fic: I care naught for sleep 1/2

[writteninhaste]

Title: I care naught for sleep.
Author: Secret Santa
Beta: OneWhoSitsWithTurtles
Rating: NC-17
Warnings/Spoilers: graphic sexual situations, depictions of death, allusions to violence against children
Notes: Written for scarlet_malfoy’s prompt over at fakebody’s Secret Santa Fic Exchange
Summary: Build me up around you love; I care naught for sleep. These walls will whisper in my ear and carve for me thy dreams.


Build me up around you, love; I care naught for sleep

Winter in the city was sharp and icy-grey. The sun was a weak and shallow thing that barely had the strength to crawl over the horizon. Arthur stared out at the damp pavements, slick with slurry, and rubbed his gloved fingers together, fruitlessly. He heard Eames’ boots crunch on the salt that had been laid down, long before the man in question pressed a cup of generic coffee into his hands. Eames was not wearing any gloves and his knuckles were scarlet and raw looking in the frozen air. Arthur stared at the bare skin until Eames removed his hands from Arthur’s line of sight again. It was an ephemeral contemplation on Arthur’s part, anyway; he did not have a spare pair of gloves to lend Eames in the first place.

In silence, they watched the mirror-bright revolving doors of the hospital. Eames seemed perfectly content to pretend they were waiting for a cue to act. Arthur played along. Certainly, he was not about to admit to any reluctance in entering the hospital.

A sharp whistle split the air and Arthur jerked, spilling coffee over the leather of his gloves and cursing as the liquid began to seep into the grain. He felt Eames wave, long and wide over his head, and Arthur knew without looking that it was Dom who had whistled. Dom who had been drawn out of retirement for this - who had once again dragged Ariadne from her studies and pulled Yusuf away from warmer climes. Eames was already jogging across the road by the time Arthur had chucked his half-drunk coffee into the nearest bin.

The entrance to the hospital looked like all those that had come before it. The linoleum was bland and polished; the walls a stark shade of white that set Arthur’s teeth on edge and made him blink too fast. Eames was joking with Ariadne and looked perfectly at home on the plastic orange chairs they were forced to sit upon whilst they waited. In that moment, Arthur hated him for it. Eames caught his eye - a quick dart of a gaze that slid to the side almost as soon as it had made a connection. It was an anomaly. Arthur was used to Eames’ attempts to stare him down - to the challenge and invitation Eames always seemed to offer whenever he looked Arthur’s way. The quick stop-jerk of the eyes and the twitch in the jaw irked Arthur. He disliked people who were less than honest - and deceit had never been a good look on Eames. It was an irony of which Arthur was fully aware.

A nurse bustled through the swing doors and distracted Arthur from his thoughts. Behind her Arthur could see a short man with little hair and small, round glasses staring at him. He tapped Dom lightly on the shoulder and the two stood. The others followed suit. The man - a Mr Uehara - made no move towards them. He hovered, just behind the heavy double doors, and waited for the team to come to him. Arthur knew it was not a sense of superiority that kept Mr Uehera stationary. The man simply could not bring himself to take another step.

Arthur let Dom control the show. Dom was better at calming people - at leading them into the world of dreams. Arthur had been told he was too abrupt to deal with grieving families.

Mr Uehara was quiet and withdrawn. He led them through the winding corridors of the hospital - each as bright and starched as the waiting room had been - until they eventually came to a single, locked door that read ‘Psychiatric Rehabilitation Unit’. Arthur heard Ariadne draw a shuddering breath beside him. When Arthur reached a hand back to give hers a squeeze, he found she was already tucked into Eames’ side beneath a one-armed embrace. Arthur put his hand back in his pocket.

The nurses gazed at them sidelong, when they filed into one of the private rooms behind Mr Uehara. They did not say anything, but Arthur could see that they disapproved of this troop of people parading through their ward. The room in question was light and clean and had all the signs of long-term occupation. There were pictures tacked up across the walls and a collection of dolls and books sat propped and over-heaped on a stiff-backed chair by the window. The restraints keeping the little girl strapped to the bed were a jarring kick from reality. Mr Uehara sank down onto the chair by the bed and took the little girl’s hand.

“Her name is Chinatsu. She is twelve.”

It was information they already knew. Arthur wondered for a moment if anyone would say as much, but a quick glance around the room made it clear that the team knew Mr Uehera was saying this for his own benefit - not theirs. His daughter was real, alive - a child, not just a patient in a hospital; there must be days when other people forgot that. Looking at him now, all Arthur could see was a father desperate to reclaim the role of protector for his little girl. He was a far cry from the formidable man whom Arthur had first known as Saito’s right hand.

“I need to know - I need to know what is tormenting her so badly. She tears at her face and hair if she is not restrained when the tranquilisers wear off. I cannot bear -” He broke off but Dom was already nodding, saying that as a father, he understood. Arthur could not even begin to comprehend what such pain must be like. Quite frankly, he never wished to.

Yusuf had begun to ask the necessary questions about medications and course of treatment so far. Dom stayed in the fore, but the rest of the team huddled back against the wall, sharing sidelong glances with one another and looking anywhere but at the bed. It was cowardice, Arthur knew, to be hovering in the background as though insanity was catching. Ariadne looked as guilty as Arthur felt; Eames had a better poker face. None of them made an attempt to rectify the situation. White feathers to them all.

Eventually, Yusuf had the answers he needed. Dom shook Mr Uehara’s hand and promised to be in touch. The man barely spared the minimum of attention to watch their progress out the door. With one eye he was constantly watching his little girl.

“We’ll be operating with a sedative again.” Yusuf said, as they stepped out of the hospital. The wind bit into Arthur’s bones and he tucked his face into the depths of his scarf, hating the cold. “It won’t be easy but if you were to remove the sedative entirely - even with the effects of forced dreaming - her mind would be too hostile. Her projections would rip you to shreds the moment you arrived.”

Ariadne made a pained sort of noise high in her throat. Arthur wished Yusuf would have saved his explanations until they were away from the hospital. This close, with Dom here and memories of Mal looming, Arthur had no desire to contemplate what it might mean to be insane. He doubted he was the only one clutching his totem as they walked away.

They packed into the family sedan Dom was driving, too warm too quickly to be comfortable. Arthur was pressed into the back with Ariadne and Eames, elbow crushed against the door handle; the layers of coats preventing anyone from plugging their seatbelt in with ease. Eames leant forward, muttering an apology to Ariadne - too intent with gleaning information about the extraction from Dom and Yusuf to bother about his own safety. Arthur could hear the thread of paranoia running through Eames’ words - the hesitation that was a direct result of the last time any of them worked with Dom. Ariadne tucked herself into his side, Eames’ spread elbows offering her little alternative.

“We’ll need somewhere she feels safe.” She muttered, allowing the others’ conversation to flow over the top of her own words. “Is there somewhere she often went as a child? A park or a play-centre or something?”

“There was a playground,” Arthur said. “Her grandmother would take her whenever she visited. The mother never seemed to take her anywhere in particular but I’ll have another look - see if there’s anywhere that might hold some significance.” He paused. “Of course, it might simply be a question of what she remembers. The kid’s barely spent more than two months outside of a hospital in the last five years.”

The conversation around them had reached a lull just as he spoke. Ahead of him, Arthur saw Yusuf scrub a hand over his eyes. Eames just swore in frustration and flopped back against the seat. The movement thrust Ariadne further into Arthur’s side. She did not look happy about the arrangement. She shoved her way back into Eames’ space.

“How old is she, mentally?” Cobb asked. He was tapping his fingers idly on the steering wheel, letting go only to crank to heating up. Yusuf watched him for a moment as though trying to discern whether the lack of agitation was genuine or simply an affectation.

“She hasn’t been truly lucid in years.” Yusuf said. “There’s no way to know. Even when the sedatives are off - her father was saying that she doesn’t speak. Just screams, wordlessly, at them and tries to hurt herself.”

“She hasn’t said anything?” Ariadne asked.

“Nothing. Apparently the doctors think it unlikely she’s even aware of her surroundings when she’s awake. There’s been no indication that she recognises her father or anyone else.”

“I’ve never heard of anything like this.” Eames said. “Paranoia, disassociation from reality - those are fairly common psychiatric conditions. Loss of speech could be attributed to brain trauma. But, and correct me if I’m wrong, darling.” He said, turning to Arthur, “the onset of her condition was sudden. One day a normal child, the next withdrawn, introverted. Cue a rather quick and violent decline.”

“Why wait five years to try this?” Ariadne asked. “Dreaming is hardly a new technology - he could have tried this, ages ago.”

Eames huffed. “Would you be quick to let a group of strangers root around in your kid’s mind?”

Ariadne conceded the point with a tilt of her head.

“His wife just died.” Arthur offered. “Perhaps, without her, he’s lost hope. Grief can make people desperate.”

There was a heavy silence as the others in the car pointedly did not look in Dom’s direction. Arthur simply kept his eyes fixed on the rear-view mirror. At last, Dom lowered his eyes back to the road and the tension in the car eased somewhat.

“The fact is,” Arthur said, “that we’ll be flying blind for the most part. I have all the relevant information from hospitals, carers, family - but we have no chance to observe the mark; to study behaviour or patterns. Working off second-hand information is never satisfactory but it’s all we have.”

“Should we really be referring to her as a mark?” Yusuf asked. Arthur ignored him.

“Eames?”

“You do know that we have no idea what it will be like down there, don’t you?” Eames asked. “We can build all the pretty mazes we want but it will be her projections running around the place. They tear us limb from limb and we won’t wake up again. The sedative will see to that.”

Dom pulled up outside the office they were renting and cut the engine. “We don’t have a choice. Are any of you going to walk away after seeing that little girl this morning? We can help her. No one deserves to be left like that.”

Eames threw open the car door and got out. The others followed at a more sedate pace. Arthur doubted any of them liked the idea of operating on too little information, but Dom was right: none of them were walking away.

The office was warm but spartan. Arthur dragged a whiteboard into the circle of chairs that had been arranged, whilst Yusuf disappeared into the kitchenette. Eames already had a cigarette dangling from his lips, eyebrow raised in challenge as he looked Arthur’s way. Arthur simply shrugged and took his seat. Eames lit the cigarette with relish, taking a deep drag as Yusuf reappeared with a tray laden with four coffees and one tea. There was also a pile of chocolate sitting in a bowl. Ariadne snatched one along with her coffee; sugar had its role in calming nerves.

“One level only.” Dom said, once they were all settled. “I think we’re all agreed that we don’t want to deal with taking a mind that unstable down two levels - even with the high levels of sedative involved.” Yusuf stood to begin scribbling on the board, listing out the various compounds that would be involved.

“What exactly is it that we’re looking for? Eames asked. “Say we go down: find out whatever triggered the initial episode. Hand the information over to her father. If she’s not cognisant, just knowing what hurt her in the first place is hardly going to do any good.”

“Don’t underestimate the value of peace of mind.” Dom said. “Sometimes knowing what made someone crazy, helps you come to terms with it.”

“Or it makes you think you can fix the impossible.” Eames said. Dom did not answer.

“I want to know everything I can about her childhood - what she liked, more specifically what she didn’t.” Ariadne said, addressing Arthur. “If we’re going down there we need to make sure we don’t do more damage. Nothing traumatic, no explosions, no violence. We can’t risk turning her world into any more of a nightmare.”

The others nodded their agreement. Something in Arthur was surprised that he would forsake a gun so easily. But Ariadne was right: they were dealing with a kid - somehow the rules were different.

By the time they had hashed out the plan between them, it was a relatively simple job. There was no need for secrecy or circumspection - not when the mark’s own father was their employer. The main time constraint would be the time it took Eames to learn Mr Uehara’s mannerisms well enough to fool his daughter. No one mentioned that the forgery might not work - that they had no way of knowing if Chinatsu was aware of the shadow her father had become or whether she had only the memories of who he was when she was a child. The man was at her bedside everyday - perhaps some of what he said had filtered through.

oOo

It took two weeks for Eames to be comfortable with his forgery. Arthur could tell he was not entirely happy with the venture - too much was left unknown and with a sedative involved that meant too much could go wrong. Arthur had become used to the sight of Eames leaning outside his hotel room door, bottle clutched in one hand and raised in invitation. Each time, Arthur let Eames into the suite, poured them both a glass of whatever alcohol Eames had procured and sipped his drink whilst Eames proceeded to get very quickly drunk. Eames had provided alcohol far beyond the quality Arthur had come to expect. The bottles numbered amongst Arthur’s favourites and for all that Eames was passed out by the end of the night, he never consumed more than two glasses of whatever he brought. By now, there was a neat line of gifts decorating the top of the mini-bar. Arthur stared at them as Eames snored softly on the couch. The room would be empty by the time Arthur woke and the latest bottle would have been added to the arrangement.

He thought about calling Eames on his behaviour, quoting words such as ‘unprofessional’ and ‘inappropriate’ but Eames looked haggard around the edges. Each day, when he returned from shadowing Mr Uehera, there were deeper shadows smudged beneath his eyes; the muscle at the edge of Eames’ jaw jumped almost constantly, nowadays.

By the times Eames declared himself ready, Arthur had checked and re-checked all his information four times. There were gaps he did not like - especially with regards to the late Mrs Uehera but Dom had overruled his concerns. Eames was ready so the extraction would go ahead. Ariadne was once again watching Dom with bright, young eyes ready to come to his rescue when his subconscious crept too close. She did not object to the glaring holes, either - too caught up in following the leader. Only Eames looked close to apologetic. But he wanted the job over with and he did not say anything. The action irritated Arthur beyond reason and he was left, once again, with faults in his research and a team-leader too blinded by his mission to pause and breathe.

Hospital visiting hours were long over when the team returned to Chinatsu’s room. Mr Uehara had arranged for two uninterrupted hours at the hospital. It would give them enough time in the dreamscape - a whole day - to unearth the trigger and perhaps implement the beginning of catharsis. Yusuf looked mildly uncomfortable at the thought of putting them under for any significant length of time - most likely remembering the last time - but he acquiesced. Ariadne had suggested kicks every five minutes in real-time, giving them the opportunity to abort once an hour if need be; Dom had vetoed the idea. Arthur knew it was a valid concern - to constantly disrupt the dream, would lessen the stability. But he disliked being reduced to a final kick with no fallback plan.

Yusuf prepared the PASIV with clinical efficiency. Mr Uehara kept his customary place, hands still wrapped around those of his child. He would not be accompanying them into the dream but Arthur could hardly blame the man for wanting to be there when they went under. The team arranged their chairs around the bed, sliding the I.V.s into their wrists with the ease of long-practice. The last thing Arthur saw as he slipped under was Mr Uehara tuckng a stray lock of hair behind his daughter’s ear.

oOo

The park was sunlit - warm and bright - when Arthur opens his eyes. It made a nice contrast to the bone-chilling winter of reality. Arthur took a moment to tilt his face towards the light. He was distracted by the warmth; it took him a moment to realise that the dreamscape was too silent. Looking at the woods bordering the park, Arthur could see the breeze twining gently through the trees, but he could not hear the leaves rustle. There were no projections, the wildlife that should have been a part of Ariadne’s architecture sat frozen on the landscape. The swings did not move and the occasional pieces of litter scattered on the floor were unmoved by the breeze. And yet, the leaves waved with the wind. Arthur felt tension crawl up his spine.

“What’s going on?”

Eames voice was overly loud in the quiet and Arthur would have jumped, were he anyone else. Cobb was casting back and forth, squinting at the horizon. Ariadne had her arms wrapped around herself. Arthur could see that she was trying to piece together missing pieces of her maze. It was not working. Arthur reached instinctively for a gun that was not there; it was unsettling, to be in a dream so silent.

“Where’s Chinatsu?” Cobb asked, ignoring Eames’ earlier question. The landscape was empty. No sign of life anywhere.

“There.” Ariadne gasped, pointing. The group turned, and for a moment Arthur thought he was looking at a still from a cheap horror movie. Chinatsu - looking younger than she had at the hospital - was standing at the edge of the trees. Shadows were beginning to creep forward and at her feet the ground was bleeding. The swings had begun to creak in the breeze and Arthur would have laughed at the cliché were he not facing a child whose face was completely blank of all emotion.

From out the corner of his eye, Arthur could see Eames muttering under his breath. The words were tumbling with the speed of memory. Arthur thought they might be a prayer. Whatever the words were, they were well-learnt. The temperature was rapidly dropping. Chinatsu was still staring, still perfectly still and for a moment - for a delusional, pathetic, heartfelt moment when it looked as though the girl might smile or scowl or something - Arthur thought the dream might right itself. And then it all went to hell.

Chinatsu screamed - high, animalistic, terrified and enraged. Projections were suddenly everywhere and they looked like the things of nightmares. Eames stopped praying. He looked ill.

“Run” Cobb said, and none of them thought to hesitate. They pelted along the open ground, projections tearing after them. As he ran, Arthur snatched a glance over his shoulder and felt his stomach roll. All the projections - as melted, twisted and horrific as they were - all wore Chinatsu’s face. She was disfigured, tortured, mauled and Arthur wondered just what could have happened to make a little girl hate herself so much.

“We have to find out what she’s so afraid of.” Ariadne said, panting.

“And do what?” Eames countered, “I don’t think this,” he gestured over his shoulder, “has a magical cure-all.”

“But we may be able to trap the memory.” Ariadne argued. “If we can find out whatever traumatised her originally maybe we can lock it away somewhere - like you would with a computer virus.”

“It’s worth a shot.” Cobb agreed and winged left, suddenly. The woods were thicker there, farther away from the park, and it could buy them a little time.

Arthur turned to Eames. “You need to forge her father. Right now, it’s the only thing that might calm her. We need the projections sedate enough to perform the extraction.”

“If this doesn’t work, we’re screwed.” Eames informed him, but he was already looking at himself in a small compact; his features morphed into that of Mr Uehera. “Go.” He told them and his voice was rougher, older - with a hint of the east in the words. “Try to get out of sight.”

Cobb and Ariadne were already running. Arthur hesitated just for a moment.

“Just so you know, Arthur.” Eames said. “If I drop into limbo, I’m taking you with me.”

Something flared in Arthur at the prospect of eternity with Eames. Limbo was supposed to be horrifying. “So noted.” He said. He stayed, just long enough to give Eames a single nod of encouragement, and then he was racing to catch up with Dom and Ariadne.

Whatever Eames did must have worked, because by the time they reached the house Chinatsu grew up in, there were no projections chasing them.

Dom pushed the door open but it was Ariadne who took the stairs two at a time, leading them towards the girl’s bedroom. Arthur spared a quick glance to check that there were no projections lingering outside, before following them.

The room was much as one would expect for a little girl. Nothing had changed since the first time Chinatsu had been taken into hospital and Ariadne had recreated it perfectly. A bed stood neatly in one corner, the pink and white linens freshly pressed and without a wrinkle. The curtains matched and around the room, Arthur could see toys and books scattered in separate enough piles that it was clear a parent had, at some point, instilled a basic organisational system on the room. Dom was already pulling open drawers and looking inside books for hidden answers.

Ariadne surveyed the room, turning slowly in a circle. Arthur had no idea where a young girl might hide her secrets. There was no evidence of a diary; no trinket box or conspicuous safe. He doubted whether his own experiences would be much use here.

“Cobb.” Dom stopped flicking through the book his was holding. Ariadne was looking firmly at the small writing desk pressed against the wardrobe. It was red and plastic and was small enough to have belonged to a much younger child. As Dom lifted the lid, Arthur could see rough drawings - the crayon scratches of an untrained hand - then, below them the more sedate renderings of an older child. Below that there were photographs.

“Shit.”

Dom flicked through picture after picture. Arthur forced himself to watch - the nightmare played out in technicolour glory. Dom began shoving through the images faster until the scenes were nothing more than blurs of chemical vials, sterile beds, and a myriad of faces and the bodies attached.

“That - that’s torture.” Ariadne said. She looked like she was going to be sick. “Who does that to their own child? To any child?”

“Jesus, and that bastard still visits her grave.”

Arthur remembered how Eames had drunk straight from the bottle the night after following Mr Uehera to his wife’s grave. He wondered what Eames had seen there - what information he had decided to withhold.

“Maybe Uehera didn’t know?” Arthur suggested. He did not sound very convincing, even to his own ears.

“He knew.” Dom said. “You can’t be a parent and not have even the faintest clue.” He dropped the pictures in disgust. There was a shriek from outside and all at once the sky went black - as though something had swallowed up the sun.

“She knows we’ve found them.” Ariadne said. Her face was pressed to the glass but the light from inside turned the window into a mirror, there was no way to see into the blackness. “What do we do?”

“Destroy them.” Arthur said. Ariadne balked, but Dom was already nodding in agreement.

“We can’t hide this. Maybe - maybe if we could go deeper, we might find a way. But to hide something from the mind is nearly impossible. We either destroy those memories, or leave things as they are.”

For Arthur, there was no a contest. He snatched the photographs up from where they had been dropped, stacking them neatly together at the edges.

“But we could destroy her mind.” Ariadne said. “How do we know we’re not going to end up destroying everything associated with those memories as well - her parents, her childhood, everything.”

“Would you rather leave her like this?” Arthur demanded. He waited a moment; waited for Ariadne to say something in protest but she just threw her hands up helplessly. Arthur ripped the photographs in two. Outside the screams stopped, just for a moment. Arthur tore again, and the world seemed to shudder. Again and again - until Dom pulled a lighter from his pocket and the whole flaming mess dropped in a heap to the plastic table. When the papers finished burning, everything was very quiet and very still.

“Did it work?” Ariadne asked. Arthur shook his head - there was no way of knowing.

“We have to find Eames.” Dom said.

Arthur swore and made for the stairs. He trusted Eames to be able to evade the projections - but they had no way of knowing what destroying Chinatsu’s memories had done to her mind. Arthur just fervently hoped Eames was still alive.

He flung open the front door of the house and was confronted with an endless, glittering blanket of white. The only light came from the hallway, spilling out across the snow. There was no moon, no stars - nothing by which to see.

“What happened?” Ariadne asked. Arthur just mutely shook his head. He had never known a mark to manipulate the architecture of the dream. How were they ever to find Eames in this? There was a whimper and the sound of shuffling feet. Arthur lurched forward, stumbling through the snow that was nearly up to his knees. He nearly collided with a small, shivering mass less than six feet from the doorway. He looked down and saw Chinatsu - pale, skinny and twelve years old - staring up at him with wide, scared eyes. Shepherding her back towards the house, Arthur turned her over to Dom and Ariadne’s custody.

“Look after her.” He told them. “I’m going to find Eames.”

Dom simply glanced at him, already bending to show Chinatsu pictures of his own children. Ariadne looked like she wanted to say something but in the end all she said was, “Be careful.”

Arthur gave a curt nod, before bundling away into the snow. It was almost impossible to see anything but he kept moving on instinct. He tried, once he was out of view, to dream a coat for himself - something warmer than the thin shirt he was wearing - but the dream was resistant to any further changes to its architecture and Arthur was left damp and shivering as he fought his way forward.

He did not know how long he walked. The lack of light, of discernable scenery, was disorientating. Two hours on the PASIV was a day in dream time. It had taken less than an hour to destroy Chinatsu’s memories. Arthur did not like the thought of wandering this tundra until the Somnacin wore off - not least because he would most likely die of hypothermia before then.

So wrapped up, was he, in his own thoughts, that Arthur did not notice the slight shift underfoot that heralded the edge of a steep precipice. He only knew he was there when he went to take another step and his foot hit open air, leg buckling when it finally made contact with the incline, toppling Arthur end over end through the icy snow.

Arthur landed with a thump, breath wheezing and coughing from his lungs. He pushed himself up onto elbows and knees, groaning as his body protested the movement. It was ice, not snow, beneath his hands now. He could feel the pitted surface and the way his skin stuck, ever so slightly, as he tried to lift it off.

“Shit.”

“Darling?”

Arthur nearly slipped again. He cast about wildly but it was so fucking dark. He heard the crunch of movement and then the scrape-slide of someone crawling over the ice. He opened his mouth to call to Eames, but the deep breath only succeeded in aggravating his bruised ribs and he ended up spluttering in the darkness. It worked at any rate - Eames followed the noise and found him. Chapped hands wrapped around his wrists and he was pulled against a body larger than his own.

“Christ, darling, you’re freezing.”

“Couldn’t dream up a coat.” Arthur said shortly. He noticed Eames was not wearing much either. “The dream’s no longer Ariadne’s. I couldn’t change anything.” The change of dreamer should not matter - but it did. And Arthur did not know why.

“What happened?” Eames asked. “One minute everything was fine. We were on the swings, and we were chattering away no problem, and then all of a sudden all hell broke loose. She started screaming bloody murder and then her projections went mental. Damn near tore me to shreds before I could get away.”

“How did you end up here?”

“I was running and then the whole world went dark. I fell, rolled my way down here, and I’ve been here ever since. Tried climbing back up the slope but you know me, darling, no good at ice-climbing without the right gear.” Arthur huffed, but he was too cold to put up much of an argument. “Besides, I’m fairly certain my leg’s broken given how much it hurt to try and stand.” Arthur swallowed back the urge to say how Eames should have mentioned that part first. There was nothing Arthur could do down here. It was too dark to see, and he had nothing to use as a splint. Provided Eames was not in danger of bleeding out, Arthur was just going to have to contend with not being able to fix things. Eames’ voice interrupted his thoughts.

“How long do we have left on the clock?”

“Don’t know.” Arthur admitted. “I lost track.”

“You, Arthur? Never.” The mocking tone grated on Arthur’s nerves.

“Be quiet. We have hours left down here. We need to figure out some way of staying warm.”

Eames’ silence said it all. Arthur flushed. “No.”

“Pity, darling. I was rather looking forward to it.”

Sharing body heat with Eames whilst naked and writhing had a certain, visceral, appeal. But Arthur had no desire for certain vital parts of his anatomy to incur frostbite. Still, he pressed himself against Eames’ side and burrowed in as tightly as possible.

“Clothes stay on, Mr Eames.”

“Of course.”

Both of them were soaked to the bone; but even if it was all in the mind, huddling together felt better than shivering alone.

The cold was somehow worse in the darkness. The silence did not help matters. If there were light and noise, Arthur might just have been able to bear slowly freezing to death on a blanket of ice but as it was the prospect was driving him slowly crazy.

“Keep talking.” He said eventually. The words were almost physically painful to say - an implication of weakness that Arthur could ill-afford around Eames. Eames yawned and Arthur elbowed him in the gut. At least this way he could pretend the demand was for Eames’ sake. “Do not fall asleep. Keep talking.”

“About what?” Eames voice was slow and lazy and the arm he had looped around Arthur’s waist was not clinging as tightly as it once had.

“Anything. About how quickly you’re going to gamble your pay-check away this time, about how you swore never to work with Dom again; tell me about how great you are in bed. Just keep talking.”

He could feel Eames chuckle behind him, the vibrations thrumming through his chest. “I don’t gamble outside of Mombasa, darling. And the only reason I’m here is because of you. You asked for a favour and I’m really very bad at refusing you, Arthur.”

“You’ve refused me before.” Arthur said. He could remember the four occasions on which it had happened very clearly.

“True.” Eames’ acknowledged. “But you have no idea how much it pained me. You are the best in the business Arthur - no two ways about that. If you hadn’t been so inextricably entangled with the Cobbs, I would have worked with you more often.”

“You never did like them, did you?” Arthur asked. He could not understand that, not really. Mal had been wonderful and lovely; Dom revolutionary. Working with them had been some of the best years of Arthur’s life. He had never understood quite how Eames remained, at the very best, indifferent.

“They were reckless - selfish with it. They were reckless with you too often, darling.” There was something in his voice Arthur tried very hard to ignore. He did not want to continue the conversation. Eames was talking as though he had some claim to Arthur - has a claim - even though none existed. It irked Arthur to the point where he could not be flattered; the thought that Eames cared enough to worry lost beneath a wave of irritation. Arthur could not stand to hear anything against Mal - not when the wound was still fresh, even after all these years.

As if sensing this, Eames sighed and tightened his grip. “Talent like yours shouldn’t be squandered, Arthur. The world would be a poorer place.”

They left it at that and sank back into silence. Arthur could no longer feel his fingers or his feet below the ankle. Lying on one side, like they were, had turned his hip numb. Eames had stopped shivering a while ago. Arthur retried changing the architecture of the dream; tried to conjure up a fire, or a coat or even a pair of gloves but all he achieved was a nauseating headache.

“Stop.” Eames told him. “Let me.”

Eames’ forgery was unaffected. At the back of Arthur’s mind a voice told him that there was a reason as to why - and he had known it once. But the voice was weak and tired and Arthur was too cold to think straight.

Eames tried forging various people to little effect. The giant of a man he had hoped might act like a human coat had simply sapped all of Arthur’s remaining warmth. He tried the opposite next, matching someone of Arthur’s build but the chill was almost inescapable by then.

Arthur knew he was too still for Eames’ liking; could tell by the way Eames was constantly prodding him this way and that, trying to force a physical reaction. But Arthur was sluggish and his body took too long to react to Eames’ taunts. It was clear Eames had become desperate when he slipped his skin and suddenly Arthur was flooded with warmth. There was a snort beside his ear and adrenaline had Arthur tensed and moving before his mind had registered the thought. A growl sounded in his ear, and Arthur could feel silk-slick fur slip past his arms. The breath in his nostrils smelled of carrion. Arthur kept very, very still.

“Eames?”

He was answered with a snarl and then suddenly a very human gasp. He heard the thump of a human body hitting the ground and then violent retching. Arthur scrambled blindly, his hand finally coming into contact with Eames’ back.

“Eames?”

“Christ.”

Arthur did not ask, simply curled up behind Eames and held him until he stopped shaking.

“What happened?”

Eames drew a shuddering breath and for a moment Arthur thought he would not answer. “Forgery’s all about losing yourself to the form you take - adopting it completely. To become an animal -”

Arthur cut him off. “Don’t do that again.”

“Gladly, darling.” Eames’ voice was raw; the air smelled vaguely of vomit. He had begun to shiver again and Arthur could not tell whether that was a good or a bad thing. “Perhaps we should think warm thoughts?”

Arthur laughed. It was not that funny but hysteria was beginning to creep along his senses so he laughed loud and long until Eames was laughing with him.

“A house would be nice, right now.” Arthur said, and Eames’ stopped chuckling to listen to him. “A small, warm house with a kitchen full of food and a log fire in the living room. Plush carpets and bookcases with full shelves and there wouldn’t be a single cold space in the entire damn house.” He was talking nonsense, but the image was so vivid in his mind’s eye. In that moment, Arthur would have given almost anything to be warm again.

Eames was quiet for a heartbeat. “I think I could do that.”

It took Arthur a moment to realise what he was talking about. “Eames, no. You can’t forge a house - it’s impossible.”

“Nothing’s impossible in a dream darling.”

“But you just said -”

“This is different.”

Arthur was too cold to hold Eames still when he insisted on pulling away. He tried, but his fingers refused to bend and Eames slipped from his grasp, dragging himself along the ground before Arthur had a proper chance to stop him. Moving on that leg must have been murder but Eames was determinedly hauling himself away and Arthur could not get his legs to cooperate enough to chase after him. The cold was biting without Eames there to warm him and Arthur had to close his eyes to steel himself. When he opened them again Eames was nowhere to be seen. Instead, there was a small, square cottage squatting on the ice less than a hundred yards away. Light spilled warm and yellow from its windows, and Arthur almost moaned at the sight.

It was a short, two-story building and the window-sills sagged, barren flower boxes threatening to spill onto the snow. The door was arched and green, a Christmas wreath glittering below a brass house number: 69.

Arthur could not explain it but the house looked like Eames: pouting lips and clever eyes and a slightly crooked grin. The walls were a pale, mottled brick; the thatch of the roof too sleek; the curtains in the upper windows were blue. The door swung open and Arthur did not really need more of an invitation. It took him a while to chafe feeling back into his legs and when he stood, fire sparked in the muscles and joints. He staggered to the house, practically tripping through the door, clumsy as he was with half-numbed limbs.

Inside, the house was blissfully warm. The walls were a smooth, rich cream; the decor far more tasteful than Arthur might have imagined. The carpet runner was paisley though - a hint of ludicrous reality in the midst of surreal landscape. Arthur could not help but smiling. There was a kitchen to one side, cramped and tidy, but Arthur’s attention was drawn to the living room. The carpet was thick and Arthur kicked off his socks and shoes just to feel the fibres sink like liquid between his toes.

A fire was crackling merrily in the grate, its warmth suffusing the room, and Arthur sank down before it gratefully. He lay there, letting the flames warm his skin whilst his clothing became muggy and clinging as it dried. Condensation was gathering on the windows and the rug beneath Arthur was now damp. But he was very conscious of the fact that the house wasEames. And with no indication of how aware Eames was of events, Arthur was reluctant to strip off - even if doing so might help him warm up faster.

Looking around he could see every wall was lined with books, their spines all guilt and leather-bound. In a cupboard, towards one wall, Arthur discovered a fantastic collection of pornos - all apparently starring Arthur, himself. Arthur was torn between horror and amusement. He made a mental note to give Eames a swift kick when he next saw him in reality.

On the lower shelves beside the fireplace there were a series of photo albums, each labelled with a different year. Arthur picked one at random and let it fall open. He was greeted with the smiling face of a teenage Eames. His acne was dreadful but beneath the round edges of childhood Arthur could see harder lines; an adult’s face hidden beneath a child’s. There was a girl laughing beside him. She was slim and blonde and she was hanging off Eames’ shoulder as she laughed into the camera. Arthur shut the album with a snap. He did not want to see any more.

There was a chink and Arthur turned around, startled. On a low, dark wood table Arthur had previously failed to notice there was a crystal decanter. It glittered in the firelight and the wine within glowed ruby-red. The portrait above the fireplace creaked and to Arthur it sounded just slightly smug. He poured himself a glass of wine, sipping gratefully as he curled up in one of the overstuffed armchairs. Leaning back in contentment, Arthur looked up at the portrait. His breath caught when he saw his own face staring back at him.

The colours were soft and a little too muted - a little too real. It was a labour of love and Arthur had no idea what to make of it. The portrait was not smiling, but there was a softness to the eyes, to the edges of the mouth, that Arthur did not recognise. Arthur could not understand what he was seeing. He looked away.

The house was silent for a moment and Arthur saw the flames die momentarily before flaring back to life. To Arthur, their merry crackling seemed a little forced, now. Levering himself out of the chair, Arthur wandered away into the kitchen, poking idly at the pot bubbling on the stove. The stew was rich and smelled of wine and spices. Arthur leant against the cabinets and drank his wine.

Arthur was not sure if he was ready for what this house was showing him. He had known Eames for years and perhaps they had been building towards something. But that portrait - that was more than a ‘maybe’. And Arthur did not know how to compete.

The house was perfect - so far removed from anything Arthur grew up with, but so reminiscent of the English ideal his mother used to rhapsodise about in his childhood. Paisley runner aside Arthur was almost sure that the cottage reflected his tastes as much as it reflected Eames’. Eames had forged a house suitable for them and Arthur found himself short of breath.

It was still dark outside. Arthur drew the curtains, opting to hide his head in the sand rather than look at the reality of the dreamscape. He knew Dom and Ariadne would be worried but there was little he could do about it. Bored and out of a masochistic sense of curiosity, Arthur decided to explore upstairs. The place-settings, neatly arrayed on the table, seemed almost dismayed as Arthur left the kitchen. The pot of stew gave a sullen plop, but Arthur ignored it. The stairway was hung with originals - Escher and Piper arranged in a mix-matched array that Arthur would never have chosen but that somehow worked. There were only two rooms upstairs - if one disregarded the bathroom - and Arthur immediately gravitated to the one of the left.

It was laid out like a guest suite, the colours impartial but pleasing - empty and slightly jarring after the warm clutter of the house below. Still, for all its neutrality, Arthur could see distinct markers of Eames’ flare. It made Arthur smile, ever so slightly.

The room was blue, in a shade too deep; paired with curtains that were far too white. There was a faint hint of anarchy in the arrangement of the furniture. Arthur sank down onto the mattress and ran a hand across the bright lone star printed on the duvet cover. The pillows were dusted in constellations and above the bed hung an over-sized print of a nebula Arthur did not recognise. Arthur laughed because Eames had always claimed that the night sky was the one thing no artist could ever successfully paint. Arthur had argued furiously against him but Eames had remained unmoved. He wondered how Eames must have felt - to have stood there when Chinatsu’s world went dark and to have not seen any stars in the sky.

Abandoning the guest room, Arthur padded across the hallway to the master suite. The room was large - much larger than the house looked able to contain - all rich dark woods and expensive sheets. Whilst the guest suite looked like a bizarre cross between a New England B&B and a rather introverted teenager’s bedroom, the master suite was almost painfully elegant. Strangely, there was not a single piece of art in the room. Instead, the viewer’s eye was drawn to peculiar trinkets. A beautifully worked bronze bowl clutched a selection of cufflinks. On the bedside table an antique cigar case rested atop a first edition copy of Peter Pan. On the opposite side, lay a well-thumbed copy of Bergson and a set of reading glasses Arthur knew he would need later in life - if he was anything like his parents. The bed was perfectly well made, but Arthur could tell that two people slept there. The pillows still held the slight indent of heads, and in the shadows Arthur could just make out the phantom of two hands nestled together on the sheets.

It was too much. Arthur locked himself in the bathroom because it was boring and safe: white tile and gold enamel and nothing personal. It was too much. Arthur was not ready for what Eames was offering - that room was the bedroom of two people who had lain side by side for most of their lives; two men who were going grey and accumulating flab and who loved each other despite all that - maybe because of it.

Arthur always imagined he would be dead by thirty. And when thirty arrived pushed the deadline back to forty. It never occurred to him to think beyond dying; to imagine a life that included more than himself and a silver briefcase.

Arthur had begun to hyperventilate and it took more of his self-control that he would like, to fight the panic down. He started to catalogue information about himself - taking what Eames knew and weighing it against that known by other people. The closest competitor was Dom. Eames still won by a mile.

Sighing, Arthur ran a hand distractedly over his left pectoral. It had been common practice in his unit to tattoo their dog tags onto the body. Arthur’s were on his right shoulder. But there was a different serial number tattooed above his heart. He had not given the placement much thought at the time - it had simply seemed convenient. Arthur thumped his head against the sink. Normally, he was quicker on the uptake.

Mustering his courage, Arthur left the bathroom. For a moment, he contemplated going back downstairs but at last, he stepped into the bedroom again. Quiet, Arthur curled up on the near side of the bed, letting the fingers of one hand drift over the book’s cover - the words so faded that the ‘B’ of ‘Barrie’ was almost lost.

“Perhaps it would be better for her, if she never had to grow up.” Arthur whispered. “If she could be six years old forever - before any of that happened. God, Eames. For any parent to do that to a child. I just don’t understand.” The words hung in the air. Arthur felt purged. Turning his face into the pillow, Arthur pressed his words into the goose-down; his horror, his disgust. Arthur spilled Chinatsu’s secrets into the quiet of the room, his breath leaving a damp spot on the pillow.

When Arthur was finished, he imagined he could hear the house sigh around him. The duvet rustled and Arthur was not sure if it did so because he moved or of its own volition. Arthur wished he had some way of discerning just how aware Eames was like this.

Huffing a quiet breath, Arthur wormed his way beneath the covers. The duvet was thick and warm; the heat beneath it almost suffocating. Arthur dragged the copy of Peter Pan beneath the covers, opting to squint in the gloom at the words. His mother had read it to him when he was younger, but Arthur had been one of those children who could not wait to grow up; he had not understood it. He wondered if its presence here meant the book was Eames’ favourite.

The whole book could have been read cover to cover in a matter of hours, but Arthur chose to take his time. He savoured the words he had glossed over as a child. There was a sadness, lingering in the pages, that Arthur had never noticed before. He wet his lips and turned the page.

Time slipped by. It was with a start that Arthur noticed the sky outside had begun to brighten. Light pressed against the heavy fabric of the curtains - a steady, orange glow. Pushing away the covers, Arthur made his way towards the window. Sunlight was sliding over the snow, but the landscape was still as desolate as ever.

If he were sensible, Arthur would use the burgeoning light to try and retrace his steps; the house where he left Ariadne and Dom could not be too far away. He fisted a hand in the fabric of the curtains, the brocade rough against his skin and weighed the risks. He had no way of knowing how the forgery was affecting Eames. Logically, the cold should have no effect on an inanimate object but Eames was still conscious - or at the very least, something of his self survived. If Arthur told Eames to drop the forgery would he do it? Could he do it? Would it be safe to leave him on the ice whilst Arthur searched for the others? Arthur did not have the answers. He hated that.

“How much of you is left, Mr Eames? What effect will this have on you in the long run?”

The house gave no response. Arthur made his way back downstairs. The stove had gone cold in his absence; the stew was a thick slop sticking to the sides of the pot. The fire in the grate had died. There were flecks of ash on the hearth rug, bleeding into the damp spots that remained from when Arthur had tried to dry himself. The whole room seemed lacklustre and aged. It was as though the house was tired, the furniture worn around the edges. Arthur pushed back the curtains and pale, yellow light spilled across the carpet. It made the whole place look exhausted.

Frowning, Arthur tucked the curtain ties in place. The change was disconcerting. Arthur could not tell whether he was simply seeing things, quite literally, in a new light or if the change was indicative of something more. The house was colder, too, now that the fire had died. Arthur tried to stoke it back to life but the embers sputtered pitifully and no amount of tinder or air could force the flames to their former height.

Defeated, Arthur slumped on one of the seats. He felt uncomfortable in his own skin; the room was too personal, too much of Eames. Wind whistled around the house, rattling the windows in their frames. Curious, Arthur stood. His shoes were still by the front door, where he had left them. Redressing hastily, Arthur cracked the door and peered out. The landscape was still blank but the wind was howling. Faintly, so faintly Arthur wondered if he imagined it, Arthur thought he heard Ariadne’s voice. Propping the door ajar, Arthur stepped outside.

The cold bit into his skin. Arthur shivered violently. He huddled inches from the door, wind pulling at his clothes and hair, ears straining to catch even the slightest noise.

“Arthur.” There was no mistaking the voice.

Arthur cupped his hands around his mouth. “Ariadne.”

“Arthur? Eames?”

“Ariadne.” Arthur bellowed putting all his strength into the cry. There was a pause and for a moment Arthur thought he must have imagined it but then, faint again, he heard an answering call. He yelled again but the reply was almost inaudible. She was moving in the wrong direction. Casting a glance over his shoulder, Arthur weighed his options.

“I’ll be as quick as possible.” Arthur said, laying his hand flat against one wall. “Just, stay here alright? I’ll be back.”

The door creaked shut. Arthur took it as consent.

He pushed forward into the snow, constantly calling out for Ariadne. The land was entirely flat, for as far as he could see. The precipice both he and Eames had fallen down was nowhere to be seen. As he moved Arthur kept looking over his shoulder, almost involuntarily; too quickly the house disappeared from sight. Arthur swore. He did not want to move too far from Eames but he needed to find Ariadne.

“Ariadne.”

“Arthur?”

Arthur spun at the sound on Dom’s voice. He could see him, not a hundred yards away, Ariadne at his side. How had he not seen them before?

“Dom.” Arthur breathed. The pair moved towards him and Arthur could see Chinatsu riding on Dom’s back. She was fast asleep, head flopping over his shoulder. Ariadne rushed to him, enveloping Arthur in a hug before he had a chance to react.

“Hi.” He said, patting her back awkwardly. Dom gave him a nod, and hitched Chinatsu higher in his grip.

“Where’s Eames?” Ariadne asked. “Did you find him?”

“Yeah.” Arthur said. “He’s back that way. Broke his leg.” Already, he was walking back the way he had come. The prints he had left seemed unusually shallow, disappearing with a speed Arthur did not like.

He pressed on, Ariadne trotting at his side and Dom just behind. Twice Arthur stopped, convinced they had been walking too long - panicked that they had not yet found Eames. He took to watching his feet, forcing one foot in front of the other. Dom and Ariadne had acquired coats and gloves from somewhere - most likely Chinatsu’s house - but Arthur could feel the cold stealing into his bones; he could barely feel his feet anymore.

“Arthur.” Ariadne grabbed his arm, pointing. The house Arthur expected to see was not there. Instead, crumpled on the snow and far too still, was Eames.

Arthur was running before he realised. The cold seemed ephemeral; forgotten in the sheer terror that raced through him. He outpaced Ariadne, falling to his knees beside Eames. With some difficulty he dragged Eames into his embrace. The forger was dead weight, his lips blue-tinged and breathing too shallow.

“Shit.” Arthur said. Ariadne was already shedding her coat as she reached them. Arthur tucked what he could of it around Eames, chafing the other man’s hands between his own. He gave a light tap to Eames’ cheek, shaking him gently. Eames remained unconscious.

“We have less than an hour until the kick.” Dom told him. Arthur looked up, surprised. He must have lost more time than he thought, wandering in the dark before he found Eames.

“How long precisely?” Arthur demanded.

“Forty minutes.”

Arthur tucked himself more tightly around Eames, trying to warm as much of him as possible. Dom woke Chinatsu, shedding his coat and adding it to the pile, as the little girl watched silently. She did not talk. When either Dom or Ariadne spoke to her she would nod or shake her head but those were the extent of her answers. Arthur paid her no mind. Peripherally, he was aware that her behaviour was abnormal, but most of his attention was focused on Eames.

“He’ll be alright.” Ariadne murmured. Arthur nodded. He was suddenly very glad that Eames had dropped the forgery before Dom and Ariadne had seen. That house was Eames - him and Eames; it was too personal for anyone else to see.

“Come on.” He whispered. “Wake up. Don’t die.” Eames’ breath was rattling in his chest. Arthur rubbed his hand in circles of Eames’ heart, trying to generate some warmth, but it was little help.

“Soon.” Ariadne told him. “Soon.”

The words brought another thought tearing to the front of Arthur’s mind. “We can’t change the architecture.” He said. “How are we supposed to drop with the kick?”

Ariadne chewed her lip and reached into the pocket of the coat she had been wearing. She withdrew a kitchen knife: short, but with a sharp blade. Her gaze flicked, instinctively, towards Chinatsu. Arthur felt something cinch in his chest.

“Dom said he’d do it for her.” Ariadne whispered. “Then I’ll do it for him. We have to move quickly. We have just over two minutes to get everyone awake.” She leant in close to speak. Arthur wondered whether they had tried to explain the concept to Chinatsu. “You’ll have to kill me and then Eames. We’ll lose too much time if you have to scrabble for the knife after I’ve died. Better that you’re already holding it.”

“And then myself.” Arthur said. Ariadne looked vaguely apologetic.

“Cobb said you’d had the training. I don’t know - if I didn’t die in time, I’d miss the kick.”

Arthur nodded. “I understand.”

“Arthur -”

“It’s fine.” His hand was idly stroking through Eames hair. Icicles were beginning to form at the ends. They cracked beneath Arthur’s fingers.

The first strains of music drifted on the wind.

“It’s time.”

Dom reached for the knife in Ariadne’s hand and Chinatsu went wild. It was only Ariadne’s quick reflexes that caught her as she tried to run. She struggled, mouth open in a soundless cry, eyes fixed on the blade. Dom looked ill. Ariadne fought to hold her still. With one hand he covered Chinatsu’s eyes; the other slashed the knife through Chinatsu’s throat. The girl dropped. Already Ariadne was moving, snatching the knife from Dom’s grasp and driving it through his eye. Dom fell beside Chinatsu, the snow sinking to vermillion.

Arthur could hear the swell of violins and the warbling rise of Paith’s voice. Ariadne knelt beside him and moments later she was dead. Arthur looked away from her sightless eyes. On instinct, he pressed a kiss to Eames forehead as he dragged the knife across his throat. Blood sprayed in a steaming arc. The handle of the knife was tacky, difficult to grip. Arthur was forced to waste precious moments wiping it clean until he could be assured it would not slip from his hand. The song reached its final crescendo as the blade bit into Arthur’s skin. The wind fell silent as Arthur’s world sank into darkness.

Part 2