En haut et en bas
Pairings: Eames/Arthur
Original prompt: Mal makes them do it.
Summary: Mal makes them tell stories. Mal makes them fumble for something to touch. Mal makes them fuck, but maybe that's not the important part.
Notes: With gorgeous, gorgeous art by platina! *____*
More notes: Oh my gosh, this backlog posting thing is taking forever, so I thought maybe I should just slowly make a masterlist instead of continuing to post. Possibly I will still end up posting some of the later things, but mostly I'll just link to the kinkmeme threads on the masterlist, so that I am not STILL POSTING BACKLOGS IN THE SUMMER OF 2011 djlf;ajer
This is a small story.
Not all of it is true.
But it isn't only in dreams that you startle yourself awake, unsure of how you came to the ground under your feet. There are gaps in every painstaking recollection. What we remember is only a sliver of what we know, and even the truth becomes a story in the telling of it.
Eames doesn't mind. Details aren't what's important. The trick to knowing, to living, to forging, is to paint with broad strokes. Anything worth remembering won't let you ever forget it; and anything you forget, you can always invent again. He doesn't remember how he met Arthur, because that's not the important part.
+
Maybe this is how it begins.
Cobb calls him with a job, so Eames flies to Brussels to work his magic. A car pulls up to the curb and Cobb slides into the front seat.
"This is my new point man," he says. "Arthur."
Arthur doesn't turn around, and all Eames can see is his eyes in the rearview mirror, dark and quiet and so young.
"My god," says Eames. "I'm working with a fetus."
"Ah," says Arthur. "This job is going to be fun."
He jerks the wheel to the side and Eames lurches, skidding to one corner of the back seat, face nearly smashing into the window.
"Professionals wear seat belts, Mr. Eames," says Arthur, and adjusts the mirror.
Eames knows this story isn't true because Cobb doesn't need his services yet. Cobb is still in Paris, a law-abiding citizen, developing an educational module for dreamshare technology. So this isn't how it begins at all, but it doesn't matter. This isn't the important part.
Two years later, Mal dies.
+
Maybe this is how it begins.
He takes a job in Edmonton. But his team gets to the rendezvous point and finds their mark already hooked up to a PASIV, three other people on the ground next to him.
Eames improvises, plans to distract the other team by posing as a projection, while the rest of his team goes after the mark. Unfortunately, his first target -- a man leafing through a magazine in the lobby -- doesn't want to play.
"Intruders," the man says into a transceiver.
He shoots Eames square in the head. The mark's actual projections must notice the commotion, because one by one, the other dreamers snap awake as well. Real guns are drawn, and despite dodging pieces of drywall and ducking behind desks, Eames ends up in a chair with his hands tied behind his back.
The mark and his henchmen have dragged everyone else off, and Eames is just waiting for his own turn at agony. Well, Eames, and the trigger-happy man whose wrists are now bound to his.
"As soon as I get out of this, I'm going to kill you," says Arthur, over his shoulder.
And though Eames can swear he remembers Arthur working his way free, the ropes sawing against his skin -- Arthur's hiss as Eames wraps up his forearms later in a roadside motel, the blood seeping raw through the bandages -- he knows this story isn't true. He's never been to Edmonton in his life. But of course, this isn't the important part.
Two years later, Mal dies.
+
Maybe this is how it begins.
He's a lieutenant in the SAS and their dreamshare program is a piece of shit. Its American counterpart, Project Somnacin, is already sending people into each other's subconscious worlds for hours at a time. But the SAS has no idea how to make dreams stable enough for multiple people to inhabit, and so Eames is tasked with industrial espionage.
Out of the handful of people who know the sedative compound used in Project Somnacin, Eames picks Arthur to be his mark. It's a logical choice; Arthur seems to live alone, and it's much easier to break into a bachelor's flat than to tiptoe around an entire family.
Eames climbs into Arthur's window like a lover, and the glow of streetlights spills across them both as he slips the needles in. The sleep turns into dreaming, and in the no-nonsense barracks of his own design, Eames soon locates the storage cabinet marked Classified. He's about to pick the lock when he hears the click of a safety at his temple.
"So this is the famous Lieutenant Eames," says Arthur.
"Seriously?" asks Eames. "Lucid dreaming? Christ, Arthur, that's impressive."
"Lieutenant Arthur," he says, before he turns the gun on himself and blows his own brains out. Eames is too stunned to react immediately, so by the time he shoots himself and drifts awake, Arthur has secured him to the bedposts and contacted his superiors.
Eames is discharged within the week, which he has to admit is a cleaner solution than trying to cover up the whole espionage debacle. He turns to a life of crime, and a few years later, so does Arthur.
This story is probably not true, but there isn't any real reason why it wouldn't be. Eames likes this version, likes the maybe-memory of stepping into Arthur's bedroom, everything silent but for the brush of his fingers across Arthur's wrist. Still, this isn't the important part.
Two years later, Mal dies.
+
The important part needs no inventing, because Eames remembers every bit of it. Two years after he and Arthur meet, wherever and however it might be, Mal dies.
"Jesus Christ," says Eames into the phone. "I'll be there for the viewing."
"It's not really a viewing," says Arthur, because Cobb is too shattered to speak to anyone. "It's closed-casket. They had to cremate her as soon as-- because they-- they scraped her off the ground, Eames. They couldn't find enough of her to arrange in a coffin, so they had to burn what was left of her."
"I'm sorry," says Eames. "Tell Cobb I'm sorry."
"I'll try," says Arthur.
There's a picture of her on her casket when he arrives for the wake. She's radiant. The flash of the camera is caught in her eyes, speckled like constellations, as impenetrable as faraway stars, bright and invincible. Her lips press together in that particular French smile he knows, shy and forward, just like a gamine, like when she extended a hand out to him and said, Mallorie, Mr. Eames. I've heard so much about you, and her hand was warm and dry in his, so small, but he felt like it was wrapping circles around his own.
"Isn't she beautiful?" asks Arthur.
"She was," says Eames.
"That's Mr. and Mrs. Miles," says Arthur, nodding in the direction of an old couple by the door. "Stephen and Marie. Mal's parents."
"Where are the children?" asks Eames.
"Sleeping in the back room," says Arthur. "They're tired."
"How are you holding up?" asks Eames.
"I'm," says Arthur, and pauses. "I don't think that's the right question, Eames. I'll go tell Dom that you're here."
Eames watches him slide into the crowd, inscrutable in black. He doesn't need to ask about Cobb because he knows how Cobb is holding up, which is to say, not at all. His wife just killed herself, for heaven's sake. But Arthur's eyes are clear as he steers Cobb out of the huddle of mourners, and anytime that Arthur looks that focused, that determined, it worries Eames; it means that somewhere beneath the calm, Arthur is thinking of doing something colossally stupid.
"Thank you for coming," says Cobb, stumbling into a handshake.
"I'm so sorry," says Eames. "Mal was one of a kind."
"Yes," says Cobb, like that's the only word he knows. He darts a quick glance off to the side, and lowers his voice. "Eames, I need to keep in touch with you. I might-- I might be venturing into your line of work. I'm not sure how-- stay available, anyway. I'll be seeing you."
"What, the illegal line of work?" asks Eames. "Why?"
Cobb makes as though to answer, even as his forehead furrows into knots, but Arthur is turning him around with a hand on his arm, sending him back in the direction of the arriving guests.
"What's that about?" asks Eames.
"Eames," says Arthur, "they think he killed her."
"What, Cobb?" asks Eames. "They think he-- they think he killed Mal? That's-- I mean, he didn't, right? He didn't kill her?"
"I don't think that's the right question either," says Arthur.
"Fuck," says Eames. "I can't believe this. I can't believe Mal is--"
"I know," says Arthur.
"Remember that time, when you introduced me to the two of them?" asks Eames. "In Paris, when they were researching shapeshifting, and you told them it would only be that once, that they shouldn't make a habit of consulting me, even though I was the best damn forger alive?"
"I still think they shouldn't have," says Arthur. "Typically, it's a good idea for innocent civilians to stay away from criminals."
"And then Mal just laughed, and she shook my hand," says Eames, "and then we all had a glass of wine in their living room before we got out the PASIV? And you were lying on the couch and you were worrying about something, I don't know what, maybe about how disreputable I was, something or another, and Mal listened to you worry and she ran a hand through your hair, and she said--"
"Fais dodo," says Arthur, "petit chou."
"And then a couple months later, she got pregnant again," says Eames, "and I really meant to drop by and say hello, give her a foot rub, whatever you do for pregnant women, maybe feel the baby kick if I was lucky, but I just kept putting it off, and that was it. Were you there? Did you feel the baby kick?"
"Yes," says Arthur, and looks toward her picture on the casket. "It's a pity there's only ashes in there. I would have liked to kiss her."
+
It rains on the day of the funeral. They slog through the wet pools of autumn leaves, and they stare into the six-foot hollow in the ground, as some preacher that Marie Miles knows says something about perishable mysteries and trumpets and the victory and sting of death. Stephen Miles is holding an umbrella for him. Cobb is holding an umbrella for his mother-in-law, and the children are back at the house with a babysitter.
Eames is holding an umbrella for Arthur, and watching the splash and glide of raindrops off Arthur's far shoulder. He should have brought a bigger umbrella. Absently, as people file by the grave to toss roses onto the lowered coffin, Arthur twists the stem in his hands.
"She liked red roses best," says Arthur. "Even though we told her--"
He cuts himself off as he moves to the front of the line. And he stoops as low as he can without kneeling, like he doesn't want the rose to travel so far before it hits the dirt, like he wants to lay it on the coffin instead of dropping it there.
Then it's Cobb's turn, but he's rooted to the ground, looking at the swirl of mud at the bottom of the pit.
"Dom," says Arthur. "Dom."
Cobb starts, and his hand hovers over the grave. Slowly, his fingers unclench, one by one, and when the rose finally falls, he jerks forward like he wants to catch it again.
"A reading," says the preacher, "from the Book of Revelations."
Eames blinks one eye open when the preacher gets to Death will be no more, because he feels a breeze by his side that wasn't there before.
Arthur is gone.
+
Seventh call in thirty minutes and Arthur finally picks up.
"Hey," says Arthur, vowels trailing indistinctly out of the slurred greeting. "Where are you?"
"Where are you?" asks Eames. "Why did you run off all of a sudden?"
"I'm at the Marriott," says Arthur. "Downtown. Come see me."
"Arthur," says Eames, with a suspicion that borders on certainty, "are you drunk?"
"Room 622, the door will be open," says Arthur. "If you don't come, I might die."
"What?" asks Eames, but Arthur has hung up already.
He takes a cab to the hotel, snipes at the driver, and flings away a wad of bills as he jumps out. He would call 911 just to be sure that Arthur hasn't already done whatever massively idiotic thing he is about to do, but he isn't sure if he's wanted in Los Angeles or not.
He finds Arthur on the floor, curled on his side at the foot of the bed, surrounded by a jumble of empty bottles.
"Christ, Arthur," says Eames. "Did you empty the whole bloody mini-bar?"
"I left the wine," Arthur mumbles into the carpet, "because wine is for celebrating."
"Let's get you up," says Eames, and drags Arthur into a sitting position, propped up against the bedframe. "You're going to have one hell of a hangover, but you're not going to die."
"I wouldn't be so sure," says Arthur. "That vodka came after the bottle of sleeping pills."
"The sleeping pills?" repeats Eames, and feels his spine run cold with panic. "You took-- Arthur, what did you-- a bottle, how many-- do you want to die?"
"It was a pretty bad idea," says Arthur. "But now you have to keep me up all night, Eames. All night long."
Arthur smiles, a bleary sort of smile as sloppy as the wreck of his tie, the crumple of his trousers, and he tangles a fist in the front of Eames' shirt. But Eames wrenches himself away, and this time, he does call 911, dialing as he stands to look for the rubbish bin.
Before he can get to the final digit, Arthur is up and on him, knocking the phone out of his hand, blocking his way.
"Don't," says Arthur.
"I can't just keep you up," says Eames, "you fucking idiot! Where's the bottle? How many did you take?"
But the rubbish bin beneath the desk is empty, and so is the one in the restroom. Eames tears through the suite, opening drawers, checking under furniture. Arthur hesitates, hovering just behind him, then hands him his phone.
"Don't call 911," says Arthur, and sits on the bed. "I didn't take any."
"Then why--" starts Eames, bewildered. All the nervous energy drains out of him, his legs give out, and he has to sit down next to Arthur. "Excuse me, love, but what the fuck are you doing? Is this some sort of joke?"
"Blame the movies," says Arthur. "I thought you'd do it, if you felt like you had to. I just thought-- I didn't want you to say no."
"To what?" asks Eames.
Instead of a proper answer, Arthur turns to him. The mattress dips under their weight, tilting them toward each other, and Arthur is leaning forward, and Eames is so distracted by the sheer force of fear in Arthur's eyes that he nearly doesn't pull back until it's too late.
"Arthur," says Eames, "why are you trying to kiss me?"
"I think we should fuck," says Arthur.
"Just how drunk are you?" asks Eames.
"Not nearly drunk enough," says Arthur. "I need to be out of my mind right now, Eames. I think we should fuck. I think we should-- what, you think we shouldn't, because I'm drunk? I know what I'm doing, it's okay, you're not going to be a felon. Well, not for fucking me, anyway-- here, look, I can prove-- listen, we're in room 622 of the Marriott in downtown Los Angeles, where we've just attended the funeral of Mallorie Miles Cobb, our dear mutual friend and mentor. It rained. You held an umbrella over me."
"Arthur," says Eames.
"And we threw red roses into her grave because she liked red roses best," says Arthur. "I remember once we told her, we said, Mal, you can't like red roses best. Everyone likes red roses best. And she said, Eames, do you know what she said, she said, I would love to be unique, but there's simply nothing better than romance. She was twenty-nine when I met her. I was twenty-five. She was thirty when she had James, and when she was pregnant, she wanted fruit, always fruit, she craved blood oranges by the crate--"
Arthur falls back onto the bed, like a marionette with its strings cut loose.
"And now she's dead," he says. "Mal is dead. Mal is dead. Mal died, Eames. She's dead."
"I'm sorry," says Eames, and means it, but it doesn't seem like it's enough.
"And I thought that if we could just-- if we could fuck, right after her funeral, knowing that she's dead," says Arthur, "then maybe that meant that nothing had really changed. If-- if I could fuck on the same night that I helped bury her, then Mal being gone-- then maybe that's not something that will stay with me forever-- maybe it means I'll forget, and maybe everything is going to be okay again."
Arthur swallows.
"I thought this would make it go away," he says. "But it didn't, and Mal is-- she's still dead. And it still-- god, Eames, it hurts like hell. Is it always going to be like this?"
And Eames is stunned to see how lost Arthur looks, because Arthur really doesn't know what to do, or how to be, because he's never been left behind before. Arthur, for all his sullen silences and his peevish moods, has really been loved for all his life. All he had ever received from those he loved was boundless kindness, and he had thought it made him all-powerful, that he could make anyone laugh, that his smile could fix any broken thing in the world.
Eames is angry-- not at Arthur, but at everyone who has ever loved him, who has never taught Arthur that there would be things he could not fix, that in life he would lose things, irreplaceable things, and that sometimes he would not be able to stop something precious from crumbling in his hands. Who has never told him that he could not play a benevolent god with those he loved.
It's so determinedly cavalier, Arthur's insistence that they fuck right then and there, like pretending nothing had happened would somehow rewind their lives back to years and years ago, gliding backward through time, when Mal asked for crateloads of blood oranges to feel the tang in her mouth, and carded her fingers through Arthur's hair, when she told him to go to sleep, and the bottle of wine sat half full on the tabletop in the Cobbs' living room, and Eames remembers that Mal's hand was warm and dry when it shook his own, and she pursed her lips as she smiled, like she was happier than she could let on. Eames feels his throat close up.
"Arthur," he says, lying back, "it's going to be all right."
"How can it be all right?" asks Arthur. "How can it ever be all right?"
"Because moving on isn't about leaving them behind," says Eames. "It's about taking them with you. Taking Mal with you, into the life she left for you. What you have to do is hold her inside of you-- and you'll forget the details, you can't help that, like the way she signed her name, the smell of her skin at the nape of her neck, but details aren't what matters. Maybe she smelled like milk, maybe sugar, maybe ink, but what you remember is that you liked to breathe it in."
"She moved like," says Arthur, "she moved like water, Eames. Like honey. After dinner she would want to dance, and she wouldn't even put any music on, just the sound of cicadas outside, and the clink of Dom washing the dishes in the sink, and she was like a ball of light when I put my hand on her back. And I felt like I was perfect when I danced with her, because why else would someone like her let me wrap my arms around her? And Dom would be there to meet her when she turned around, and I stood against the table and I drank my wine, and they danced like there was no one else alive on Earth."
"You'll remember that," says Eames, promises, "you'll remember the important things. Don't worry. Like the way you put your hand on her stomach and first felt the baby kick against the touch-- or the way she balanced her papers on her knee as she made notes in the margins-- the important things, you'll never forget. What you do forget, you can always invent."
"How do I know," asks Arthur, "if what I'm inventing is anything like her?"
"Because you knew her," says Eames. "Because you know that Mal was beautiful because she was good, and you know that you loved her, and that she loved you, Arthur. Just keep that inside of you, and know that you're carrying Mal with you. Do it for yourself, and do it for Mal-- do it for Cobb, because he's in too many pieces to do it himself right now."
Arthur shifts onto his stomach, face buried halfway into the sheets.
"Almost every time we went under," he says, "I would worry about something or another. About the sedative, about the dosage-- I would always worry. Like the time when you came over. Like that time she laughed and smoothed down my hair, you remember-- but do you know, she would do it every time I worried, and she would tell me to go to sleep, and I loved her, Eames. I loved her so much."
"I know," says Eames.
"It's just," says Arthur, "so hard."
"I'm here," says Eames, and when he turns to look, Arthur is a heap of hair and hunched shoulders, barely a dent on the bed, his spine a faint arc through his shirt. He stretches an arm out over Arthur's shoulders, brushing through his hair, running his thumb across Arthur's cheek, feeling the cool of his skin.
"Fais dodo," says Eames, "petit chou."
And Arthur shudders, just once, a long quiet shiver that runs down his entire body, and finally, like he's been waiting for permission, a hot flood of tears spills out over Eames' hand.
"God," says Arthur, and then he says, "Mal."
Eames remembers this because that's the moment that he falls in love.
+
Arthur is gone when he wakes up, but that's only because it's half past two in the afternoon. There's a note on the bedside table that reads, Sorry I had to go. Urgent call from Cobb. Eames reads that name out loud, and thinks, He's calling him Cobb. Like in Arthur's mind, Dominic Cobb has subsumed Mallorie, and if Arthur can keep Cobb together, then he can keep Mal somehow safe as well. It's a valiant, desperate thing.
Thank you, it says on the other side of the paper.
It's a week, or a month, or a year later that Eames visits Mal's grave with a red rose in his hand. He places it next to her tombstone and crouches down on his heels.
"Hey, Mal," he says. "Been all right?"
We all miss you, he thinks. Of course Cobb does. Your children and your parents. And Arthur-- Arthur misses you. I miss you. I'm sorry I never made it, after I heard you were pregnant again. I shouldn't have put that off. Wish I could have seen you.
Hey, you know about what happened with me and Arthur, right after your funeral? Course you do. Look, Mal, I just want you to know, I didn't take advantage of him or anything like that, I want that to be clear, but-- well, there are some things I can't stop from happening. It just so happens that I fell in love, Mal.
Is that all right? I mean, I know he's got his hands full trying to help Cobb through this, and I'm not going to try anything, won't even tell him, I swear, but-- Mal, is it all right that I fell in love, the day we buried you? Or do you feel like I've pushed you aside?
He wonders.
But then his eyes come to rest on the rose he's set on the ground, and it makes him think, Mal, you can't like red roses best. Everyone likes red roses best. And her answer, her voice like a songbird, I would love to be unique, but there's simply nothing better than romance.
That was Mal, a woman who liked red roses best, and didn't care what anyone thought of her. Mal was someone who loved red roses, loved romance, loved everything about love, and the warmth of her hand when he felt it was that of a person who knew how to love.
Mal was someone who loved, to the end, despite everything-- and even to her fall she didn't want to go alone. She didn't want to leave alone. Even when she jumped, all she was doing was reaching, reaching for the love she thought was waiting for her.
And Eames thinks, that's the Mal he remembers. That's the Mal he knows. Mal who lived and breathed love. Mal, who would do anything to coax love into the light-- even on the day of her own funeral-- even with her body reduced to ashes and fragments of bone, even for a love so tentative, just a flicker of it in the fireplace of his heart, afraid to feed it lest the flames shatter the delicate balance of a world plunged into grief--
Mal, you brilliant, crafty girl, thinks Eames. Was it your doing? Was it you all along?
It's a week, or a month, or a year after the funeral that Eames sits by Mal's grave, and contemplates the notion of a ghost playing matchmaker to two idiots she used to know. Then there's a rustle of grass behind him, and he turns to see Arthur, Arthur with an armful -- a real armful -- of red roses, just beginning to bloom.
You're really something, Mal, you know that? he thinks as he stands up. Arthur looks a little tired, but that might just be the flight. The fire in him flares a little, and he imagines Mal leaning against the brick wall in an evening gown of satin, stoking it gently, smiling with her lips pressed together.
"I didn't expect to see you here," says Arthur.
"You're putting my offering to shame," says Eames. "How many roses have you got, anyway? Did you raid all the florists in this city?"
"More or less," says Arthur. "Thanks for coming."
"Cobb still can't make it, huh?" asks Eames.
"Not yet," says Arthur. "There's another appeal scheduled soon, but he needs to stay out of the country."
"Are you two doing okay?" asks Eames.
"Actually, Eames, there's something--" says Arthur. "It's about Cobb. He's been-- the thing is, when he dreams, these... projections of Mal keep appearing. She's everywhere. He can't suppress her. And-- the Mal that he keeps imagining, she's-- well, she's-- she's not right. For one thing, she's killed me about a dozen times now. Bullets, falling, knives, the whole deal."
Arthur brings up a hand to touch his throat, like he's checking to see if he's bleeding, and Eames is suddenly acutely aware of how close they are.
"That's not Mal," says Eames, "don't forget. You knew her, Arthur-- you know she loved you. And you know she was good."
"Yeah, I know," says Arthur. "Sometimes Cobb forgets, sometimes he thinks she's the real thing, but-- I know. I remember what you told me, last time."
And Arthur looks down at his shoes and smiles, like he's really remembering everything about that night, the bottles littered across the floor like the worst half-formed ideas, their faces tilting into each other, Eames brushing his thumb across Arthur's cheek. It's a small smile, but it's soft, and it says a thousand things that Arthur can't bring himself to utter in words just yet.
Oh, thinks Eames.
He's almost certain that his intuition is correct, and how could it not be, when Arthur is smiling like that, like he's summoning an anchor, like he's thinking about home-- but just to test it, just because Mal keeps prodding at the embers inside him, Eames leans forward and kisses him.
It's slow and almost chaste, and Arthur is frozen solid, arms still clutching the roses. The smell is heady all around them. Then Arthur's lips melt and move against his, like the best answer there is, a moment of epiphany before he stumbles back, wiping at his mouth with a sleeve.
"Not now, Eames," says Arthur, his eyes wide, "and not here-- I'm still-- Cobb is still, and Mal--"
"Maybe this isn't all selfish," says Eames. "You knew Mal. Think about the Mal you knew. If there were two options, one of which included any two people kissing, and one of which included them not kissing, which would Mal prefer?"
"But this is--" stammers Arthur.
"Any two people being in love," says Eames. "Which do you think she would choose?"
At that, Arthur colors, and turns away to make a show of setting the roses down on Mal's grave. He's still toying with them when Eames sits, crossing his legs under him, his arm knocking against Arthur's.
"No matter what Cobb's subconscious seems to think," says Eames, "people don't abruptly turn evil when they die. At least, that's my opinion. Last time was a terrible idea because last time, you turned to me to forget her, Arthur. When you should have turned to me to remember her. Because if there's anything in the world that should remind you of Mal, it should be love."
"But Cobb needs me," says Arthur. "I can't stay."
"And that's all right," says Eames. "Hey. It won't just be me waiting for you. It'll be you waiting for me-- and both of us waiting for Cobb to put himself back together. Be there for him. I wouldn't have it any other way, and neither would the Arthur I know."
"Okay," says Arthur, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes for longer than a blink. "Okay. I brought-- I have presents for the kids. From Cobb. Would you like to-- do you want to come with...?"
"I'd love to," says Eames. "Do you think they'd remember me?"
"Probably not," says Arthur, "but they might know you, regardless."
"That's the spirit," says Eames.
And Arthur bends to kiss the edge of Mal's gravestone, running his fingers over her name, Mallorie Miles Cobb, and they turn and they fall into step together.
"Arthur, by the way," says Eames, "do you remember how we met?"
"No idea," says Arthur.
"Me neither," says Eames.
+
This is a small story.
Not all of it is true.
What isn't remembered has been invented, but that's probably all right, really. All the important parts are true, because no one is able to forget them. And even the invented parts are built on what they know.
They visit the children and leave before dinner, ducking out of Marie's way before she casts off her civility. They buy sandwiches together, Italian or chicken sub or meatball, even, it could be anything, but the important part is that they buy sandwiches together.
They eat their sandwiches as they wander, strolling aimlessly across Los Angeles. Back in Arthur's hotel room, they tumble into the bed and jack each other off, and Eames thanks Mal afterward, as he gazes up at the ceiling. That was fantastic, Mal, he says, and Arthur says, I hope you're happy, Mal. They kiss like it's the most important thing they've ever done, and maybe it is. Maybe it is.
Then for a week, or a month, or a year, Arthur leaves and tries to piece Cobb into something like a whole again. Fights to remember that he knows Mal, that the bullets burrowing into his skin are from some rude impostor that dares to wear Mal's face. Sometimes they talk over the phone, and Eames thinks, even if none of this is really Mal's doing, even if there's no such thing as ghosts, he thinks that this love is the way they keep her inside of themselves.
Cobb doesn't call for a forger until he shows up in Mombasa, a week, or a month, or a year later. He mentions Arthur and Eames thinks, Arthur. That dangerous, cavalier, beautiful stick-in-the-mud.
Then Eames arrives at the Paris warehouse and it's like a fucking movie, as the camera zooms in toward him framed in the doorway in perfect symmetry. He steps inside and the music swells, and it's Arthur who turns around, Arthur, for whom Eames has invented a thousand stories, since that night in a Los Angeles hotel room two years ago, on the day of Mal's funeral when it rained over her grave, when he ran his fingers through Arthur's hair and said, Fais dodo, petit chou, and Arthur said, Mal, a long sob of a name, like he was calling her down to watch over them, like he was praying-- and in that moment, as Eames fell in love, he thought of warm, dry hands, and he felt weightless.
That's the most important part.
Original prompt: Mal makes them do it.
Summary: Mal makes them tell stories. Mal makes them fumble for something to touch. Mal makes them fuck, but maybe that's not the important part.
Notes: With gorgeous, gorgeous art by platina! *____*
More notes: Oh my gosh, this backlog posting thing is taking forever, so I thought maybe I should just slowly make a masterlist instead of continuing to post. Possibly I will still end up posting some of the later things, but mostly I'll just link to the kinkmeme threads on the masterlist, so that I am not STILL POSTING BACKLOGS IN THE SUMMER OF 2011 djlf;ajer
This is a small story.
Not all of it is true.
But it isn't only in dreams that you startle yourself awake, unsure of how you came to the ground under your feet. There are gaps in every painstaking recollection. What we remember is only a sliver of what we know, and even the truth becomes a story in the telling of it.
Eames doesn't mind. Details aren't what's important. The trick to knowing, to living, to forging, is to paint with broad strokes. Anything worth remembering won't let you ever forget it; and anything you forget, you can always invent again. He doesn't remember how he met Arthur, because that's not the important part.
+
Maybe this is how it begins.
Cobb calls him with a job, so Eames flies to Brussels to work his magic. A car pulls up to the curb and Cobb slides into the front seat.
"This is my new point man," he says. "Arthur."
Arthur doesn't turn around, and all Eames can see is his eyes in the rearview mirror, dark and quiet and so young.
"My god," says Eames. "I'm working with a fetus."
"Ah," says Arthur. "This job is going to be fun."
He jerks the wheel to the side and Eames lurches, skidding to one corner of the back seat, face nearly smashing into the window.
"Professionals wear seat belts, Mr. Eames," says Arthur, and adjusts the mirror.
Eames knows this story isn't true because Cobb doesn't need his services yet. Cobb is still in Paris, a law-abiding citizen, developing an educational module for dreamshare technology. So this isn't how it begins at all, but it doesn't matter. This isn't the important part.
Two years later, Mal dies.
+
Maybe this is how it begins.
He takes a job in Edmonton. But his team gets to the rendezvous point and finds their mark already hooked up to a PASIV, three other people on the ground next to him.
Eames improvises, plans to distract the other team by posing as a projection, while the rest of his team goes after the mark. Unfortunately, his first target -- a man leafing through a magazine in the lobby -- doesn't want to play.
"Intruders," the man says into a transceiver.
He shoots Eames square in the head. The mark's actual projections must notice the commotion, because one by one, the other dreamers snap awake as well. Real guns are drawn, and despite dodging pieces of drywall and ducking behind desks, Eames ends up in a chair with his hands tied behind his back.
The mark and his henchmen have dragged everyone else off, and Eames is just waiting for his own turn at agony. Well, Eames, and the trigger-happy man whose wrists are now bound to his.
"As soon as I get out of this, I'm going to kill you," says Arthur, over his shoulder.
And though Eames can swear he remembers Arthur working his way free, the ropes sawing against his skin -- Arthur's hiss as Eames wraps up his forearms later in a roadside motel, the blood seeping raw through the bandages -- he knows this story isn't true. He's never been to Edmonton in his life. But of course, this isn't the important part.
Two years later, Mal dies.
+
Maybe this is how it begins.
He's a lieutenant in the SAS and their dreamshare program is a piece of shit. Its American counterpart, Project Somnacin, is already sending people into each other's subconscious worlds for hours at a time. But the SAS has no idea how to make dreams stable enough for multiple people to inhabit, and so Eames is tasked with industrial espionage.
Out of the handful of people who know the sedative compound used in Project Somnacin, Eames picks Arthur to be his mark. It's a logical choice; Arthur seems to live alone, and it's much easier to break into a bachelor's flat than to tiptoe around an entire family.
Eames climbs into Arthur's window like a lover, and the glow of streetlights spills across them both as he slips the needles in. The sleep turns into dreaming, and in the no-nonsense barracks of his own design, Eames soon locates the storage cabinet marked Classified. He's about to pick the lock when he hears the click of a safety at his temple.
"So this is the famous Lieutenant Eames," says Arthur.
"Seriously?" asks Eames. "Lucid dreaming? Christ, Arthur, that's impressive."
"Lieutenant Arthur," he says, before he turns the gun on himself and blows his own brains out. Eames is too stunned to react immediately, so by the time he shoots himself and drifts awake, Arthur has secured him to the bedposts and contacted his superiors.
Eames is discharged within the week, which he has to admit is a cleaner solution than trying to cover up the whole espionage debacle. He turns to a life of crime, and a few years later, so does Arthur.
This story is probably not true, but there isn't any real reason why it wouldn't be. Eames likes this version, likes the maybe-memory of stepping into Arthur's bedroom, everything silent but for the brush of his fingers across Arthur's wrist. Still, this isn't the important part.
Two years later, Mal dies.
+
The important part needs no inventing, because Eames remembers every bit of it. Two years after he and Arthur meet, wherever and however it might be, Mal dies.
"Jesus Christ," says Eames into the phone. "I'll be there for the viewing."
"It's not really a viewing," says Arthur, because Cobb is too shattered to speak to anyone. "It's closed-casket. They had to cremate her as soon as-- because they-- they scraped her off the ground, Eames. They couldn't find enough of her to arrange in a coffin, so they had to burn what was left of her."
"I'm sorry," says Eames. "Tell Cobb I'm sorry."
"I'll try," says Arthur.
There's a picture of her on her casket when he arrives for the wake. She's radiant. The flash of the camera is caught in her eyes, speckled like constellations, as impenetrable as faraway stars, bright and invincible. Her lips press together in that particular French smile he knows, shy and forward, just like a gamine, like when she extended a hand out to him and said, Mallorie, Mr. Eames. I've heard so much about you, and her hand was warm and dry in his, so small, but he felt like it was wrapping circles around his own.
"Isn't she beautiful?" asks Arthur.
"She was," says Eames.
"That's Mr. and Mrs. Miles," says Arthur, nodding in the direction of an old couple by the door. "Stephen and Marie. Mal's parents."
"Where are the children?" asks Eames.
"Sleeping in the back room," says Arthur. "They're tired."
"How are you holding up?" asks Eames.
"I'm," says Arthur, and pauses. "I don't think that's the right question, Eames. I'll go tell Dom that you're here."
Eames watches him slide into the crowd, inscrutable in black. He doesn't need to ask about Cobb because he knows how Cobb is holding up, which is to say, not at all. His wife just killed herself, for heaven's sake. But Arthur's eyes are clear as he steers Cobb out of the huddle of mourners, and anytime that Arthur looks that focused, that determined, it worries Eames; it means that somewhere beneath the calm, Arthur is thinking of doing something colossally stupid.
"Thank you for coming," says Cobb, stumbling into a handshake.
"I'm so sorry," says Eames. "Mal was one of a kind."
"Yes," says Cobb, like that's the only word he knows. He darts a quick glance off to the side, and lowers his voice. "Eames, I need to keep in touch with you. I might-- I might be venturing into your line of work. I'm not sure how-- stay available, anyway. I'll be seeing you."
"What, the illegal line of work?" asks Eames. "Why?"
Cobb makes as though to answer, even as his forehead furrows into knots, but Arthur is turning him around with a hand on his arm, sending him back in the direction of the arriving guests.
"What's that about?" asks Eames.
"Eames," says Arthur, "they think he killed her."
"What, Cobb?" asks Eames. "They think he-- they think he killed Mal? That's-- I mean, he didn't, right? He didn't kill her?"
"I don't think that's the right question either," says Arthur.
"Fuck," says Eames. "I can't believe this. I can't believe Mal is--"
"I know," says Arthur.
"Remember that time, when you introduced me to the two of them?" asks Eames. "In Paris, when they were researching shapeshifting, and you told them it would only be that once, that they shouldn't make a habit of consulting me, even though I was the best damn forger alive?"
"I still think they shouldn't have," says Arthur. "Typically, it's a good idea for innocent civilians to stay away from criminals."
"And then Mal just laughed, and she shook my hand," says Eames, "and then we all had a glass of wine in their living room before we got out the PASIV? And you were lying on the couch and you were worrying about something, I don't know what, maybe about how disreputable I was, something or another, and Mal listened to you worry and she ran a hand through your hair, and she said--"
"Fais dodo," says Arthur, "petit chou."
"And then a couple months later, she got pregnant again," says Eames, "and I really meant to drop by and say hello, give her a foot rub, whatever you do for pregnant women, maybe feel the baby kick if I was lucky, but I just kept putting it off, and that was it. Were you there? Did you feel the baby kick?"
"Yes," says Arthur, and looks toward her picture on the casket. "It's a pity there's only ashes in there. I would have liked to kiss her."
+
It rains on the day of the funeral. They slog through the wet pools of autumn leaves, and they stare into the six-foot hollow in the ground, as some preacher that Marie Miles knows says something about perishable mysteries and trumpets and the victory and sting of death. Stephen Miles is holding an umbrella for him. Cobb is holding an umbrella for his mother-in-law, and the children are back at the house with a babysitter.
Eames is holding an umbrella for Arthur, and watching the splash and glide of raindrops off Arthur's far shoulder. He should have brought a bigger umbrella. Absently, as people file by the grave to toss roses onto the lowered coffin, Arthur twists the stem in his hands.
"She liked red roses best," says Arthur. "Even though we told her--"
He cuts himself off as he moves to the front of the line. And he stoops as low as he can without kneeling, like he doesn't want the rose to travel so far before it hits the dirt, like he wants to lay it on the coffin instead of dropping it there.
Then it's Cobb's turn, but he's rooted to the ground, looking at the swirl of mud at the bottom of the pit.
"Dom," says Arthur. "Dom."
Cobb starts, and his hand hovers over the grave. Slowly, his fingers unclench, one by one, and when the rose finally falls, he jerks forward like he wants to catch it again.
"A reading," says the preacher, "from the Book of Revelations."
Eames blinks one eye open when the preacher gets to Death will be no more, because he feels a breeze by his side that wasn't there before.
Arthur is gone.
+
Seventh call in thirty minutes and Arthur finally picks up.
"Hey," says Arthur, vowels trailing indistinctly out of the slurred greeting. "Where are you?"
"Where are you?" asks Eames. "Why did you run off all of a sudden?"
"I'm at the Marriott," says Arthur. "Downtown. Come see me."
"Arthur," says Eames, with a suspicion that borders on certainty, "are you drunk?"
"Room 622, the door will be open," says Arthur. "If you don't come, I might die."
"What?" asks Eames, but Arthur has hung up already.
He takes a cab to the hotel, snipes at the driver, and flings away a wad of bills as he jumps out. He would call 911 just to be sure that Arthur hasn't already done whatever massively idiotic thing he is about to do, but he isn't sure if he's wanted in Los Angeles or not.
He finds Arthur on the floor, curled on his side at the foot of the bed, surrounded by a jumble of empty bottles.
"Christ, Arthur," says Eames. "Did you empty the whole bloody mini-bar?"
"I left the wine," Arthur mumbles into the carpet, "because wine is for celebrating."
"Let's get you up," says Eames, and drags Arthur into a sitting position, propped up against the bedframe. "You're going to have one hell of a hangover, but you're not going to die."
"I wouldn't be so sure," says Arthur. "That vodka came after the bottle of sleeping pills."
"The sleeping pills?" repeats Eames, and feels his spine run cold with panic. "You took-- Arthur, what did you-- a bottle, how many-- do you want to die?"
"It was a pretty bad idea," says Arthur. "But now you have to keep me up all night, Eames. All night long."
Arthur smiles, a bleary sort of smile as sloppy as the wreck of his tie, the crumple of his trousers, and he tangles a fist in the front of Eames' shirt. But Eames wrenches himself away, and this time, he does call 911, dialing as he stands to look for the rubbish bin.
Before he can get to the final digit, Arthur is up and on him, knocking the phone out of his hand, blocking his way.
"Don't," says Arthur.
"I can't just keep you up," says Eames, "you fucking idiot! Where's the bottle? How many did you take?"
But the rubbish bin beneath the desk is empty, and so is the one in the restroom. Eames tears through the suite, opening drawers, checking under furniture. Arthur hesitates, hovering just behind him, then hands him his phone.
"Don't call 911," says Arthur, and sits on the bed. "I didn't take any."
"Then why--" starts Eames, bewildered. All the nervous energy drains out of him, his legs give out, and he has to sit down next to Arthur. "Excuse me, love, but what the fuck are you doing? Is this some sort of joke?"
"Blame the movies," says Arthur. "I thought you'd do it, if you felt like you had to. I just thought-- I didn't want you to say no."
"To what?" asks Eames.
Instead of a proper answer, Arthur turns to him. The mattress dips under their weight, tilting them toward each other, and Arthur is leaning forward, and Eames is so distracted by the sheer force of fear in Arthur's eyes that he nearly doesn't pull back until it's too late.
"Arthur," says Eames, "why are you trying to kiss me?"
"I think we should fuck," says Arthur.
"Just how drunk are you?" asks Eames.
"Not nearly drunk enough," says Arthur. "I need to be out of my mind right now, Eames. I think we should fuck. I think we should-- what, you think we shouldn't, because I'm drunk? I know what I'm doing, it's okay, you're not going to be a felon. Well, not for fucking me, anyway-- here, look, I can prove-- listen, we're in room 622 of the Marriott in downtown Los Angeles, where we've just attended the funeral of Mallorie Miles Cobb, our dear mutual friend and mentor. It rained. You held an umbrella over me."
"Arthur," says Eames.
"And we threw red roses into her grave because she liked red roses best," says Arthur. "I remember once we told her, we said, Mal, you can't like red roses best. Everyone likes red roses best. And she said, Eames, do you know what she said, she said, I would love to be unique, but there's simply nothing better than romance. She was twenty-nine when I met her. I was twenty-five. She was thirty when she had James, and when she was pregnant, she wanted fruit, always fruit, she craved blood oranges by the crate--"
Arthur falls back onto the bed, like a marionette with its strings cut loose.
"And now she's dead," he says. "Mal is dead. Mal is dead. Mal died, Eames. She's dead."
"I'm sorry," says Eames, and means it, but it doesn't seem like it's enough.
"And I thought that if we could just-- if we could fuck, right after her funeral, knowing that she's dead," says Arthur, "then maybe that meant that nothing had really changed. If-- if I could fuck on the same night that I helped bury her, then Mal being gone-- then maybe that's not something that will stay with me forever-- maybe it means I'll forget, and maybe everything is going to be okay again."
Arthur swallows.
"I thought this would make it go away," he says. "But it didn't, and Mal is-- she's still dead. And it still-- god, Eames, it hurts like hell. Is it always going to be like this?"
And Eames is stunned to see how lost Arthur looks, because Arthur really doesn't know what to do, or how to be, because he's never been left behind before. Arthur, for all his sullen silences and his peevish moods, has really been loved for all his life. All he had ever received from those he loved was boundless kindness, and he had thought it made him all-powerful, that he could make anyone laugh, that his smile could fix any broken thing in the world.
Eames is angry-- not at Arthur, but at everyone who has ever loved him, who has never taught Arthur that there would be things he could not fix, that in life he would lose things, irreplaceable things, and that sometimes he would not be able to stop something precious from crumbling in his hands. Who has never told him that he could not play a benevolent god with those he loved.
It's so determinedly cavalier, Arthur's insistence that they fuck right then and there, like pretending nothing had happened would somehow rewind their lives back to years and years ago, gliding backward through time, when Mal asked for crateloads of blood oranges to feel the tang in her mouth, and carded her fingers through Arthur's hair, when she told him to go to sleep, and the bottle of wine sat half full on the tabletop in the Cobbs' living room, and Eames remembers that Mal's hand was warm and dry when it shook his own, and she pursed her lips as she smiled, like she was happier than she could let on. Eames feels his throat close up.
"Arthur," he says, lying back, "it's going to be all right."
"How can it be all right?" asks Arthur. "How can it ever be all right?"
"Because moving on isn't about leaving them behind," says Eames. "It's about taking them with you. Taking Mal with you, into the life she left for you. What you have to do is hold her inside of you-- and you'll forget the details, you can't help that, like the way she signed her name, the smell of her skin at the nape of her neck, but details aren't what matters. Maybe she smelled like milk, maybe sugar, maybe ink, but what you remember is that you liked to breathe it in."
"She moved like," says Arthur, "she moved like water, Eames. Like honey. After dinner she would want to dance, and she wouldn't even put any music on, just the sound of cicadas outside, and the clink of Dom washing the dishes in the sink, and she was like a ball of light when I put my hand on her back. And I felt like I was perfect when I danced with her, because why else would someone like her let me wrap my arms around her? And Dom would be there to meet her when she turned around, and I stood against the table and I drank my wine, and they danced like there was no one else alive on Earth."
"You'll remember that," says Eames, promises, "you'll remember the important things. Don't worry. Like the way you put your hand on her stomach and first felt the baby kick against the touch-- or the way she balanced her papers on her knee as she made notes in the margins-- the important things, you'll never forget. What you do forget, you can always invent."
"How do I know," asks Arthur, "if what I'm inventing is anything like her?"
"Because you knew her," says Eames. "Because you know that Mal was beautiful because she was good, and you know that you loved her, and that she loved you, Arthur. Just keep that inside of you, and know that you're carrying Mal with you. Do it for yourself, and do it for Mal-- do it for Cobb, because he's in too many pieces to do it himself right now."
Arthur shifts onto his stomach, face buried halfway into the sheets.
"Almost every time we went under," he says, "I would worry about something or another. About the sedative, about the dosage-- I would always worry. Like the time when you came over. Like that time she laughed and smoothed down my hair, you remember-- but do you know, she would do it every time I worried, and she would tell me to go to sleep, and I loved her, Eames. I loved her so much."
"I know," says Eames.
"It's just," says Arthur, "so hard."
"I'm here," says Eames, and when he turns to look, Arthur is a heap of hair and hunched shoulders, barely a dent on the bed, his spine a faint arc through his shirt. He stretches an arm out over Arthur's shoulders, brushing through his hair, running his thumb across Arthur's cheek, feeling the cool of his skin.
"Fais dodo," says Eames, "petit chou."
And Arthur shudders, just once, a long quiet shiver that runs down his entire body, and finally, like he's been waiting for permission, a hot flood of tears spills out over Eames' hand.
"God," says Arthur, and then he says, "Mal."
Eames remembers this because that's the moment that he falls in love.
+
Arthur is gone when he wakes up, but that's only because it's half past two in the afternoon. There's a note on the bedside table that reads, Sorry I had to go. Urgent call from Cobb. Eames reads that name out loud, and thinks, He's calling him Cobb. Like in Arthur's mind, Dominic Cobb has subsumed Mallorie, and if Arthur can keep Cobb together, then he can keep Mal somehow safe as well. It's a valiant, desperate thing.
Thank you, it says on the other side of the paper.
It's a week, or a month, or a year later that Eames visits Mal's grave with a red rose in his hand. He places it next to her tombstone and crouches down on his heels.
"Hey, Mal," he says. "Been all right?"
We all miss you, he thinks. Of course Cobb does. Your children and your parents. And Arthur-- Arthur misses you. I miss you. I'm sorry I never made it, after I heard you were pregnant again. I shouldn't have put that off. Wish I could have seen you.
Hey, you know about what happened with me and Arthur, right after your funeral? Course you do. Look, Mal, I just want you to know, I didn't take advantage of him or anything like that, I want that to be clear, but-- well, there are some things I can't stop from happening. It just so happens that I fell in love, Mal.
Is that all right? I mean, I know he's got his hands full trying to help Cobb through this, and I'm not going to try anything, won't even tell him, I swear, but-- Mal, is it all right that I fell in love, the day we buried you? Or do you feel like I've pushed you aside?
He wonders.
But then his eyes come to rest on the rose he's set on the ground, and it makes him think, Mal, you can't like red roses best. Everyone likes red roses best. And her answer, her voice like a songbird, I would love to be unique, but there's simply nothing better than romance.
That was Mal, a woman who liked red roses best, and didn't care what anyone thought of her. Mal was someone who loved red roses, loved romance, loved everything about love, and the warmth of her hand when he felt it was that of a person who knew how to love.
Mal was someone who loved, to the end, despite everything-- and even to her fall she didn't want to go alone. She didn't want to leave alone. Even when she jumped, all she was doing was reaching, reaching for the love she thought was waiting for her.
And Eames thinks, that's the Mal he remembers. That's the Mal he knows. Mal who lived and breathed love. Mal, who would do anything to coax love into the light-- even on the day of her own funeral-- even with her body reduced to ashes and fragments of bone, even for a love so tentative, just a flicker of it in the fireplace of his heart, afraid to feed it lest the flames shatter the delicate balance of a world plunged into grief--
Mal, you brilliant, crafty girl, thinks Eames. Was it your doing? Was it you all along?
It's a week, or a month, or a year after the funeral that Eames sits by Mal's grave, and contemplates the notion of a ghost playing matchmaker to two idiots she used to know. Then there's a rustle of grass behind him, and he turns to see Arthur, Arthur with an armful -- a real armful -- of red roses, just beginning to bloom.
You're really something, Mal, you know that? he thinks as he stands up. Arthur looks a little tired, but that might just be the flight. The fire in him flares a little, and he imagines Mal leaning against the brick wall in an evening gown of satin, stoking it gently, smiling with her lips pressed together.
"I didn't expect to see you here," says Arthur.
"You're putting my offering to shame," says Eames. "How many roses have you got, anyway? Did you raid all the florists in this city?"
"More or less," says Arthur. "Thanks for coming."
"Cobb still can't make it, huh?" asks Eames.
"Not yet," says Arthur. "There's another appeal scheduled soon, but he needs to stay out of the country."
"Are you two doing okay?" asks Eames.
"Actually, Eames, there's something--" says Arthur. "It's about Cobb. He's been-- the thing is, when he dreams, these... projections of Mal keep appearing. She's everywhere. He can't suppress her. And-- the Mal that he keeps imagining, she's-- well, she's-- she's not right. For one thing, she's killed me about a dozen times now. Bullets, falling, knives, the whole deal."
Arthur brings up a hand to touch his throat, like he's checking to see if he's bleeding, and Eames is suddenly acutely aware of how close they are.
"That's not Mal," says Eames, "don't forget. You knew her, Arthur-- you know she loved you. And you know she was good."
"Yeah, I know," says Arthur. "Sometimes Cobb forgets, sometimes he thinks she's the real thing, but-- I know. I remember what you told me, last time."
And Arthur looks down at his shoes and smiles, like he's really remembering everything about that night, the bottles littered across the floor like the worst half-formed ideas, their faces tilting into each other, Eames brushing his thumb across Arthur's cheek. It's a small smile, but it's soft, and it says a thousand things that Arthur can't bring himself to utter in words just yet.
Oh, thinks Eames.
He's almost certain that his intuition is correct, and how could it not be, when Arthur is smiling like that, like he's summoning an anchor, like he's thinking about home-- but just to test it, just because Mal keeps prodding at the embers inside him, Eames leans forward and kisses him.
It's slow and almost chaste, and Arthur is frozen solid, arms still clutching the roses. The smell is heady all around them. Then Arthur's lips melt and move against his, like the best answer there is, a moment of epiphany before he stumbles back, wiping at his mouth with a sleeve.
"Not now, Eames," says Arthur, his eyes wide, "and not here-- I'm still-- Cobb is still, and Mal--"
"Maybe this isn't all selfish," says Eames. "You knew Mal. Think about the Mal you knew. If there were two options, one of which included any two people kissing, and one of which included them not kissing, which would Mal prefer?"
"But this is--" stammers Arthur.
"Any two people being in love," says Eames. "Which do you think she would choose?"
At that, Arthur colors, and turns away to make a show of setting the roses down on Mal's grave. He's still toying with them when Eames sits, crossing his legs under him, his arm knocking against Arthur's.
"No matter what Cobb's subconscious seems to think," says Eames, "people don't abruptly turn evil when they die. At least, that's my opinion. Last time was a terrible idea because last time, you turned to me to forget her, Arthur. When you should have turned to me to remember her. Because if there's anything in the world that should remind you of Mal, it should be love."
"But Cobb needs me," says Arthur. "I can't stay."
"And that's all right," says Eames. "Hey. It won't just be me waiting for you. It'll be you waiting for me-- and both of us waiting for Cobb to put himself back together. Be there for him. I wouldn't have it any other way, and neither would the Arthur I know."
"Okay," says Arthur, takes a deep breath, and closes his eyes for longer than a blink. "Okay. I brought-- I have presents for the kids. From Cobb. Would you like to-- do you want to come with...?"
"I'd love to," says Eames. "Do you think they'd remember me?"
"Probably not," says Arthur, "but they might know you, regardless."
"That's the spirit," says Eames.
And Arthur bends to kiss the edge of Mal's gravestone, running his fingers over her name, Mallorie Miles Cobb, and they turn and they fall into step together.
"Arthur, by the way," says Eames, "do you remember how we met?"
"No idea," says Arthur.
"Me neither," says Eames.
+
This is a small story.
Not all of it is true.
What isn't remembered has been invented, but that's probably all right, really. All the important parts are true, because no one is able to forget them. And even the invented parts are built on what they know.
They visit the children and leave before dinner, ducking out of Marie's way before she casts off her civility. They buy sandwiches together, Italian or chicken sub or meatball, even, it could be anything, but the important part is that they buy sandwiches together.
They eat their sandwiches as they wander, strolling aimlessly across Los Angeles. Back in Arthur's hotel room, they tumble into the bed and jack each other off, and Eames thanks Mal afterward, as he gazes up at the ceiling. That was fantastic, Mal, he says, and Arthur says, I hope you're happy, Mal. They kiss like it's the most important thing they've ever done, and maybe it is. Maybe it is.
Then for a week, or a month, or a year, Arthur leaves and tries to piece Cobb into something like a whole again. Fights to remember that he knows Mal, that the bullets burrowing into his skin are from some rude impostor that dares to wear Mal's face. Sometimes they talk over the phone, and Eames thinks, even if none of this is really Mal's doing, even if there's no such thing as ghosts, he thinks that this love is the way they keep her inside of themselves.
Cobb doesn't call for a forger until he shows up in Mombasa, a week, or a month, or a year later. He mentions Arthur and Eames thinks, Arthur. That dangerous, cavalier, beautiful stick-in-the-mud.
Then Eames arrives at the Paris warehouse and it's like a fucking movie, as the camera zooms in toward him framed in the doorway in perfect symmetry. He steps inside and the music swells, and it's Arthur who turns around, Arthur, for whom Eames has invented a thousand stories, since that night in a Los Angeles hotel room two years ago, on the day of Mal's funeral when it rained over her grave, when he ran his fingers through Arthur's hair and said, Fais dodo, petit chou, and Arthur said, Mal, a long sob of a name, like he was calling her down to watch over them, like he was praying-- and in that moment, as Eames fell in love, he thought of warm, dry hands, and he felt weightless.
That's the most important part.