative he can be with his words, and doesn't want to hear what he might come up with to supplement what it was they've done.
Eames smirks at him. "I did tell you, though, didn't I?"
"Eventually," Arthur concedes, "and not about the sex."
"I guess I supposed you wouldn't believe me. You do believe me, yeah?"
"I'm letting you sleep in your bed, aren't I?"
"Our bed," Eames corrects him.
"Yours for now," Arthur says.
"Fine. Mine for now. Ours for when you can remember which side you sleep on. And no guessing."
And then it's over, this moment between lovers. Eames shuts the journal and sets it down on the nightstand in a definitive end to the conversation. Arthur can't help but feel like he and Eames should be doing much more than just shutting off a lamp and, respectively, ducking out of the bedroom that had once belonged to both of them.
Just when Arthur thinks he's free, Eames calls after him, "You sure you don't want the bed?"
"I'm sure."
"There's room for both of us, if you're really so torn up about asking me to sleep on the couch."
"I know."
It would be more comfortable than the couch. But Arthur hardly knows the man in it, doesn't know what his arms would feel like wrapped around him; that is, if they even are the kind of people to sleep wrapped up like that. Like lovers.
Before Arthur leaves, before he resigns himself back to the couch, and the nightmares, and the being afraid, he realizes that he still hasn't asked the big question he'd been tossing around his head all evening, no, ever since he found out that he and Eames were together. "Would you fuck me?"
"I would, yes," Eames replies immediately, not a trace of sarcasm in his voice. "Have done so on many occasions and I hope to do on many more occasions to come."
"Let me finish," Arthur says, and Eames snaps his mouth shut obediently. "Would you fuck me, if you think it would help me remember?"
At length, probably time enough for Eames to think of the right thing to say back (and Arthur knows he's putting Eames in an awkward position, and he does feel bad about it, but emotions don't take precedence over the fact that he would rather not have to live through another world-shattering dream murder), Eames replies.
"Unless that's a come on," he says slowly, like he's still deciding on what to say, having only decided, up until that point, to say no, and in the least offensive way possible, "don't even think about it until you get your memories back. I don't sleep with strangers."
"It could help me," Arthur says, feeling strange about how he's all but begging for sex like this. He thinks it might help, though, or at the very least, he's so desperate to avoid being plugged into that machine again that he's tricked his brain into believing that sex with Eames might actually jog his memory. He is very, very desperate, though, and makes no move to hide this from Eames, assuming that he's already figured it out.
"You can't really remind me of anything, not the way things really were for me, except for this."
"Darling," Eames says, shutting Arthur up, "I'd fuck you black and blue and out of your mind, if I thought it would get you your memories back. I'd do anything for you."
"But...?" Arthur says, sensing that Eames still has a conclusion to make.
"Sex doesn't work like that," Eames says, and thank all that is holy he isn't smiling. Arthur doesn't think he'd have been able to even ask to be fucked in the first place if Eames had been smiling at him. Instead, he just looks thoughtful, curious, even, as he sits up from the headboard, leaning on his knees, and drops a significant bomb of a question: "Do you want to fuck me, Arthur?"
"I want my memories back," Arthur replies in earnest.
"So you don't want to fuck me," comes decidedly as a statement, because Eames has probably already figured out Arthur's plan. Of course he knows Arthur better than Arthur does right now because Eames and this other Arthur he likes to talk about have lived together for what seems like a significant number of years.
Arthur, knowing neither Eames nor himself, is at a significant disadvantage. He does know, however, that what he wants to say is not going to make Eames all too happy. At length, he says again, "I want my memories back."
"Then no," Eames says. "I'm not going to fuck you."
In retrospect, wrapped up in a comforter, lying awkwardly on the couch, Arthur thinks that Eames had no right to sound as sad as he did about refusing to sleep with him. Even without his memories, Arthur's not blind, and he can see that Eames is an attractive man. He can acknowledge, without any prior knowledge of Eames, how confident he is in Eames' ability to go out and get himself some action if he was desperate enough to sound sad when Arthur denied him.
As if he hadn't denied Arthur first.
Perhaps, he thinks, Eames just needs to be told that it would be alright if he went out and got laid, that Arthur is only maintaining their semblance of a relationship for Eames' sake, because Eames was the one to tell him about it in the first place and, in turn, guilt him into inviting him in, giving him the bed, making him coffee, and eventually propositioning him for sex.
It is the first time in his life that Arthur can remember feeling mortified, and his cheeks burn hot under careful comforter concealment.
*
"That thing you said last night," Arthur says in the morning, bringing the subject back up out of the grave where it should have stayed buried, because he can already feel a blush creeping up his neck, a prickling in his cheeks.
Eames is puzzling over Arthur's ridiculous coffee machine, and looks up with relief, grateful for the reprieve. "What about, love?"
"Love," Arthur says, following it up with a twitchy sort of gesture that he isn't sure why he even did. Just that his hands are moving on their own volition, free of the logic of his damaged brain. "I mean, sex. That thing you said. About the black and blue..."
He doesn't want to finish the thought, and he hopes beyond all other hope, that, with his memories and self awareness back, he isn't this much of a child when it comes to sexual topics. He takes a moment to pray to every god he can think of that he's a qualified, competent adult on the subject that is currently causing him to blush and fidget in front of Eames like an idiot.
"I remember," Eames says, waiting for what he must think is bound to be a promising payoff.
"You said," Arthur says carefully now, "you'd do anything for me. My question is... have you ever said that to me before?"
For a moment, Eames looks like he is considering actually answering Arthur, who waits, continuing to fidget impatiently. But Eames eventually decides to stay quiet, turning back to the coffee machine with the intense stare that makes Arthur believe, for just a second, that the entire world hangs in the balance of Eames discovering this machine's complexities and inner workings.
"I'm just asking," Arthur continues, when Eames continues to say nothing. "It's not personal. I've only known you for a couple of days. I could care less if you cared about me."
"You're just curious, then? Is that it?"
"Just doing my research."
Arthur knows, though, that the conversation is over, as Eames fails to meet his eyes, as Eames chews nervously on his bottom lip, as Eames doesn't say anything more on the subject. In the face of this revelation, a whole slew of questions emerge from out of the blue. What if Eames never told me he loved me? Am I the kind of person to stay with that kind of person? Does he love me? Did he? Do I love him? Did I love anyone?
He distracts himself from them quickly, replacing them all with a much more simple, much more relevant one: Does Eames know he's supposed to light a fire under the coffee machine in order for it to brew? Because in that moment, Eames is not treating the machine properly at all.
*
At work, the machine is nowhere to be seen. Arthur says nothing about it, about being spooked, about dreading it with all his heart, throwing himself into research instead. He spends all morning running background checks on the top ranked basenji breeders in North America, going through dog show after dog show, checking the champions breeding history and gathering all the facts. He's just started to find what could possibly be a connection, something that would explain the whole basis of their job, when Dom comes in, a silver briefcase in his hands, carried like a child or something more precious, and Arthur can no longer focus on his work.
It's the machine, and Arthur knows it. He refuses to make a scene, though, refuses to give in to his impulses. He doesn't think he's the type of man to give into flight when he isn't even being provoked by anything.
"Hello," he says, deliberately trying to sound composed. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Eames lift his head the way a dog's ears perk up at the first sign of trouble. Clearly, Arthur didn't sound as composed as he would have liked.
Dom looks concerned as well, his stride slowing almost imperceptibly. Arthur notices, though, as he has come to learn that he is a very detail-oriented person.
"Afternoon," he says, setting the briefcase down on a nearby conference table. "Sorry I'm late."
"Is that it?" Arthur says, his eyes fixed on what he already knows is the machine.
Dom nods, and is so obviously trying to downplay the fact that he's trying so hard to tiptoe around Arthur's sensitivity that he ends up just looking pinched and uncomfortable, a bad actor in a costume that doesn't quite fit.
"Alright, fine," Arthur says, hating himself a little for giving in so quickly but also unable to keep his mouth shut. He knows that Dom is going to spend the rest of the day dropping subtle hints, and sharing seemingly random facts about the device to try and ease Arthur's fears, and what Arthur really doesn't want is another day of everyone being careful with him, of Eames being gentle and Dom being protective and Ariadne looking like she's about to cry because of how bad sorry she feels about Arthur losing his memories.
So Arthur gives up, or gives in, or just starts caring so that everyone else can stop. "If it's just going to sit there all day, then fine. Tell me how it works. Tell me what you want me to know."
It seems, from the way Dom all but leaps across the room and into the chair on the other side of Arthur's desk, that Arthur's concession was pretty much the only reason he came into work that day.
"The plan is this," he says, leaning forward, fingers spread wide across the surface of the desk. "We go inside your head, to protect you from projections, while you look around for anything familiar."
And that's that, Dom looking up at him expectantly, waiting to hear his thoughts, like sneaking into other people's minds is commonplace.
Arthur stammers through a few false stops and starts before he finds what sounds like the right kind of question to ask. "What are projections?"
"Projections of your subconscious," Ariadne says, from out of nowhere, otherwise known as over Arthur's left shoulder, where he hadn't seen her come over to. "I mean, the subconscious of whoever's head we go into. In this case, it's yours."
"And I'd need to be protected from them?"
"Not that we're saying you need to be protected," Ariadne says quickly, covering her tracks. "It's just that projections are tricky. Most of our job is spent fighting them anyway."
"They attack foreign bodies," says Eames, because why not make this little information session a family affair? It's not like Arthur isn't already mortified, confused, and trying very hard not to be afraid of this impossible logic. Now he has Eames to worry about too, because all Arthur can think about, when Eames is near him, is standing awkwardly in what is supposed to be his bedroom and all but begging for Eames to fuck him. "Like, we can go into your head, but we're not really supposed to. We don't belong there, and your mind didn't like it even before you got your head messed up."
"Your subconscious will treat it like an invasion, and attack us," Dom says. "As Ariadne said, our job is to outsmart them."
"Or kill them," Ariadne adds brightly.
"If we brought you into someone else's head, that would put you at risk," says Eames, ever trying to keep Arthur safe, or so it seems. "Since it's your own head we'd be going into, though, they won't bother you. They're your subconscious."
"Great," Arthur breathes. "At least my brain won't attack... my brain."
"Eloquent as always, love," Eames says, beaming at him.
"So you're going to be the targets instead?" Arthur says, rather than address the fact that Eames has just called him 'love' again. He's never gotten anywhere by saying that he doesn't like it, and there's no reason why Eames would all of a sudden decide to respect Arthur's wishes.
"We," Eames says, "are going to do our best to tread lightly, try not to change too much, and see if your subconscious leaves us alone."
"And I can't control them because they're my subconscious," Arthur says, piecing it together himself. "Right?"
"Correct," Dom says. Eames flashes him a quick smile, which Arthur doesn't return.
"So. How am I going to wake up? After all, this isn't going to be a natural sleep. I doubt we just wake up on our own..."
"Last time, when Eames," Dom pauses, "killed you, it was to induce a feeling of falling, which will give your brain the jolt it needs to come awake."
Arthur's eyes dart quickly to Eames, to see how he reacts to this criminalization. He looks away quickly, though, before Eames can see him staring. Dom continues, oblivious.
"Since we're only planning on exploring, we won't need a kick. We're just wake up when the timer runs out. It happens naturally, and we won't have to do anything about it."
"Is that it?" Arthur says, when the room falls silent once again. Eames clears his throat, says nothing. Ariadne leans back so that she's half sitting, half leaning on Arthur's desk. Even Dom looks a little deflated. Arthur can clearly see that this is decision time. He can also see, just as clearly, that there's really no decision at all. His memories aren't coming back, and he doubts he has the patience to grit his teeth and endure too much more of frustration realization after frustration realization: check out this life you used to have, but only just a hint, don't want to ruin the surprise.
He takes a deep breath, sits back in his chair, feeling that, for once, he is in control, even if he really isn't, and says, "Yeah, fine. Can we do it today?"
Dom tries to hide the fact that he really wants to smile right now, which is plain to see in how tight his face is when Arthur agrees. "We can do it now, if you're up for it."
"Sure. Let's just get it over with."
The tremors start when Arthur rolls up the left sleeve of the button down shirt he wore because he thought he might remember about this Arthur person if he dressed like him. It was just a few steps further from sleeping in Arthur's apartment, using Arthur's coffee maker, and trying to sleep with Arthur's boyfriend. It's when he fumbles with the button at his wrist that he realizes that he might be starting to panic.
"Arthur," Eames says carefully from a few feet away, where he's messing about with the machine, unwinding wires, and slotting canisters into place.
"It's nothing," Arthur says quickly, trying to will his hands to stop shaking. But he notices that his hands are shaking because his arms are shaking, and his shoulders, and what do you know, so is his torso. And then Arthur drags his attention away from his pathetic body, pathetic for giving in so easily to his pathetic brain, to stare Eames down, daring him to come over and stroke his brow or rub circles on his back, cooing softly in his ear. "Do what you need to do."
With a quick nod, Eames turns back to the machine, Arthur's message clearly understood.
Arthur breathes through his nose, struggling to roll his sleeve up to his elbow. He does manage it, though, just barely, and he's still shaking when Eames comes over to him with the needle.
Thankfully, Eames doesn't say anything, doesn't ask Arthur, yet again, if he's ready. He just turns Arthur's hand palm up, then pressing down, hard, to still his shaking long enough to slip the needle into his vein. Arthur stares at the floor, feeling sick, but he doesn't dare say anything now.
He just stares at the floor until his vision goes fuzzy, and then he's asleep.
*
I forgive you, Arthur thinks, though he doesn't know why. He's in his apartment, the one that Eames had shown him, the one that Eames had eventually admitted to also living in. It's almost empty, though, boxes stacked all over the black hardwood.
He's alone, and he thinks, for some reason he can't initially explain, that this is wrong. He remembers that he came with other people, with Dom, and Ariadne, and with Eames.
He remembers that he's dreaming.
He remembers that he's supposed to look for something. His memories. Familiar things.
There's nothing familiar about this apartment, though, with all the taped up boxes, duffel bags and backpacks all stuffed almost to bursting, and Eames nowhere to be seen.
"Hello?" Arthur calls, and heads for the bedroom. He doesn't really know why, all he did was think of Eames and his feet seemed to act on their own accord.
"Hello," he tries again, losing interest as his mind drifts to Dom and Ariadne and Eames, and he wonders if his subconscious is trying to kill them. He feels relatively at peace, and so he chooses to believe that they're safe.
Someone's in the bathroom, though. The door is shut and it's nighttime so Arthur can clearly see the rectangle of light. He walks right up to the door and knocks, feeling strangely confident. This is his apartment, after all. He should feel at home here.
Someone's in the bathroom, and they're saying I forgive you, I forgive you, alright? over and over again, please, please don't do this.
"I have to," Arthur replies, and he opens the door.
Don't do this, says the man leaning over the sink, don't do this, don't do this, please, don't.
His back is turned, charcoal grey suit rumpled and torn, but Arthur can see his face reflected in the mirror. I forgive you, he says, half of his face caked in blood that Arthur thinks is still flowing from a gash on the side of his head. Please, please!
"I'm sorry, but I'm already here," Arthur says, unsure of how to proceed. "Are you alright?"
It is, apparently, the wrong thing to say, as the man suddenly whips around, his hands immediately closing around Arthur's throat, ramming him up against the wall. Arthur doesn't even have time to fight back, doesn't even have time to struggle for breath, when the man pulls a gun out of the waistband of his pants, and presses the muzzle to Arthur's forehead.
Arthur can still feel the gun, pressed against his left eyebrow, when he wakes up, paralyzed, his body on fire and too heavy for him to move, too heavy for him to do anything but watch his vision go fuzzy again because he isn't breathing, because he can still feel the hands crushing his windpipe.
And then someone's shaking him, or he's shaking, or both, and Eames is holding him now, face pressed into the crook of his neck, Eames' arms holding him tight, holding him close, keeping him from moving. He can't keep Arthur from shaking, though, shivering like he's freezing, his heart beating so fast it feels like it's about to give up completely.
He feels lost, he feels dead, he's scared, more scared than he's ever been. Again. His hands claw at Eames' hands, trying to pull him closer, push him away, tear him open, anything and nothing because he doesn't know what he's supposed to do when someone put a bullet through his brain, he doesn't know what he's supposed to do...
And this time, Eames isn't yelling, he's just whispering, his mouth centimeters from Arthur's right ear. Eames is just saying his name over and over, so quiet, but also urgent, like it's of utmost importance that Arthur just hears him, listens to him. Like all he has to do is just hear him, and then maybe he'll be able to breathe.
"Eames," Arthur says, his voice breaking, and he sounds so far away but he wants Eames to know that he can hear him.
"Arthur. Arthur, please just breathe, just relax, just let me... god, I don't know."
" 'm dead," Arthur whispers, as Eames pulls back so that he can get a better look at Arthur's face, tipping his chin up and locking eyes with him.
"Do you remember the red die you found in your pocket?"
"Died again," Arthur tells him. "No time for games."
"Damnit, Arthur, this is important," Eames says, his hands tightening around Arthur's face, forcing him to listen. "It's on that desk, right beside you. You put it there. Do you remember?"
Arthur wants to tell him that he doesn't remember anything, that everything he knows now has been taught to him, has been learned while he struggles to find normalcy in this life he's been walking through like he's half awake and half dead. He wants to, but he can't seem to stop shaking, even though Eames is holding him so tight.
"It's yours," Eames continues, insistent, and Arthur just wants him to be quiet, or to make sense. "None of us have touched it."
"Why would I-?" He takes a gulp of air, fighting past the tightness in his chest. "Die? You... killed me."
"That was a dream. This is different. Arthur-"
"No, he killed me," Arthur says, feeling so strong, remembering it, just like he remembers Eames killing him, the first thing he can remember. "You killed me. He killed me."
"Come on, Arthur, just take the die, pick it up. Can you do that for me?"
"Eames," he says, pleading, not understanding what he wants him to do.
"The dream fell apart. You could have been killed by anything. A falling building, a car crash, anything."
"No," Arthur insists with sudden vehemence, since his chest is still too tight for him to breathe properly. "He killed me. He shot me."
He's staring at Eames now, and Eames looks suddenly confused. "Arthur, I didn't shoot you. Who are you talking about?"
"Me," he says quietly, afraid that putting it into words would make the nightmare real. But there's no denying it, really, and Arthur knows it isn't healthy to deny what he knows with all his heart really did happen.
"You shot yourself," Eames says, with disbelief.
"No," Arthur says, and, slowly, he lets go of Eames so that he can reach over and pick up the small red die sitting on the desk, just like Eames said. Eames, who had wanted him to take it, Eames, and Arthur thinks, no, he knows that he would fall if Eames wasn't holding him.
"I didn't," he continues, his voice getting stronger, the tighter he grips the die, clutching his hand to his chest, "the man with the gun..."
He doesn't know what it is about the red little piece of plastic, but it feels right as he squeezes it to the point where he knows he'll find a square little imprint in his palm when he opens his fingers again. If he ever opens his fingers again. Because this feels more right than anything he can remember. He brings his hand in close, protective of this newfound comfort, and somehow manages to find the courage to remember not his life, he can't remember that, but the dream, the one where the man in the suit was in his bathroom, the man who Arthur saw in the mirror, who Arthur recognized.
"It was me."
*
Here, have another adorable basenji for getting through that. I know I need one.
