Fic: Black Moon (Arthur/Eames) Chapter 7
Title:"Black Moon"
Rating: R
Summary: Written for the inception_kink meme prompt: "Touch deprivation. Arthur is deprived of touch, Eames starts touching him all the time. Arthur doesn't understand why he allows it, or why he secretly even likes/needs it." This gives us Arthur's back story moving to Inception and past that as he battles OCD and touch deprivation and eventually Eames helping him. Slow building A/E.
Word Count: 4,762
Notes: I own nothing
See you on the Other Side
Chapter 7
“And I feel right at home
in this stunning monochrome
alone in my way…”
___________
Not given a choice.
"We're going into your dream, Corporal."
Punishment for his sins.
“You did this.”
Things decided for him.
“Your father wants you to come with me.”
Rules, lists, routines, order, control.
What was his dream?
He blamed all these things, how sick and tired he felt and even things he hadn’t even admitted for the ambiance of his world.
Everything was gray and a little off kilter like things were just slightly tilted and askew, enough to drive you mad.
The cold concrete was hard and cold underneath his bottom. His skin drank it in slowly through the thin material of his uniform.
He drew his knees tighter to his chest trying to fold in on himself to maybe disappear into the shadows.
He was rocking back and forth a little, his eyes trained ever upward to the solitary barred window.
A strange sense of déjà vu seemed to fill the air.
The bare, cracked walls seemed to rise impossibly upward. Only a bunk and a solitary light bulb keeping him company.
He felt like his eyes had somehow magically drifted from their sockets and were in the sky and they might as well be. He couldn’t keep them away.
His breath caught in his throat as the sky was much too dark a sure tell sign of a…
He heard footsteps approaching breaking his concentration, freeing him of the spell.
He turned his head slowly to the direction of the sound now echoing closer.
He heard water dripping, dogs barking, guards joking but mostly it was the deafening silence that consumed him.
A figure walks hesitantly past the iron bars and pauses when they’re directly in the center, perfect symmetry.
Arthur’s eyes feel like they are burning, mind reeling. This figure is taking his attention away from the window. He is stuck in the path of two magnets, can feel the powerful force of the opposing sides wanting to come together but he is in the way.
The figure wraps their fingers around the thick bars and pears in.
Arthur wants to turn his eyes away. Doesn’t want them to see him like this but just like with the moon he can’t look away.
“Corporal?”
Corporal…it seems so far away now. It’s all been decided for him.
He blinks at the visitor, trying to take in his presence, trying to remember.
But he doesn’t want to remember. He’s never given a choice.
“Corporal? Is there a reason why you’re in a cell and all the guards are looking at me like they are going to kill me any second?”
His eyes take in the crisp lines of his strange, foreign uniform and his ears try to process the accent and strange words like little pin pricks of enlightenment.
It’s his eyes and that smoker’s gravel and his eyes widen. He’s too much like him.
“Corporal? What are you doing? Snap out of it!”
He keeps insisting on calling him that, it’s almost annoying.
But he’s waving an arm feebly through the bars, eyes burning. He wants to get up but his limbs have forgotten how.
He’s barking at him now and he can hear other footsteps in the hall approaching.
He can’t make out much of what his visitor is saying but he does pick up on: “Fuck.”
His visitor slips his fingers out of the bars and slips into the shadows. He hears his fast footsteps echo away and sees the guards rush past his cell.
He almost feels cut off that his visitor has left him alone again.
He’s a thief. He’s a liar and a criminal. That’s why they are after him. He’s trying to get you out. That’s why they are after him too.
He has no idea how he knows this. The words are in his head like echoes from a memory.
“Get him out” of what? He’s exactly where he should be. He trains his eyes again to the solitary window. No other magnets trying to pull him in a different direction and he waits.
________________
He has no concept of time.
It’s all relative.
He hears footsteps once again and a little reverberation on the iron bars. He’s immensely irritated that his concentration, his routine is interrupted.
He regrettably swivels his head to the intruder.
It’s the visitor.
“Bloody hell! Are your projections going to chase me the entire time? You think this is funny don’t you? Hmm?”
He cocks his head and can only blink at the visitor. The absurdity is almost interesting.
“Corporal Marek! Do you hear me? What the bloody hell is wrong with you? You need to snap out of it!”
It’s just noise.
His arms clutch around himself tighter and he continues to rock back and forth-a small comfort.
He’s shouting things, asking things, making noise, too much noise and then the guards are almost on him. He’s sees a slight sliver of his face through the gloom, sees the mask of slight fear he’s wearing and it makes him shudder and something like guilt climbs in to meet the other things he’s trying not to feel.
He’s seen that face before.
He’s trying to get you out.
Oh no, it’s all decided for him.
He hears footsteps pound away, slowly fade and become nothing.
He looked too much like him.
___________
“Arthur.”
His eyes close.
He has another visitor but this time he knows who it is. A ghost from the past.
His body tenses and caves in on himself.
“Arthur. You did this.”
“You did all of this.”
“I know.”
His eyes want to meet him. To make contact with the man he hasn’t seen in over ten years, to know that it doesn’t just end after that conversation. They could have more.
He’s partially hidden in the gloom but he can just make out his form behind the bars. His old uniform on, his light hair, clean face, broad shoulders and strong hands. He can’t see his face clearly but he knows it holds a frown maybe even a grimace. His arms are crossed. Arthur knows he’s trying to keep him here. Maybe he’s working with the guards. Maybe he built this impossible place.
“What do you want from me?” his voice is small, the voice of a ten year old boy.
The figure takes a couple steps back.
Arthur can feel himself leaning towards him, following his every move.
“What do you want me to do?” his voice cracks.
The figure is slipping into the shadows slowly, leaving but making his presence known, dissolving into the background, leaving him once again.
And things are releasing from his mouth-screams, protests, pleas, things that don’t make sense.
Again time is irrelevant.
It could be five minutes or five years or maybe both.
He hears footsteps approaching. He’s starting to believe that’s the only sound he lives for.
“Corporal Marek.”
A visitor. A ghost from the future. His decided future.
He raises his eyes from the cold concrete.
The familiar figure is sharply dressed in a navy suit; hair slicked back, hands in his pockets. His silhouette is partially obscured by the gloom. He can’t make out his face.
“Your father wants you to come with me.”
“He never said that. He won’t speak to me.”
“I’m leaving you with no choice, Corporal. I’m fulfilling a debt and a wish to your father to take you under my wing…”
“I don’t know what he wants…”
The figure is backing away slowly.
“I don’t know what he wants! Don’t know what I want!” he screams at him.
The figure is swallowed up in darkness to meet the past.
Again he waits, punishment for his sins.
Arms clutch too cold of skin, fingers ghosting over things strapped to him. Control, order, rules, lists. But it’s not ideas this time it’s something tangible. Just as he’s about to explore deeper he hears footsteps once again approach.
He’s tired. He’s taken all he can afford.
“Corporal.”
A visitor. A ghost from the present.
His eyes reluctantly rise to meet the voice. Surprisingly he is not obscured and his face is clear to him.
It’s the same visitor as before with his foreign uniform and familiar eyes.
He’s calling to him warmly, pleasant sounding and sing song, calming voice.
He rises blessedly from the cold concrete armed with new purpose.
He’s beckoning him, his warm eyes inviting.
His cell is small but it feels like it takes half a year to shuffle across the dusty, dry floor, like it stretches out impossibly like an optical illusion or mirage.
He makes it.
They are standing face to face, only iron between them.
“Corporal. Are you alright? You have me a little more than worried.”
His fingers are curled around cold metal and Arthur does the same so that their fingers are like a candy stripe, barber shop poll. Their fingers are on the same bars; Arthur’s just a bit higher up.
The visitor leans in and Arthur can tell he is sweaty, exhausted and rattled, been put through the paces.
He hears footsteps approaching and his heart tightens. The guilt he felt earlier is still palpable. He doesn’t want the guards to chase the visitor away anymore.
The visitor’s eyes widen and they share a knowing look.
“Quick, give me a kiss.”
He is stunned. That’s not part of the rules. Not part of his established world but the visitor is leaning in invitingly, even closer to him, eyes searching him desperately as footsteps echo closer. He closes his eyes, feels cold metal at his face as he presses his lips to his in the lightest of kisses, like hummingbird wings, chaste and airy.
He hears footsteps echo past and leave.
The break apart and both sigh-maybe in relief or maybe just out of something else.
And he waits. He waits for the “other thing”, the unnamed thing to take hold and grip his body.
One heart beat, two heart beats as they stare at each other, blinking through cold iron bars and gloom, faces so close to one another and Arthur’s body is blessedly calm.
The visitor regards him openly, lips smooth into a sweet smile.
“I wasn’t sure if that would work,” he breathes. “I think your subconscious may like me now or at least leave me alone for a bit,” he’s leaning in again, maybe to repeat the encounter and Arthur feels transfixed. He should be feeling different…not like this-light, airy, floating. The other thing is not controlling him here. Could that be possible?
His fixed gaze with the visitor is interrupted when he spies a figure from the corner of his eye, looming in the background. The visitor is closing his eyes and his leaning in further, their lips almost brushing again when Arthur removes his fingers from the bars and takes a couple steps back into the shadows.
The visitor’s eyes flutter open and looks around confused and almost hurt.
Arthur is walking away backward, mouth hanging open, pointing to the man behind the visitor. His mouth wants to work but it’s forgotten how. Too many things decided for him.
A gun appears from inside the jacket of the ghost of the future. Like slow motion Arthur sees him take aim. And just like when he was ten years old feeling powerless to watch his mother fall into the pool he watches it unfold.
The visitor, the ghost of the present, is searching Arthur’s eyes.
The ghost of the future is taking steps towards the visitor, cocking his gun.
Arthur can’t speak but he remembers what he felt strapped to his body, the thing that was tangible.
The visitor has seemed to finally catch wind of something happening behind him, the silent killer, he is turning around but he’s too late.
Arthur pulls the something tangible from the holster at his thigh. It is the familiar weight of his pistol.
The visitor is drawing his own gun but again it feels too late.
Arthur makes a noise. Not quite something human but maybe enough to draw attention.
He can’t stop it but he doesn’t want to be forced to just stand idly by again.
The visitor is turning his head in his direction, eyes wide.
Arthur digs the barrel into his temple.
The two ghosts are practically on top of each other now but seeming distracted as they take in Arthur.
Arthur clicks the safety off.
“Arthur!” the visitor, the ghost of the present, screams, face screwed up in horror and Arthur’s resolve is rattled but only slightly.
He’s never used my first name before .I didn’t think he even knew it.
He thinks this and nothing else as the bullet enters his brain, silencing all other thoughts.
_____________
His body is raked by tremors and he’s vomiting, vomiting up everything but his stomach is only acid and drugs and then he’s vomiting up nothing, only phantom things and Arthur hopes he’s vomiting up the dream because it was powerful and it still has its tethers in him making him shake more. He can never shake it. Tears from the retching blur his vision and he can only stupidly half lay over the cot, spit dribbling from his lips, IV still dangling off his vein.
People are on him at once. He feels their warm, coaxing touches. He’s poked and prodded, asked things but the world is spinning and he feels too sick to answer them. Light is flashed into his eyes and he feels weightless as the cot leaves the space underneath him.
His eyes open to an unfamiliar ceiling. Stark white. Everything is too barren and pallid. His fingers are ghosting to the pistol that should be at his thigh.
I’m still in the world I created.
His sore blinking eyes can’t comprehend what he’s seeing. It takes him a minute to absorb it all. A new IV is connected to his other arm connected to a machine that’s beeping softly. He is lying on a bed. He’s wearing a flimsy hospital gown.
I must still be in the world I created…how did I…
His sees something from the corner of his eye. A slumped figure in the solitary chair.
His head follows the apparition.
It’s the visitor…no, it’s the Sergeant.
“Did you ever have a dream that you thought was so real that even after you woke up you still felt like you were in it?”
“It’s an odd feeling, like you’re moving between two worlds…”
His eyes widen, confusion slowing all rational thoughts as the visitor approaches.
He closes his eyes and feels new tremors rack his body.
He feels the visitor’s presence. He hears him place a hand on the guard rails of the bed.
“Corporal? How do you feel?” There’s too much concern there like the looks he was giving him from behind the iron bars.
His mouth is dry, disgusting things stuck on his tongue, a taste in his mouth he can’t get rid of nor will soon forget.
He nods a little, keeping his eyes closed.
Things that just happened and maybe are still happening are swirling, mixing and becoming one.
“He was going to kill you.”
The ghost of the future pulls a pistol from the inside of his jacket, fluid, practiced movements of a trained professional. The visitor is still staring at him wide eyed through the bars, unsuspecting and he feels powerless to watch it unfold.
“I know,” he hears the visitor say.
His eyes fly open at that. That voice, those words, so familiar. He peers at the man standing over him, his mind swirling. Surely he isn’t the ghost of the past?
They stare at each other and no he’s not. Though there is a resemblance he is not that ghost.
“I don’t think you understood before but you lost a lot of fluid and electrolytes so they’re pumping some into you right now, keeping you under observation for probably 24 hours. That somnicol is real nasty shit. Didn’t help that we got pissed last night too…” his voice trails off and Arthur feels it’s just words, tuning it out.
He needs something and he doesn’t know what it is. He’s laughing before he knows it’s coming out of his mouth. He never knows what he wants.
The visitor is eyeing him warily.
“This isn’t real.”
The visitor, the Sergeant, whoever he is leans in closer, studies him.
“This is very real. You’re awake. You…you shot yourself to wake up,” and his eyes break away quickly, leaning away.
He remembers then. The cool weight of the pistol at his temple, his fingers trembling slightly as he takes in the ghosts from beyond the bars and then nothing, no thoughts.
He’s closing his eyes again and taking in a shuddering breath. He feels tiny relief but also embarrassment. The things that happened in his world…
“Oh yes. I remember now,” his voice is hoarse. He opens his eyes.
The Sergeant sighs angrily, hand twisting on the guard rail.
“Why did you do it?” he snaps.
“Do what?”
The Sergeant’s eyes are narrowed and burning with anger when he trains them on Arthur again.
“Didn’t you think it would be just a tee bit dramatic and unpleasant to others to just off yourself like that?” his voice is a low growl.
Arthur’s mouth has gone drier, if that was even possible. His initial embarrassment is replaced by anger as well.
“I didn’t want you to get killed…”
“By Mr. Cobb…right…And why the bloody hell is he showing up? Toting guns and everything! Bloody hell. I could have handled myself. I avoided the guards well enough.”
“It was your idea to enter my dream in the first place! And what the fuck do you have to hide? We’ve never once entered your dream!” he’s practically screaming.
They’re staring each other down, snarling and spitting like animals. Arthur imagined they would be circling each other or showing claw if they were able.
“Why a prison? What the fuck do YOU have to hide?” the Sergeant throwing his words back at him.
Arthur feels like he’s going to explode at any moment.
They huff and puff in silence for a while, the air seeming to be electric charged, crackling with heightened emotions and fury.
“You’re the fucking coward. You may have given me that pathetic white feather but you’re the real coward. You’re hiding something and instead of being a man, instead of being a Sergeant you’re hiding behind my dreams. Letting me take the fall.”
The words seem to hit the Sergeant full force, hitting him seemingly in the face and he winces slightly. The air in the room changes, shifts.
The Sergeant is backing away slowly, hands deep in his pockets, grasping something there, head bent slightly.
“You don’t…you don’t remember anything,” he mumbles dejectedly, harshly as he circles to the other side of the room. Arthur watches him stupidly, anger still spiking his system but feels a pang of regret at his harsh words. He can’t take them back but almost wishes he could.
The Sergeant is reaching into his pocket, sliding a cigarette out, back to him. When Arthur sees his face again he sees the unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, his stony face and pained, hard set eyes as he quickly storms out of the room.
Arthur is alone again.
Exactly how he should be.
_______________
He’s buttoning up the last button of his uniform perched on the edge of the bed he’s been ridden to for the past day and a half.
He runs a hand through his hair and feels particularly lousy and he knows it’s not from still feeling slightly sick. How did the Sergeant manage to not have a bad reaction to the somnicol and test runs? But he can’t think of him now.
Luckily a knock on the already open door breaks him out of those thoughts.
He turns his head to the direction of the noise.
Mr. Cobb is leaning against the door frame looking hesitant. Blue eyes burning and that familiar smile flashing. It’s hard for Arthur to shake the image of him in the crisp navy suit pulling a gun from inside his jacket, aiming it at the Sergeant.
“Hi,” he says by way of greeting.
“Can I come in?”
His words jostle him out of his daydream, he nods.
He ties his shoes, fussing over that they look scuffed. He would break out the polish and shine them good if he had a free moment.
Mr. Cobb circles to his side of the bed, hands in his pockets, he looks down at his own shoes, maybe thinking they need a good shining of their own.
“Heard about the trials. Glad you were released,” he shakes his head a little in disgust.
“They’re doing more tests on the somnicol. They’re halting the training missions and experiments until they can figure out what the problem is.” There’s something in his voice that Arthur thinks he should pay attention to but it’s too hard.
Arthur’s nodding faintly, thoughts totally elsewhere. It’s hard for him to erase the image of the Sergeant’s stony, pained face out of his mind. It’s still hard to shake the dream. Hard to shake the feeling he almost didn’t realize he was awake from it. As traumatic as it was he knew he wanted to explore it again, to research it, master it. It was too powerful of a thing to not get caught up into.
“Do you have some free time to talk later?”
Arthur finishes tying his shoes and regards the older man hovering over him.
“I do now.”
Mr. Cobb shifts his weight a bit from one foot to the other.
“I meant in private.”
Arthur furrows his brows thinking he’s missed something and tries to remember the reaction Mr. Cobb showed to the dream sharing trials being postponed.
It must have shown on his face because the deadly consultant picks up on his confusion.
“I have some things I want to go over with you.” His tone indicating that it relates to his overly secret and overall “master plan”. And what that is Arthur has no clue.
“I need to report in. I need to find…” he almost says “The Sergeant” but that’s just a pipedream. They probably should just keep clear of each other for the time being, to cool off. Maybe the dream sharing being postponed came as a blessing in disguise?
“Lieutenant Alexander,” he finishes instead.
Mr. Cobb nods, wearing that all knowing expression that he has all the time in the world.
“Alright. Well, I’ll come find you later.”
Arthur suppresses rolling his eyes. He always does find him…
Arthur gets ups, straightens his uniform and he finds himself walking out with the deadly consultant in tow.
“They’re going to have to find someone else to oversee it.”
They’re outside now and the sudden bright light makes Arthur squint and he shields his eyes from the late morning sun.
The bizarre statement and the dazzling sun slows his pace.
Mr. Cobb shoots him a look, matches his stride.
“Sergeant Eames? He’s leaving Fort Irwin.”
Arthur stops abruptly and Mr. Cobb stops too after he gets a couple paces ahead of him. He turns around slowly and regards Arthur with a curious look.
Arthur’s breath catches in his chest and pain breaks out.
“He didn’t tell you?”
Arthur walks past him, mouth slightly open, totally dazed. Mr. Cobb is calling out to him but Arthur ignores him.
He’s jogging after a while and the jogging turns into a sprint as he spies the building where the Sergeant’s makeshift office is.
He’s completely out of breath, legs like jelly as he stumbles into the deserted office.
Everything of his is gone, cleared out. Not a trace of him left.
He really is a ghost now.
His eyes dart around the room stupidly for a while before he breaks away and he’s running again. And to where he’s not sure.
Fort Irwin is not a small base but this thought doesn’t seem to enter Arthur’s brain as he sprints around pathetically, searching for someone and having no idea why.
Was it to snap at him for leaving so suddenly?
To apologize?
To discuss some unfinished business? If that related to dream sharing Arthur wasn’t sure.
It was like one of his obsessions or compulsions. He had to find him not thinking he could already be gone.
He’s sprinted to the entrance of the base. He’s dizzy, bent over, feeling sicker than ever.
He tries to catch his breath, to put two thoughts together when he thinks he hears a foreign accent amongst a jumble of voices.
His head snaps up and he sees a group of officers walking away from his position. They are well beyond the entrance fence but Arthur can just make out a sleeve of a foreign uniform.
The group parts slightly and Arthur can see the Sergeant huddled around the other officers.
Arthur watches as he salutes and gives handshakes to them.
He’s eight years old again watching his father from his bedroom window as he leaves-them never liking goodbyes.
Uniform on, bag slung over his shoulder, cigarette burning, morning sun in his light hair and he’s walking away. His eyes may be playing tricks on him but he swears he sees something white flutter behind him in the air to be caught up in the wind. He blinks and it’s gone.
Arthur follows him with his eyes, has to squint but sees him get into a car. Watches it as it slowly drives away.
________________
He goes through the motions. Everything seems far away like he’s looking at it through a fogged mirror.
He’s not surprised when Mr. Cobb finds him later after dinner when he’s leaving the mess hall.
He’s not in the mood. Conversations are never pleasant with the deadly consultant Arthur finds.
He’s received enough pity and wary, concerned glances and questions about “how he is” to last him a lifetime.
He’s immensely relieved that Mr. Cobb doesn’t ask him, seeming to pick up on his mood.
They walk and talk. They’re both men of action and Arthur doesn’t feel guilty about cutting to the quick.
“Whatever this is about can we make it quick? I have some things I need to do.”
He had reports to write, documenting the dream sharing trials and his personal experiences and then there was the ordeal with filling in the new CO, some bureaucratic, slack jawed, idiot that didn’t know his mouth from his asshole. He knew even less about dream sharing. Mr. Cobb would be very pleased to report all that back to the Pentagon.
“That can wait. Trust me.”
Mr. Cobb’s tone is one of a giddy little school boy. Arthur bites his tongue less he unleash some of his frustration on him.
He stops instead and Mr. Cobb stops with him, observing he’s getting better at that.
Arthur raises his eyebrows and shoots him a sarcastic: “I’m waiting” look.
“The dream sharing trials being postponed puts us in a good position. Better than what I had hoped. My original plan has changed a bit.”
Arthur doesn't like him using “us”. Doesn’t like it at all. He’s again reminded that he’s not given a choice.
He thinks back to the prison, the prison of his mind and he shudders.
He eyes the deadly consultant and knows he’s going to be following this man around, maybe for the rest of his life. Does he expect a partnership? Is he to be his subordinate? What does he want from him?
What did his father really want from him? What did anybody?
Arthur glares at him which Mr. Cobb takes as: “please continue”.
“The timetable has moved up. You need to pack up what you want to take but pack light. If you have something to wear besides your uniform I would wear that.”
Arthur blinks at him, mind reeling.
Mr. Cobb flashes his signature smile-all white even teeth and a devilish grin-a million things behind that smile. His eyes look away to the purpling sky and Arthur feels he’s totally missed something.
“What?” Arthur barks out.
Mr. Cobb glances back at his face, his brilliant blue eyes burning with intense passion, freezing Arthur in place.
“We’re stealing it tonight. We’re leaving Corporal and you’re coming with me.”
_____________________
This story has a companion piece from Eames' POV. Both stories will run together:
White Feather
Can "Major Eye Strain" be a mood? X______________X I have major eye strain! *cries*
But I love you guys so I endure it! Please review.