FIC: High Hopes 3/7 || Arthur/Eames || NC-17
Word Count for this part: ~7,400
Warning for this part: Violence
MASTER POST
*
III: Purgatory
The dream seemed structurally sound, a perfect copy of a particular high school, but something was wrong, Arthur could feel it. It took some effort not to keep looking over his shoulder, the feeling of being watched a constant itch between his shoulder blades. He rounded a corner and almost ran into -- Eames, his brain supplied, for all that the slim brunette looked nothing at all like him.
"Um, hi," Arthur said, then frowned. "Aren't you supposed to be working the mark?" He asked, moving off to the side where they could talk without being in the way of the projections of students loitering in the hallway.
"Sure," Eames said, leaning against the wall and looking at Arthur with a flirty smile. Arthur's heart gave a painful thud; stupid heart, he thought, reminding himself that it was just an act on Eames' part so as not to make the projections suspicious. "But there isn't really much more I can do in this form. Cobb's keeping the mark occupied."
"Right," Arthur said, trying to mimic Eames' easy pose. Just a couple of high school students having a chat -- nothing to see here. "Well, I checked the maintenance room and the supply closet, and there was nothing there. Are you sure you got him to think about the right subject?"
"Give me some credit," Eames said, idly examining the nails of his forgery. They were painted with glittery blue nail polish, flaking at the tips like they'd been picked at. "She matches the victim profile perfectly."
"Blue nails and all?" Arthur couldn't help but asking, earning himself a raised eyebrow and a flick to the chest with said fingernails.
"He doesn't care about her nails," Eames said.
"No, I guess not," Arthur said, looking away. He barely suppressed a flinch when he caught a couple of projections staring at him. "Are the projections getting suspicious, do you think?"
Eames frowned a little, glancing in the same direction, but by then the projections were back to minding their own business.
"Not particularly, no," he said, then looked back at Arthur with narrowed eyes. "Why? Have you noticed something?"
"I don't know," Arthur said with a shrug, feeling awkward. "It's just a feeling I have, like there are eyes at my back. It's stupid."
He expected Eames to brush it off, but instead he regarded Arthur with solemn eyes for a moment, then shook his head minutely.
"Things being seemingly normal is no reason to ignore your instincts. Especially not when it comes to dreams."
"So what are you saying?" Arthur asked, stuffing his hands into his pockets and hunching his shoulders a little.
"You're surrounded by the subconscious of an alleged serial killer, Arthur, that's reason enough to be on your toes," Eames said, glancing at the projections again while scratching at his jaw in a startlingly familiar gesture that didn't exactly suit the high school girl he was pretending to be. "Besides which," he said, looking at Arthur again, "you fit the profile of the victims rather alarmingly well."
"Not this again," Arthur said, not wanting to rehash the argument that had come up repeatedly during the last couple of days as they'd gotten closer and closer to executing the job. "Eames --"
"All I'm saying, darling," Eames said with a bit of a bite, "is that if you're feeling creeped out, there might be a reason for it."
Arthur swallowed, not saying anything. Eames sighed, then surveyed the hallway again.
"Well, if the info wasn't where we assumed it most likely to be, we better start checking other options."
"Like where," Arthur said, relieved to change the topic. Some hostility between them was perhaps inevitable, but it didn't mean Arthur enjoyed it. "The lockers? There are hundreds of them!"
"So we best get started," Eames said, looking irritatingly unconcerned as he pushed away from the wall.
"Whose bright idea was it to pick a high school as the dream proper, anyway?" Arthur complained as he followed.
"Mine," Eames said easily. "But consider this: two of the lockers are more likely to contain what we're looking for. Our odds aren't all that bad."
"The victims," Arthur said, catching up quickly. Then he had a thought; "The boy from another state was taken from his high school as well -- maybe we'll get lucky with his locker number even though this isn't really his school?"
"That's the spirit," Eames said. "Now hurry up, love, time's a waistin'."
Arthur's mind only stuttered over the endearment a little, but he still felt pathetically grateful it hadn't been said in Eames' own voice.
-
More students poured out into the halls from their classes as Arthur and Eames reached the first of the three lockers. The projections were acting peacefully enough for now, but they still made Arthur feel nervous; he squared his shoulders, trying to focus on the job. Since the number combination had been included in the info provided by the feds, opening the locker took no time at all. Eames went quickly through the contents while Arthur kept an eye on the projections. Was it just his imagination or were they starting to get restless?
"It's like they know this locker doesn't belong to either of us," he said, voicing the thought.
"Huh?" Eames looked briefly up and over his shoulder. "Well, I suppose it's possible."
"You don't sound too concerned," Arthur said, shifting his weight on his feet.
"Won't change a thing," Eames said, sounding preoccupied, "Whether or not I'm concerned. Though I would of course prefer to get the job done and avoid being dismembered in the process."
Arthur glowered at his feet. He was contemplating the differences between the shoes he was wearing in the dream versus the ones he was wearing in reality, when Eames suddenly stilled next to him.
"What is it?" Arthur asked, looking up. "Did you find something?"
"Nothing very helpful, I'm afraid," Eames said, sounding odd. His movements were stilted as he showed Arthur what looked like a yearbook, except the page being displayed didn't seem like a part of it. There were six pictures on the page. The first five were black and white close-ups of sleeping -- or dead; Arthur felt ill at the thought -- teenagers, with their names spelled out beneath each picture; Patrick, Emilia, Carlos, Ray, Michelle. They all had dark hair and similar features. That was enough to give Arthur a pause: there were only three known victims in the case they were trying to find evidence for.
"So," Arthur said, striving to sound professional. He didn't quite succeed. "I guess that's two more victims we didn't know about."
"That's really the least of our concerns right now," Eames said, looking down at the sixth picture with an unreadable expression. Arthur forced himself to take another look at it, a chill running down his spine as his own, unsmiling face stared back at him from the page.
-
"It'd be way more time-efficient if you took one of the lockers and I took the other," Arthur said, discreetly trying to extract himself from Eames' hold, the blue fingernails digging into his arm.
"Did you happen to not notice that this psycho most definitely is a serial killer --"
"They might still be alive, I mean, they haven't found the bodies yet," Arthur tried, but it was weak and they both knew it.
"Please," Eames scoffed, turning a corner into another hallway and marching to the second locker on their list. "And now his subconscious seems to have fixated on you, which is just perfect. You know, Arthur, I wish someone would've noticed the similarities between you and the known victims and pointed out what an awful idea it was to bring you anywhere near this guy-- oh, wait."
"Oh, of course," Arthur bit out, finally wrenching his arm free when they came to a stop in front of the locker, ignoring the glare Eames sent his way. "If only everyone would do exactly what you want them to do -- because you always know best, right?"
"I was right about this, weren't I?" Eames said, yanking the locker open with more force than strictly necessary. Arthur opened his mouth, a scathing reply on the tip of his tongue, when someone slammed against his shoulder from behind, sending him stumbling into Eames.
"Fuck, sorry," Arthur said on automatic as he straightened, looking at the retreating back of the projection. There weren't enough people in the hallway to justify thinking the contact had been an accident; now that he looked around, he could see the projections were definitely paying more attention to them than before. He startled when he felt a touch against his cheek, turning to find Eames closer than expected.
"Here," Eames said, and kissed him. The forgery was an almost even height with Arthur and nothing at all like Eames' true form, but she kissed like Eames kissed, and Arthur had closed his eyes before he could think twice about it. The kiss was soft, bordering on chaste, and over almost before it began.
"What --" Arthur said when their lips parted, keeping his eyes closed for a moment longer, half-afraid of what they might reveal. When he did open them, Eames was appraising the projections, looking mildly disappointed.
"Oh well," Eames said, throwing Arthur a bland smile as he turned back to the victim's locker. "It was worth a shot."
Arthur blinked, looked at the projections, then back at Eames. He took a step back, then another. Eames didn't notice, muttering to himself about the shit teens saw fit to keep in their lockers. Arthur brushed a hand against his thigh, vaguely aware that his fingers were trembling. Eames was... such a jerk. Such a --
He spun around and made his way down the hall, barely suppressing the urge to run.
"Hey," Eames suddenly called out after him. "Hey, Arthur!"
"I'll check the last one on my own," Arthur shouted back at him, quickening his pace. A projection nearly body checked him against the lockers, and he didn't even care. Fuck Eames anyway.
-
It had been two weeks since that night in the alley, two weeks since Eames had shown up. There hadn't been much time to dwell on either during the preparations for the job, for which Arthur was grateful. Keeping his mind occupied had made dealing -- or not dealing, as the case might be -- that much easier. He'd tried to keep his interactions with Eames to a minimum, something he knew would've caught Dom and Mal's attention, but he figured he'd deal with that if they decided to approach him about it.
Keeping Eames at an arm's length had turned out to be more easily said than done. It wasn't that Eames had been purposefully trying to be a nuisance; despite being more short tempered than usual, he'd actually made an effort to respect Arthur's obvious need for space, which should have made it easier for Arthur to ignore him but somehow hadn't. Arthur's awareness of him had made it seem like he took up more space than people normally did, simultaneously making the place they worked in -- an old shop with its windows boarded shut, because Eames, at the very least, had refused to set foot in a federal building before the actual job -- seem smaller. The fact that Arthur had been having trouble sleeping had only added to the stress of having Eames around; if he had dreams, he didn't remember them, but he kept waking up feeling shaky and chilled, unable to fall back to sleep.
On top of everything, Dom had had some obvious concerns about having Arthur on the job, and had made aborted gestures to side with Eames when the topic of Arthur not going under with them had come up. Arthur had refused to back down, feeling like his abilities were being questioned and hating it. To be fair, Dom hadn't outright doubted Arthur's skills. He did, however, have a habit of acting like he thought himself some sort of pseudo-paternal figure in Arthur's life, which Arthur supposed might have been sweet, in theory, but was really just irritating, not to mention completely misguided.
It was this damned job, Arthur thought as he took one of Dom's shortcuts to the second floor. He checked to make sure there weren't projections around on either side before climbing through a rigged window in one of the first floor bathrooms, dropping silently into a matching one on the second floor. It was unlikely that Eames would stop searching the second locker in order to start after Arthur -- no matter what else Arthur might think, he knew Eames was a professional first and foremost -- so Arthur had a good head start on him. He would reach the locker long before Eames would catch up with him. He'd be quick; one of them had to find something of value, and soon. He wanted this job to be done (he wanted Eames to be gone).
Knowing they were running out of time, Arthur pushed his way through the rowdy projections in the hall and quickly found the locker he was looking for. They were in luck: the other school's combination worked like a charm, and Arthur made short work of opening the locker. He got jostled a couple of times as he went through its contents, but it wasn't anywhere near bad enough yet to make him consider aborting the job. Not that he would've, anyway; he'd rather get torn into pieces than fail because he gave up too soon. He pushed a useless biology textbook back into its place, pressing his lips together in a grim line. It was starting to look like he'd fail whether he gave up or not; there was nothing in there they could use, no maps or coordinates or photographs or letters, just regular textbooks and pens and random papers that had nothing to do with the missing teenagers or the mark.
The more frustrated he got, the more abrupt his movements became, until he knocked some of the papers off to the floor by accident. Gritting his teeth, he knelt down to gather them up. He paused, blinking, when his hand came to contact with them. Puzzled, he ran a finger through the dirt on top of the papers and brought his hand up, rubbing his fingertips together. Curious, that.
It was then that he became aware of how quiet it had become. Slowly, he looked up, half-expecting the projections to have gathered around him, a silent, menacing wall of people -- but it was worse; the projections were gone like a mirage, like they'd never been there at all. Without them the hallway was empty and void of sound. Empty, except for him, him and --
Arthur scrambled up to his feet, leaving the papers scattered on the floor, his back colliding with the wall of lockers. He straightened, trying to regain his composure. His heart was beating too fast, but he tried his best to smile.
"Hey," he said, trying to sound non-threatening. Friendly. "You're Shelly, right?"
Shelly, short for Michelle. The nickname hadn't been in the file, but that's all Arthur could think of when he looked at her. She tilted her head at him, standing barely three feet away from him, the long, messy waves of her hair half-obscuring her face.
"You don't belong here," she said, and was suddenly closer, close enough that their noses almost touched and Arthur could see her pale face and sunken eyes with far too much detail. He instinctively pressed himself further against the lockers, trying to put space between them. Then she was back to where he'd first seen her. "I don't belong here," she said, and was gone.
Down the hall, a door to a classroom swung open, slowly and without a sound. Arthur stared at it, telling himself it was foolish to even consider walking through that door, but at the same time -- the lockers were a bust, and he was running out of both ideas and time. The regular projections, even if they hadn't vanished into thin air -- leaving behind a void like something hollow that you'd once thought to be alive -- would've likely known nothing useful. Shelly was one of the victims, though, and had potential for far greater knowledge. If there was any chance Arthur could get her to talk, if this was the last chance to get solid information that could put away a serial killer, how could he not at least try?
Taking a deep breath, Arthur pushed himself away from the lockers and crossed the hallway, his eyes fixed on the open door.
-
He stepped through the door, cautious, and nothing happened. It was almost anticlimactic. He moved further into the room, smoothing his palms over his thighs, still waiting for the other shoe to drop. The room was dimly lit, the shutters closed on the windows, and there were no chairs, no desks, nothing but an empty stretch of floor and there, curled up in a corner, Shelly.
She was rocking back and forth, silent. Her face was half-hidden, but Arthur could make out a glimpse of her eyes -- she was staring at him, unblinking. Arthur took a few hesitant steps toward her, but he didn't get further than that. He felt so cold all of a sudden, so cold he couldn't move, and there was a boy standing between him and Shelly. It was Patrick, the first victim; his friends had called him Trick.
"She doesn't want to talk to you," he said, tilting his head at Arthur. He was suddenly closer, the same way Shelly had been in the hallway, there and then here, all in a blink of an eye. He had hollow eyes, hollow cheeks, and Arthur couldn't move, couldn't do anything but stand there, frozen, as Patrick raised a skinny hand to his face, tracing his cheekbones with spidery fingers.
"You should call me Trick," he said, touching his fingertips against Arthur's mouth, thoughtful. "You're one of us," he said, his fingers digging in a little, pressing against the flesh of Arthur's lips, the hard surface of his teeth. "You belong with us."
Arthur wanted to tell him, no, wanted to step away, raise the gun he only carried in dreams, anything -- but he felt like he wasn't breathing, like his body wasn't real. Like he was nothing but a projection, a thing, a memory --
Patrick's body jerked, a splatter of blood hitting the side of Arthur's face. Arthur watched, numb, as Patrick crumbled to the floor, and found out he could breath again, and move. He blinked and looked up, feeling slow and out of sorts, and found Eames striding toward him, gun in hand.
"There's something," Arthur said, and only then noticed how hard he was breathing. "I can't --"
"Arthur," Eames said, taking hold of Arthur's arm and drawing him none too gently away from Patrick's body. "What the bloody hell just happened?"
Arthur took his arm back roughly. Instead of feeling grateful, he felt -- almost angry that Eames had shot Trick, which he recognized was insane.
"I don't know," he snapped, spooked. "Something's definitely wrong with the dream, and the -- the projections, they're --"
"Affecting you," Eames said, frowning. He looked at Shelly; she was still staring at Arthur. "He's affecting you."
"The mark? But he's not even here," Arthur said before he could think better of it. Eames shot him a look that bordered on pitying, and Arthur clenched his hands into fists.
"He's everywhere," Eames told him. "These are manifestations of his subconscious, Arthur, and they want to keep you."
"That's not," Arthur began to say, then cut himself off with a frustrated sound. "Why would they affect me like this, like I'm not even -- I've never encountered anything like this before."
"Says the kid who's been doing this for all of a year?" Eames scoffed, looking back to Shelly, his trigger finger twitching. "And this would be your, what, third actual job?"
"Please," Arthur said, barely keeping from throwing a punch at Eames, the condescending shit. "Don't even try to tell me this is a regular occurrence."
"No, you're right about that, this is quite bizarre. Well, stranger things, I suppose," Eames mused. Then he rolled his shoulders and his whole countenance changed. He gave Arthur a lopsided grin and said, "Remind me to never again take a job in a psychopath's head, yeah? The advertisement promised more fun than this."
"Let's just get this over with," Arthur said, kicking at a scuff mark on the floor. "You should probably hold off shooting her until you've talked to her," he said, nodding toward Shelly, knowing that Eames would have a better chance at getting her to open up. "Unless you found a map or something, I think they're the only ones who have the info we came here for."
"Oh, joy," Eames muttered, then looked back at Arthur with a look in his eyes Arthur didn't much care for. "I think you should probably wait this out topside."
"And I think you should mind your own business," Arthur said, feeling raw inside.
"I'm just saying, the way you're reacting to them --"
"I can handle it," Arthur snapped. "I'm not a liability," he added, though at this point, he honestly couldn't be certain that was true. And maybe it was another strike against him that he was incapable of admitting it, especially to Eames, but risky or not, right now he'd rather take his chances.
Eames looked skeptical, but eventually shrugged and muttered something that could have been a 'suit yourself' before making his way to Shelly. Arthur could hear a low murmur of hello, sweetheart, but couldn't make out the rest of it. Feeling useless, he needlessly checked his gun, then moved to the side, hoping that being out of her direct eyesight would make Shelly focus on Eames instead of him. When he glanced back, Eames had shifted into Shelly's mother, and she was crying and shaking her head, alternately clinging to Eames and trying to claw at his face. The projections didn't usually take note of Eames changing in front of them, but there was something about Shelly that made Arthur wish Eames could have been more careful. Not that they had much choice under the circumstances. He looked away --
-- and found himself face to face with another one of the mark's victims. He took a startled, shaky step back, a chill going through his body, and the girl -- Emilia, he thought, unbidden; seventeen -- tilted her head at him, a mirror image of Trick, earlier. She looked at Trick's body on the floor, then back at Arthur, unblinking, accusing.
"We don't belong here anymore," she said. "Why have you brought us back?"
Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steady himself. He felt like he was breathing in icy water without drowning, or maybe he'd already drowned and didn't know it yet. "Where do you belong, then?" He asked, pushing through the ice in his lungs, and forced himself to meet her eyes. "Can you tell me?"
She leaned in close, close enough to touch, to kiss, and smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. Cold hands slid around Arthur from behind, another victim (projection) he hadn't seen coming. Maybe Eames had been right, Arthur thought on a shuddering exhale, and then, fiercely, like hell he was.
He gasped for breath when another boy -- Carlos -- stepped up beside him and slid a hand up his throat. The one behind him had to be Ray, then. All accounted for, he thought, a bubble of hysteria getting stuck in his throat. He shook his head, trying to focus, his cheek brushing against Emilia's cold one.
"Please," he tried again, "Please, can you tell me?"
"We'll show you," she said, pressing close against him, the three of them bracketing him in.
"He should pay for what happened to Trick," Carlos said, his voice sweet, his nails pressing against Arthur's throat.
"He will," Emilia said.
"He will," Ray said.
"You'll take his place," Carlos said, with an air of finality, "And we'll be a family."
"Yes," Emilia hissed.
"Yes," Ray said, his non-breath freezing against Arthur's ear.
"Here," Emilia said, "look."
And there was a house, and a room, and a bed; and there was Trick, alone, and there was Emilia, alone, and there was Carlos, alone, and there was Ray, alone, and there was Shelly, alone, and now there was Arthur, and he was alone; days and days on end, alone, with nothing to do and no one to talk to, with no idea where he was or why. He'd never get out, never see his family or friends again; he would die here, in this room, alone and afraid and hungry, weak and filled with impotent anger. The chain around his ankle had chafed against skin and bone, his fingers were bleeding from clawing at it, at the walls, and his eyes were stinging from the dim light coming through the grimy windows. He was going to die here, no one would come; he'd screamed and shouted and begged, and no one had heard.
No one but him. The man. He never spoke, just looked, sitting on the other side of the room where Arthur couldn't reach.
Near the end, when Arthur was too weak to move, the man came and sat next to him on the bed, carding his fingers through Arthur's hair, touching his face. One day, the man closed his hand around Arthur's throat, and didn't let go.
When the night came, he lifted Arthur's body in his arms and carried him outside, where the stars stood out bright against the clear, dark sky, and drove out into the desert where he laid Arthur's body in the ground, next to Trick and Emilia and Carlos and Ray, and covered him with dirt.
Arthur opened his eyes, gasping like he'd been held underwater. His flailing hands were caught in icy ones, and he wasn't dead or alone; he was on the floor of an empty classroom, with Emilia, Ray and Carlos kneeling on the floor around him, looking up at -- the mark, Arthur realized, his heart skipping a beat.
"We thought you would like him," Ray said.
"He belongs with us," Emilia said.
"We're a family," Carlos said.
"No," the mark snarled, his eyes flashing. "Let him go."
"We want him," Ray said, unblinking.
"We want him," Emilia said, baring her teeth.
"We want him," Carlos said, his fingers digging into Arthur's skin.
And then Shelly was there; she jumped on the mark's back with a yell. She cried out, "No, it tried to trick us, full of empty promises delivered with bullets! A hollow man with many faces!"
Arthur, his mind muddled and slow, had no time to figure it out before Emilia, Ray and Carlos were rising up in unison, leaping at the mark -- only it wasn't the mark; it was Eames. The projections were quick and brutal, managing to use Shelly's distraction and their numbers to bear Eames to the ground, hitting, kicking, screaming, like a pack of wild dogs tearing into a prey.
Arthur gritted his teeth and rolled over, pushing himself up until he was kneeling. He pulled out his gun and took aim, feeling sick as he shot Emilia in the back and took Ray out with a headshot. Carlos abandoned Eames with a shout of dismay and leaped at Arthur, jerking in mid-air and crumbling to the ground to reveal Eames laying on his side on the floor with his arm outstretched, a gun in his hand.
Their victory was short-lived as neither of them could react in time to stop Shelly from dropping to her knees behind Eames and stabbing him in the back once, twice in quick succession. Eames' gun clattered to the floor, a surprised, pained exhale driving the breath out of him. Shelly stabbed him again even as Arthur pulled the trigger. The shot hit her in the shoulder, and she fell back with a wounded noise; Arthur was on his feet in the next instant. He crossed the floor and dropped to his knees next to Eames, who'd rolled onto his back and was blinking at the ceiling, his breath rattling in his lungs, blood staining his lips. Arthur dropped his gun, his hands fluttering uselessly over Eames' chest. Eames was laying in a pool of blood that got larger with every breath he took, creeping toward Arthur's knees and soon soaking them. Arthur clenched his hands into fists.
"Shit," he whispered.
"Not," Eames croaked, pausing to inhale; he sounded horrible. "Quite. According to plan."
More blood splattered on his lips and on his chin as his exhale turned into a cough, his body straining in its attempts to suck in oxygen. Arthur took a sharp breath and clenched his jaw. He picked up his gun and pulled the trigger before he could second-guess himself, then stared at Eames' still form for a moment, the mess his head had become, feeling like he was about to throw up. He kept his eyes averted when he pushed himself up and took stock of himself and his surroundings. He was covered in blood, his jeans soaked in it, and surrounded by bodies. He wiped his face with his free hand, probably just further smearing the blood there. It hardly mattered. None of it mattered.
The dream trembled around him, beginning to collapse. Eames hadn't been the dreamer, Dom had, which meant he was dead as well. Arthur noted this with a curious detachment. He staggered to where Shelly had dragged herself to lean against a wall, bleeding but not dead, her eyes fixed on Arthur. She was still gripping the knife she'd stabbed Eames with, but she made no attempt to attack Arthur as he crouched down next to her.
"Will you stay?" She whispered to him.
"I can't," he said. He wasn't sure why he was still there, why he hadn't followed Eames right out of the dream. There was something about Shelly he couldn't quite put his finger on, something important.
"Are you sure?" She wanted to know, closing her eyes as she leaned her head against the wall in defeat. "I'm so lonely."
Arthur's breath caught in his throat as the pieces clicked together in his head. Slowly, he raised a hand and gently touched her cheek.
"Shelly," he said. It wasn't really her, but even so, Arthur couldn't help but smile at her a little. "Thank you."
She looked at him, her expression smoothing out into a blank mask. Her sunken eyes were nearly swallowed by black as she watched him raise his gun.
He pressed the muzzle of the gun under his chin at an angle and blew his brains out.
-
The job was finally over. It had taken two days, multiple maps and a bit of a road trip to translate the vision he'd been shown in the dream into reality, but Arthur had found the house, and the burial site; even more importantly, he'd found Shelly, and she'd been alive. Overall the job was just one more thing that cluttered his mind with unwanted memories, just one more thing to suppress and compartmentalize -- but at least there was this one thing he could focus on, and believe it was all worth it.
Arthur took a sip of whiskey, curled up in an overstuffed armchair in the boarded up shop they'd used as a base while preparing for the job -- the lease wouldn't run out until next week. Dom and Mal thought he was out, letting loose, and in a way he was. He just didn't want to deal with people right then; it had been a rough few weeks.
The narrow steps leading upstairs groaned under someone's weight, and Arthur sat up, startled. He knew Eames had been sleeping up there, but he'd thought he'd already left. Stupid; he should've known better than to make assumptions.
Eames took the last few steps down, pausing as he caught sight of Arthur.
"Well, hello," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Didn't know you were here -- make some noise next time, yeah?"
"You're leaving then?" Arthur asked, looking at the duffel bag hanging from Eames' shoulder. It was a dull sort of hurt he felt at the thought, a residual ache dating back months. This time, he hadn't expected anything else; he doubted he ever would again. This time, Eames leaving had been something he'd hoped for. Except now that his wish was about to come true, he resented Eames for being so predictable (so disappointing).
"World waits for no man," Eames said, shifting the strap of his duffel higher up on his shoulder. His eyes fell to the glass in Arthur's hand. "Aren't you a little young for that?"
Arthur snorted into his glass before knocking back what was left in it. "Who're you gonna call, Dom?" He asked, reaching for the bottle again.
"Arthur," Eames said, his voice quiet.
"What?" Arthur said, pouring himself another glass. "I can't imagine you never drank before you turned twenty-one, or whatever the legal age is in the UK."
"That's different," Eames said, and Arthur paused in bringing the glass to his lips.
"That," he said, pointing at Eames with the glass, some of the liquid sloshing over the edge, "is a bullshit argument, and I'm dismissing it based on, on," he set the glass on the table with a hard sound of glass on wood. His fingers were wet and sticky. "Look at what you made me do, that's, that's dozens of drops of perfectly good whiskey, wasted."
"If anything's wasted here, darling, it's you," Eames said, dropping his duffel on the ground and making his way to the table.
"Hey!" Arthur said, then frowned and thought it over. "Huh."
Eames looked amused as he picked up the bottle to examine it. The movement caught Arthur's attention, and he failed not to stare at Eames' hands (Eames' wide, capable, wonderful hands).
"You can't take that," Arthur said, irritated when he realized what he'd been thinking. "You can have a glass if you want, but you can't take it away. It's not yours."
"Where did you even get this?" Eames asked, frowning at the label. "This is the good stuff."
Arthur picked up his sticky glass and buried his nose in it. There was a pause, and then Eames said, amusement rounding the edges of his voice, "I take it that strictly speaking this isn't yours, either. Maybe I should call Cobb after all, hmm?"
"Oh, shut up," Arthur muttered into his glass, and Eames laughed like he couldn't help it.
Arthur shivered at the sound of it, and drank deeply from his glass to cover it up. So of course he ended up swallowing the wrong way, sending himself into a coughing fit. God, but he hated embarrassing himself in front of Eames.
"Arthur, hey," Eames said, suddenly right next to him. He placed a hand on Arthur's back, a warm, heavy weight, which only caused Arthur's breathing to tangle itself again. He coughed, pressing his fingers against his mouth, and closed his eyes, concentrating on getting his breathing under control.
"I'm afraid I can't in good conscience leave the whiskey with you," Eames said, moving his hand in slow circles against Arthur's back. "You're a menace to yourself."
"...Cruel," Arthur managed, his breath only wheezing a little.
"I'm only thinking of what's best for you," Eames said, his hand settling on Arthur's shoulder.
"Yeah, right," Arthur said through his fingers. "You just want the whiskey."
"There is that," Eames conceded, and Arthur looked up, unable to help himself. The corners of Eames' eyes were crinkled with amusement that slowly melted away as their eyes caught and held. Arthur could smell the whiskey on his fingers, and without thinking too much about it, he parted his lips and ran his tongue over them, chasing the taste. Eames' hand twitched against his shoulder, and Arthur could see him swallow. Maintaining eye contact, he slowly pushed a finger into his mouth and then dragged it out, his lips pursed around it. He felt a dark sort of thrill at getting a response from Eames, at seeing his pupils dilate and feeling his fingers dig into his shoulder.
"Arthur," Eames said, his voice strained, but Arthur wasn't interested in anything he might say. He stood up and moved close to Eames, who'd fallen silent on whatever protest he'd been about to make and had moved his hand from Arthur's shoulder to his side, and brought his whiskey-and-saliva covered fingers to Eames' lips.
"Hey," Arthur said, his voice low. He stretched up a little to press his lips against the side of Eames' mouth and his own fingers. "Wanna taste?"
Eames took hold of Arthur's wrist, forcing his hand back -- but he didn't push Arthur away. He released Arthur's wrist, and his hands came to rest on Arthur's back, rucking up his shirt and drawing him in until their hips were in contact. Eames was hard, Arthur could feel it. Arthur was too, but that was less important right now. This was, Arthur recognized, his last chance at having his way with Eames, and he didn't even consider turning it down. One last fuck, Arthur thought, pressing his face against Eames' cheek and inhaling. One last hello, and goodbye.
"Arthur," Eames said, his voice tight.
"Eames," Arthur said, resting his hands on Eames' chest and -- pushed, until Eames' back hit the wall. He slid his hands down and unbuckled Eames' belt, worked his fly open, his fingers quick and deft at their task. Eames didn't make a single move to stop him, not until Arthur dropped to his knees.
"Are you --" Eames paused, the touch of his hand in Arthur's tousled hair oddly gentle. "Arthur, are you sure?"
Instead of answering, Arthur freed Eames' cock from his underwear and weighed it in his hand for a moment, his eyes half lidded. He glanced up at Eames when he leaned in, licking a wet stripe up the underside and swirling his tongue over the tip before opening his mouth wider and letting the head slide in. He moaned a little, and Eames' inhaled sharply, his hand briefly tightening in Arthur's hair. Arthur wrapped a hand around the base and closed his eyes as he sucked Eames further in. He made it wet and dirty, almost sloppy at times, until Eames was breathing hard, struggling not to thrust forward and give Arthur more than he could handle.
Arthur pulled back, letting Eames slip out with a wet pop. He looked at the length in his hand, the pre-come already gathering at the tip, and ran his tongue idly over his swollen lips.
"I can," Eames said, and Arthur looked up. "You don't have to --"
Arthur felt his lips pull up in a smirk, and Eames fell silent.
"You think I want to stop now?" Arthur asked, ghosting his mouth over Eames' cock, flicking his tongue out to catch a bead of pre-come, feeling reckless and filthy. "You'd be surprised," he breathed, and took Eames in until the head hit the back of his throat, until his nose was buried in the coarse hair at the base, and above him, Eames was cursing, breathless. He swallowed and drew back until just the tip rested in his mouth, then pulled completely away.
"Fuck, don't stop-- Arthur --" Eames said, his hand clenching in Arthur's hair before he got a hold of himself and regained his control. That wouldn't do; Arthur wanted Eames to lose control, to really want it (want him).
"You can fuck my mouth," he told Eames, his voice coming out more breathless and raw than he'd intended. "I can take it."
Eames licked his lips, his expression conflicted until Arthur said, "Please, Eames," and then he nodded.
"Okay," he said, his voice wrecked. "Okay." He brushed his thumb against the corner of Arthur's mouth, against his cheekbone, before gripping a fistful of hair in both hands, the sting of it sending spikes of arousal down Arthur's spine. Eames' eyes got darker like he knew; he held Arthur's head still as he pushed his cock back into Arthur's pliant mouth.
It wasn't quite enough, at first, he didn't give Arthur enough. Arthur moaned, his fingertips pressing against the warmth of Eames' hips; he was gagging for it, beyond caring of how desperate he seemed. Eames groaned and stopped holding back, beginning to fuck Arthur's mouth in earnest, his hips snapping forward with an almost brutal force, leaving Arthur no choice but to take it -- and Arthur wanted it, wanted it. His jaw was aching, his throat and lips felt bruised, and his chin was wet and sticky with saliva and Eames' pre-come. He was so hard it was painful, but he had no coordination or brain capacity left to do anything but cling to Eames and let himself be used.
Eames came with his cock buried in Arthur's throat, the press of his fingertips against the back of Arthur's skull hard and unforgiving, and it was perfect. Arthur choked, just a little, when Eames tugged at his hair as he drew back, another burst of come hitting Arthur's tongue and the back of his throat before Eames pulled out completely. Arthur swallowed, pressing his face against Eames' hip as he dropped his hands to tug at his zipper of his jeans, desperate to come. He was panting, his mouth hanging open, bereft without the weight of Eames' cock there, and he was smearing Eames' skin with the fluids dripping down his chin -- and he didn't care, he didn't care. He'd barely touched himself and he was already coming, letting out a keening cry and gasping as he spilled over his hand. He choked, feeling himself beginning to tear up, the reaction unexpected and incomprehensible; he squeezed his eyes shut against the tears threatening to spill.
When he felt less like he was about to fall apart right then and there, Arthur drew back a little and brought a shaky hand to his mouth, wiping his chin with the back of it. He then wiped his hands on his jeans and zipped himself back up, forcing himself to stand up despite feeling like his legs might not support his weight. He didn't look at Eames as he staggered to the table and drained his glass of whiskey in one go. Behind him, he could hear Eames putting himself to rights, the sound of him buckling his belt loud in the quiet of the room.
"Where are you off to, then?" Arthur asked, not sure why he wanted to know. He had no intention of ever seeing Eames again.
"Haven't decided yet," Eames said, his voice subdued.
"Well," Arthur said, not turning around. "Goodbye, Mr. Eames."
For a moment, Arthur couldn't hear anything; then Eames moved again. Arthur tensed up when he walked by, but didn't feel relieved when Eames continued past him without pausing. From the corner of his eye, Arthur could see Eames picking up his duffel. Eames lingered in the doorway, his back to Arthur, a hand resting against the door frame.
After a few heartbeats, he patted the frame twice and said,
"Goodbye, Arthur."
Arthur didn't look up to see Eames go, didn't move until he heard the front door fall shut. Then he curled up in his chair and picked up his glass, staring at it like he could will whiskey to appear in it -- Eames had taken the bottle when he'd walked by the table, just like he'd said he would.
"Fucker," Arthur told the empty room, pushing the glass across the table. He hugged his knees to his chest and stared at the peeling wallpaper on the opposite wall, swallowing back stupid, stupid tears, refusing to let them fall.
Grimly, with determination, he began to sort through and fold away his memories of Eames, gathering up his feelings and molding them into a more easily manageable shape; he imagined them to be small enough to fit into the palm of his hand, unable to overwhelm him, and then he put them into a little box, which he put into a bigger box, the one where he kept all the things he didn't want to think about -- things that hurt him or confused him or got in the way.
Eames belonged in the box; there could be no other place for him in Arthur's mind.
***
IV: Bridges
Warning for this part: Violence
MASTER POST
*
III: Purgatory
The dream seemed structurally sound, a perfect copy of a particular high school, but something was wrong, Arthur could feel it. It took some effort not to keep looking over his shoulder, the feeling of being watched a constant itch between his shoulder blades. He rounded a corner and almost ran into -- Eames, his brain supplied, for all that the slim brunette looked nothing at all like him.
"Um, hi," Arthur said, then frowned. "Aren't you supposed to be working the mark?" He asked, moving off to the side where they could talk without being in the way of the projections of students loitering in the hallway.
"Sure," Eames said, leaning against the wall and looking at Arthur with a flirty smile. Arthur's heart gave a painful thud; stupid heart, he thought, reminding himself that it was just an act on Eames' part so as not to make the projections suspicious. "But there isn't really much more I can do in this form. Cobb's keeping the mark occupied."
"Right," Arthur said, trying to mimic Eames' easy pose. Just a couple of high school students having a chat -- nothing to see here. "Well, I checked the maintenance room and the supply closet, and there was nothing there. Are you sure you got him to think about the right subject?"
"Give me some credit," Eames said, idly examining the nails of his forgery. They were painted with glittery blue nail polish, flaking at the tips like they'd been picked at. "She matches the victim profile perfectly."
"Blue nails and all?" Arthur couldn't help but asking, earning himself a raised eyebrow and a flick to the chest with said fingernails.
"He doesn't care about her nails," Eames said.
"No, I guess not," Arthur said, looking away. He barely suppressed a flinch when he caught a couple of projections staring at him. "Are the projections getting suspicious, do you think?"
Eames frowned a little, glancing in the same direction, but by then the projections were back to minding their own business.
"Not particularly, no," he said, then looked back at Arthur with narrowed eyes. "Why? Have you noticed something?"
"I don't know," Arthur said with a shrug, feeling awkward. "It's just a feeling I have, like there are eyes at my back. It's stupid."
He expected Eames to brush it off, but instead he regarded Arthur with solemn eyes for a moment, then shook his head minutely.
"Things being seemingly normal is no reason to ignore your instincts. Especially not when it comes to dreams."
"So what are you saying?" Arthur asked, stuffing his hands into his pockets and hunching his shoulders a little.
"You're surrounded by the subconscious of an alleged serial killer, Arthur, that's reason enough to be on your toes," Eames said, glancing at the projections again while scratching at his jaw in a startlingly familiar gesture that didn't exactly suit the high school girl he was pretending to be. "Besides which," he said, looking at Arthur again, "you fit the profile of the victims rather alarmingly well."
"Not this again," Arthur said, not wanting to rehash the argument that had come up repeatedly during the last couple of days as they'd gotten closer and closer to executing the job. "Eames --"
"All I'm saying, darling," Eames said with a bit of a bite, "is that if you're feeling creeped out, there might be a reason for it."
Arthur swallowed, not saying anything. Eames sighed, then surveyed the hallway again.
"Well, if the info wasn't where we assumed it most likely to be, we better start checking other options."
"Like where," Arthur said, relieved to change the topic. Some hostility between them was perhaps inevitable, but it didn't mean Arthur enjoyed it. "The lockers? There are hundreds of them!"
"So we best get started," Eames said, looking irritatingly unconcerned as he pushed away from the wall.
"Whose bright idea was it to pick a high school as the dream proper, anyway?" Arthur complained as he followed.
"Mine," Eames said easily. "But consider this: two of the lockers are more likely to contain what we're looking for. Our odds aren't all that bad."
"The victims," Arthur said, catching up quickly. Then he had a thought; "The boy from another state was taken from his high school as well -- maybe we'll get lucky with his locker number even though this isn't really his school?"
"That's the spirit," Eames said. "Now hurry up, love, time's a waistin'."
Arthur's mind only stuttered over the endearment a little, but he still felt pathetically grateful it hadn't been said in Eames' own voice.
-
More students poured out into the halls from their classes as Arthur and Eames reached the first of the three lockers. The projections were acting peacefully enough for now, but they still made Arthur feel nervous; he squared his shoulders, trying to focus on the job. Since the number combination had been included in the info provided by the feds, opening the locker took no time at all. Eames went quickly through the contents while Arthur kept an eye on the projections. Was it just his imagination or were they starting to get restless?
"It's like they know this locker doesn't belong to either of us," he said, voicing the thought.
"Huh?" Eames looked briefly up and over his shoulder. "Well, I suppose it's possible."
"You don't sound too concerned," Arthur said, shifting his weight on his feet.
"Won't change a thing," Eames said, sounding preoccupied, "Whether or not I'm concerned. Though I would of course prefer to get the job done and avoid being dismembered in the process."
Arthur glowered at his feet. He was contemplating the differences between the shoes he was wearing in the dream versus the ones he was wearing in reality, when Eames suddenly stilled next to him.
"What is it?" Arthur asked, looking up. "Did you find something?"
"Nothing very helpful, I'm afraid," Eames said, sounding odd. His movements were stilted as he showed Arthur what looked like a yearbook, except the page being displayed didn't seem like a part of it. There were six pictures on the page. The first five were black and white close-ups of sleeping -- or dead; Arthur felt ill at the thought -- teenagers, with their names spelled out beneath each picture; Patrick, Emilia, Carlos, Ray, Michelle. They all had dark hair and similar features. That was enough to give Arthur a pause: there were only three known victims in the case they were trying to find evidence for.
"So," Arthur said, striving to sound professional. He didn't quite succeed. "I guess that's two more victims we didn't know about."
"That's really the least of our concerns right now," Eames said, looking down at the sixth picture with an unreadable expression. Arthur forced himself to take another look at it, a chill running down his spine as his own, unsmiling face stared back at him from the page.
-
"It'd be way more time-efficient if you took one of the lockers and I took the other," Arthur said, discreetly trying to extract himself from Eames' hold, the blue fingernails digging into his arm.
"Did you happen to not notice that this psycho most definitely is a serial killer --"
"They might still be alive, I mean, they haven't found the bodies yet," Arthur tried, but it was weak and they both knew it.
"Please," Eames scoffed, turning a corner into another hallway and marching to the second locker on their list. "And now his subconscious seems to have fixated on you, which is just perfect. You know, Arthur, I wish someone would've noticed the similarities between you and the known victims and pointed out what an awful idea it was to bring you anywhere near this guy-- oh, wait."
"Oh, of course," Arthur bit out, finally wrenching his arm free when they came to a stop in front of the locker, ignoring the glare Eames sent his way. "If only everyone would do exactly what you want them to do -- because you always know best, right?"
"I was right about this, weren't I?" Eames said, yanking the locker open with more force than strictly necessary. Arthur opened his mouth, a scathing reply on the tip of his tongue, when someone slammed against his shoulder from behind, sending him stumbling into Eames.
"Fuck, sorry," Arthur said on automatic as he straightened, looking at the retreating back of the projection. There weren't enough people in the hallway to justify thinking the contact had been an accident; now that he looked around, he could see the projections were definitely paying more attention to them than before. He startled when he felt a touch against his cheek, turning to find Eames closer than expected.
"Here," Eames said, and kissed him. The forgery was an almost even height with Arthur and nothing at all like Eames' true form, but she kissed like Eames kissed, and Arthur had closed his eyes before he could think twice about it. The kiss was soft, bordering on chaste, and over almost before it began.
"What --" Arthur said when their lips parted, keeping his eyes closed for a moment longer, half-afraid of what they might reveal. When he did open them, Eames was appraising the projections, looking mildly disappointed.
"Oh well," Eames said, throwing Arthur a bland smile as he turned back to the victim's locker. "It was worth a shot."
Arthur blinked, looked at the projections, then back at Eames. He took a step back, then another. Eames didn't notice, muttering to himself about the shit teens saw fit to keep in their lockers. Arthur brushed a hand against his thigh, vaguely aware that his fingers were trembling. Eames was... such a jerk. Such a --
He spun around and made his way down the hall, barely suppressing the urge to run.
"Hey," Eames suddenly called out after him. "Hey, Arthur!"
"I'll check the last one on my own," Arthur shouted back at him, quickening his pace. A projection nearly body checked him against the lockers, and he didn't even care. Fuck Eames anyway.
-
It had been two weeks since that night in the alley, two weeks since Eames had shown up. There hadn't been much time to dwell on either during the preparations for the job, for which Arthur was grateful. Keeping his mind occupied had made dealing -- or not dealing, as the case might be -- that much easier. He'd tried to keep his interactions with Eames to a minimum, something he knew would've caught Dom and Mal's attention, but he figured he'd deal with that if they decided to approach him about it.
Keeping Eames at an arm's length had turned out to be more easily said than done. It wasn't that Eames had been purposefully trying to be a nuisance; despite being more short tempered than usual, he'd actually made an effort to respect Arthur's obvious need for space, which should have made it easier for Arthur to ignore him but somehow hadn't. Arthur's awareness of him had made it seem like he took up more space than people normally did, simultaneously making the place they worked in -- an old shop with its windows boarded shut, because Eames, at the very least, had refused to set foot in a federal building before the actual job -- seem smaller. The fact that Arthur had been having trouble sleeping had only added to the stress of having Eames around; if he had dreams, he didn't remember them, but he kept waking up feeling shaky and chilled, unable to fall back to sleep.
On top of everything, Dom had had some obvious concerns about having Arthur on the job, and had made aborted gestures to side with Eames when the topic of Arthur not going under with them had come up. Arthur had refused to back down, feeling like his abilities were being questioned and hating it. To be fair, Dom hadn't outright doubted Arthur's skills. He did, however, have a habit of acting like he thought himself some sort of pseudo-paternal figure in Arthur's life, which Arthur supposed might have been sweet, in theory, but was really just irritating, not to mention completely misguided.
It was this damned job, Arthur thought as he took one of Dom's shortcuts to the second floor. He checked to make sure there weren't projections around on either side before climbing through a rigged window in one of the first floor bathrooms, dropping silently into a matching one on the second floor. It was unlikely that Eames would stop searching the second locker in order to start after Arthur -- no matter what else Arthur might think, he knew Eames was a professional first and foremost -- so Arthur had a good head start on him. He would reach the locker long before Eames would catch up with him. He'd be quick; one of them had to find something of value, and soon. He wanted this job to be done (he wanted Eames to be gone).
Knowing they were running out of time, Arthur pushed his way through the rowdy projections in the hall and quickly found the locker he was looking for. They were in luck: the other school's combination worked like a charm, and Arthur made short work of opening the locker. He got jostled a couple of times as he went through its contents, but it wasn't anywhere near bad enough yet to make him consider aborting the job. Not that he would've, anyway; he'd rather get torn into pieces than fail because he gave up too soon. He pushed a useless biology textbook back into its place, pressing his lips together in a grim line. It was starting to look like he'd fail whether he gave up or not; there was nothing in there they could use, no maps or coordinates or photographs or letters, just regular textbooks and pens and random papers that had nothing to do with the missing teenagers or the mark.
The more frustrated he got, the more abrupt his movements became, until he knocked some of the papers off to the floor by accident. Gritting his teeth, he knelt down to gather them up. He paused, blinking, when his hand came to contact with them. Puzzled, he ran a finger through the dirt on top of the papers and brought his hand up, rubbing his fingertips together. Curious, that.
It was then that he became aware of how quiet it had become. Slowly, he looked up, half-expecting the projections to have gathered around him, a silent, menacing wall of people -- but it was worse; the projections were gone like a mirage, like they'd never been there at all. Without them the hallway was empty and void of sound. Empty, except for him, him and --
Arthur scrambled up to his feet, leaving the papers scattered on the floor, his back colliding with the wall of lockers. He straightened, trying to regain his composure. His heart was beating too fast, but he tried his best to smile.
"Hey," he said, trying to sound non-threatening. Friendly. "You're Shelly, right?"
Shelly, short for Michelle. The nickname hadn't been in the file, but that's all Arthur could think of when he looked at her. She tilted her head at him, standing barely three feet away from him, the long, messy waves of her hair half-obscuring her face.
"You don't belong here," she said, and was suddenly closer, close enough that their noses almost touched and Arthur could see her pale face and sunken eyes with far too much detail. He instinctively pressed himself further against the lockers, trying to put space between them. Then she was back to where he'd first seen her. "I don't belong here," she said, and was gone.
Down the hall, a door to a classroom swung open, slowly and without a sound. Arthur stared at it, telling himself it was foolish to even consider walking through that door, but at the same time -- the lockers were a bust, and he was running out of both ideas and time. The regular projections, even if they hadn't vanished into thin air -- leaving behind a void like something hollow that you'd once thought to be alive -- would've likely known nothing useful. Shelly was one of the victims, though, and had potential for far greater knowledge. If there was any chance Arthur could get her to talk, if this was the last chance to get solid information that could put away a serial killer, how could he not at least try?
Taking a deep breath, Arthur pushed himself away from the lockers and crossed the hallway, his eyes fixed on the open door.
-
He stepped through the door, cautious, and nothing happened. It was almost anticlimactic. He moved further into the room, smoothing his palms over his thighs, still waiting for the other shoe to drop. The room was dimly lit, the shutters closed on the windows, and there were no chairs, no desks, nothing but an empty stretch of floor and there, curled up in a corner, Shelly.
She was rocking back and forth, silent. Her face was half-hidden, but Arthur could make out a glimpse of her eyes -- she was staring at him, unblinking. Arthur took a few hesitant steps toward her, but he didn't get further than that. He felt so cold all of a sudden, so cold he couldn't move, and there was a boy standing between him and Shelly. It was Patrick, the first victim; his friends had called him Trick.
"She doesn't want to talk to you," he said, tilting his head at Arthur. He was suddenly closer, the same way Shelly had been in the hallway, there and then here, all in a blink of an eye. He had hollow eyes, hollow cheeks, and Arthur couldn't move, couldn't do anything but stand there, frozen, as Patrick raised a skinny hand to his face, tracing his cheekbones with spidery fingers.
"You should call me Trick," he said, touching his fingertips against Arthur's mouth, thoughtful. "You're one of us," he said, his fingers digging in a little, pressing against the flesh of Arthur's lips, the hard surface of his teeth. "You belong with us."
Arthur wanted to tell him, no, wanted to step away, raise the gun he only carried in dreams, anything -- but he felt like he wasn't breathing, like his body wasn't real. Like he was nothing but a projection, a thing, a memory --
Patrick's body jerked, a splatter of blood hitting the side of Arthur's face. Arthur watched, numb, as Patrick crumbled to the floor, and found out he could breath again, and move. He blinked and looked up, feeling slow and out of sorts, and found Eames striding toward him, gun in hand.
"There's something," Arthur said, and only then noticed how hard he was breathing. "I can't --"
"Arthur," Eames said, taking hold of Arthur's arm and drawing him none too gently away from Patrick's body. "What the bloody hell just happened?"
Arthur took his arm back roughly. Instead of feeling grateful, he felt -- almost angry that Eames had shot Trick, which he recognized was insane.
"I don't know," he snapped, spooked. "Something's definitely wrong with the dream, and the -- the projections, they're --"
"Affecting you," Eames said, frowning. He looked at Shelly; she was still staring at Arthur. "He's affecting you."
"The mark? But he's not even here," Arthur said before he could think better of it. Eames shot him a look that bordered on pitying, and Arthur clenched his hands into fists.
"He's everywhere," Eames told him. "These are manifestations of his subconscious, Arthur, and they want to keep you."
"That's not," Arthur began to say, then cut himself off with a frustrated sound. "Why would they affect me like this, like I'm not even -- I've never encountered anything like this before."
"Says the kid who's been doing this for all of a year?" Eames scoffed, looking back to Shelly, his trigger finger twitching. "And this would be your, what, third actual job?"
"Please," Arthur said, barely keeping from throwing a punch at Eames, the condescending shit. "Don't even try to tell me this is a regular occurrence."
"No, you're right about that, this is quite bizarre. Well, stranger things, I suppose," Eames mused. Then he rolled his shoulders and his whole countenance changed. He gave Arthur a lopsided grin and said, "Remind me to never again take a job in a psychopath's head, yeah? The advertisement promised more fun than this."
"Let's just get this over with," Arthur said, kicking at a scuff mark on the floor. "You should probably hold off shooting her until you've talked to her," he said, nodding toward Shelly, knowing that Eames would have a better chance at getting her to open up. "Unless you found a map or something, I think they're the only ones who have the info we came here for."
"Oh, joy," Eames muttered, then looked back at Arthur with a look in his eyes Arthur didn't much care for. "I think you should probably wait this out topside."
"And I think you should mind your own business," Arthur said, feeling raw inside.
"I'm just saying, the way you're reacting to them --"
"I can handle it," Arthur snapped. "I'm not a liability," he added, though at this point, he honestly couldn't be certain that was true. And maybe it was another strike against him that he was incapable of admitting it, especially to Eames, but risky or not, right now he'd rather take his chances.
Eames looked skeptical, but eventually shrugged and muttered something that could have been a 'suit yourself' before making his way to Shelly. Arthur could hear a low murmur of hello, sweetheart, but couldn't make out the rest of it. Feeling useless, he needlessly checked his gun, then moved to the side, hoping that being out of her direct eyesight would make Shelly focus on Eames instead of him. When he glanced back, Eames had shifted into Shelly's mother, and she was crying and shaking her head, alternately clinging to Eames and trying to claw at his face. The projections didn't usually take note of Eames changing in front of them, but there was something about Shelly that made Arthur wish Eames could have been more careful. Not that they had much choice under the circumstances. He looked away --
-- and found himself face to face with another one of the mark's victims. He took a startled, shaky step back, a chill going through his body, and the girl -- Emilia, he thought, unbidden; seventeen -- tilted her head at him, a mirror image of Trick, earlier. She looked at Trick's body on the floor, then back at Arthur, unblinking, accusing.
"We don't belong here anymore," she said. "Why have you brought us back?"
Arthur closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steady himself. He felt like he was breathing in icy water without drowning, or maybe he'd already drowned and didn't know it yet. "Where do you belong, then?" He asked, pushing through the ice in his lungs, and forced himself to meet her eyes. "Can you tell me?"
She leaned in close, close enough to touch, to kiss, and smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. Cold hands slid around Arthur from behind, another victim (projection) he hadn't seen coming. Maybe Eames had been right, Arthur thought on a shuddering exhale, and then, fiercely, like hell he was.
He gasped for breath when another boy -- Carlos -- stepped up beside him and slid a hand up his throat. The one behind him had to be Ray, then. All accounted for, he thought, a bubble of hysteria getting stuck in his throat. He shook his head, trying to focus, his cheek brushing against Emilia's cold one.
"Please," he tried again, "Please, can you tell me?"
"We'll show you," she said, pressing close against him, the three of them bracketing him in.
"He should pay for what happened to Trick," Carlos said, his voice sweet, his nails pressing against Arthur's throat.
"He will," Emilia said.
"He will," Ray said.
"You'll take his place," Carlos said, with an air of finality, "And we'll be a family."
"Yes," Emilia hissed.
"Yes," Ray said, his non-breath freezing against Arthur's ear.
"Here," Emilia said, "look."
And there was a house, and a room, and a bed; and there was Trick, alone, and there was Emilia, alone, and there was Carlos, alone, and there was Ray, alone, and there was Shelly, alone, and now there was Arthur, and he was alone; days and days on end, alone, with nothing to do and no one to talk to, with no idea where he was or why. He'd never get out, never see his family or friends again; he would die here, in this room, alone and afraid and hungry, weak and filled with impotent anger. The chain around his ankle had chafed against skin and bone, his fingers were bleeding from clawing at it, at the walls, and his eyes were stinging from the dim light coming through the grimy windows. He was going to die here, no one would come; he'd screamed and shouted and begged, and no one had heard.
No one but him. The man. He never spoke, just looked, sitting on the other side of the room where Arthur couldn't reach.
Near the end, when Arthur was too weak to move, the man came and sat next to him on the bed, carding his fingers through Arthur's hair, touching his face. One day, the man closed his hand around Arthur's throat, and didn't let go.
When the night came, he lifted Arthur's body in his arms and carried him outside, where the stars stood out bright against the clear, dark sky, and drove out into the desert where he laid Arthur's body in the ground, next to Trick and Emilia and Carlos and Ray, and covered him with dirt.
Arthur opened his eyes, gasping like he'd been held underwater. His flailing hands were caught in icy ones, and he wasn't dead or alone; he was on the floor of an empty classroom, with Emilia, Ray and Carlos kneeling on the floor around him, looking up at -- the mark, Arthur realized, his heart skipping a beat.
"We thought you would like him," Ray said.
"He belongs with us," Emilia said.
"We're a family," Carlos said.
"No," the mark snarled, his eyes flashing. "Let him go."
"We want him," Ray said, unblinking.
"We want him," Emilia said, baring her teeth.
"We want him," Carlos said, his fingers digging into Arthur's skin.
And then Shelly was there; she jumped on the mark's back with a yell. She cried out, "No, it tried to trick us, full of empty promises delivered with bullets! A hollow man with many faces!"
Arthur, his mind muddled and slow, had no time to figure it out before Emilia, Ray and Carlos were rising up in unison, leaping at the mark -- only it wasn't the mark; it was Eames. The projections were quick and brutal, managing to use Shelly's distraction and their numbers to bear Eames to the ground, hitting, kicking, screaming, like a pack of wild dogs tearing into a prey.
Arthur gritted his teeth and rolled over, pushing himself up until he was kneeling. He pulled out his gun and took aim, feeling sick as he shot Emilia in the back and took Ray out with a headshot. Carlos abandoned Eames with a shout of dismay and leaped at Arthur, jerking in mid-air and crumbling to the ground to reveal Eames laying on his side on the floor with his arm outstretched, a gun in his hand.
Their victory was short-lived as neither of them could react in time to stop Shelly from dropping to her knees behind Eames and stabbing him in the back once, twice in quick succession. Eames' gun clattered to the floor, a surprised, pained exhale driving the breath out of him. Shelly stabbed him again even as Arthur pulled the trigger. The shot hit her in the shoulder, and she fell back with a wounded noise; Arthur was on his feet in the next instant. He crossed the floor and dropped to his knees next to Eames, who'd rolled onto his back and was blinking at the ceiling, his breath rattling in his lungs, blood staining his lips. Arthur dropped his gun, his hands fluttering uselessly over Eames' chest. Eames was laying in a pool of blood that got larger with every breath he took, creeping toward Arthur's knees and soon soaking them. Arthur clenched his hands into fists.
"Shit," he whispered.
"Not," Eames croaked, pausing to inhale; he sounded horrible. "Quite. According to plan."
More blood splattered on his lips and on his chin as his exhale turned into a cough, his body straining in its attempts to suck in oxygen. Arthur took a sharp breath and clenched his jaw. He picked up his gun and pulled the trigger before he could second-guess himself, then stared at Eames' still form for a moment, the mess his head had become, feeling like he was about to throw up. He kept his eyes averted when he pushed himself up and took stock of himself and his surroundings. He was covered in blood, his jeans soaked in it, and surrounded by bodies. He wiped his face with his free hand, probably just further smearing the blood there. It hardly mattered. None of it mattered.
The dream trembled around him, beginning to collapse. Eames hadn't been the dreamer, Dom had, which meant he was dead as well. Arthur noted this with a curious detachment. He staggered to where Shelly had dragged herself to lean against a wall, bleeding but not dead, her eyes fixed on Arthur. She was still gripping the knife she'd stabbed Eames with, but she made no attempt to attack Arthur as he crouched down next to her.
"Will you stay?" She whispered to him.
"I can't," he said. He wasn't sure why he was still there, why he hadn't followed Eames right out of the dream. There was something about Shelly he couldn't quite put his finger on, something important.
"Are you sure?" She wanted to know, closing her eyes as she leaned her head against the wall in defeat. "I'm so lonely."
Arthur's breath caught in his throat as the pieces clicked together in his head. Slowly, he raised a hand and gently touched her cheek.
"Shelly," he said. It wasn't really her, but even so, Arthur couldn't help but smile at her a little. "Thank you."
She looked at him, her expression smoothing out into a blank mask. Her sunken eyes were nearly swallowed by black as she watched him raise his gun.
He pressed the muzzle of the gun under his chin at an angle and blew his brains out.
-
The job was finally over. It had taken two days, multiple maps and a bit of a road trip to translate the vision he'd been shown in the dream into reality, but Arthur had found the house, and the burial site; even more importantly, he'd found Shelly, and she'd been alive. Overall the job was just one more thing that cluttered his mind with unwanted memories, just one more thing to suppress and compartmentalize -- but at least there was this one thing he could focus on, and believe it was all worth it.
Arthur took a sip of whiskey, curled up in an overstuffed armchair in the boarded up shop they'd used as a base while preparing for the job -- the lease wouldn't run out until next week. Dom and Mal thought he was out, letting loose, and in a way he was. He just didn't want to deal with people right then; it had been a rough few weeks.
The narrow steps leading upstairs groaned under someone's weight, and Arthur sat up, startled. He knew Eames had been sleeping up there, but he'd thought he'd already left. Stupid; he should've known better than to make assumptions.
Eames took the last few steps down, pausing as he caught sight of Arthur.
"Well, hello," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Didn't know you were here -- make some noise next time, yeah?"
"You're leaving then?" Arthur asked, looking at the duffel bag hanging from Eames' shoulder. It was a dull sort of hurt he felt at the thought, a residual ache dating back months. This time, he hadn't expected anything else; he doubted he ever would again. This time, Eames leaving had been something he'd hoped for. Except now that his wish was about to come true, he resented Eames for being so predictable (so disappointing).
"World waits for no man," Eames said, shifting the strap of his duffel higher up on his shoulder. His eyes fell to the glass in Arthur's hand. "Aren't you a little young for that?"
Arthur snorted into his glass before knocking back what was left in it. "Who're you gonna call, Dom?" He asked, reaching for the bottle again.
"Arthur," Eames said, his voice quiet.
"What?" Arthur said, pouring himself another glass. "I can't imagine you never drank before you turned twenty-one, or whatever the legal age is in the UK."
"That's different," Eames said, and Arthur paused in bringing the glass to his lips.
"That," he said, pointing at Eames with the glass, some of the liquid sloshing over the edge, "is a bullshit argument, and I'm dismissing it based on, on," he set the glass on the table with a hard sound of glass on wood. His fingers were wet and sticky. "Look at what you made me do, that's, that's dozens of drops of perfectly good whiskey, wasted."
"If anything's wasted here, darling, it's you," Eames said, dropping his duffel on the ground and making his way to the table.
"Hey!" Arthur said, then frowned and thought it over. "Huh."
Eames looked amused as he picked up the bottle to examine it. The movement caught Arthur's attention, and he failed not to stare at Eames' hands (Eames' wide, capable, wonderful hands).
"You can't take that," Arthur said, irritated when he realized what he'd been thinking. "You can have a glass if you want, but you can't take it away. It's not yours."
"Where did you even get this?" Eames asked, frowning at the label. "This is the good stuff."
Arthur picked up his sticky glass and buried his nose in it. There was a pause, and then Eames said, amusement rounding the edges of his voice, "I take it that strictly speaking this isn't yours, either. Maybe I should call Cobb after all, hmm?"
"Oh, shut up," Arthur muttered into his glass, and Eames laughed like he couldn't help it.
Arthur shivered at the sound of it, and drank deeply from his glass to cover it up. So of course he ended up swallowing the wrong way, sending himself into a coughing fit. God, but he hated embarrassing himself in front of Eames.
"Arthur, hey," Eames said, suddenly right next to him. He placed a hand on Arthur's back, a warm, heavy weight, which only caused Arthur's breathing to tangle itself again. He coughed, pressing his fingers against his mouth, and closed his eyes, concentrating on getting his breathing under control.
"I'm afraid I can't in good conscience leave the whiskey with you," Eames said, moving his hand in slow circles against Arthur's back. "You're a menace to yourself."
"...Cruel," Arthur managed, his breath only wheezing a little.
"I'm only thinking of what's best for you," Eames said, his hand settling on Arthur's shoulder.
"Yeah, right," Arthur said through his fingers. "You just want the whiskey."
"There is that," Eames conceded, and Arthur looked up, unable to help himself. The corners of Eames' eyes were crinkled with amusement that slowly melted away as their eyes caught and held. Arthur could smell the whiskey on his fingers, and without thinking too much about it, he parted his lips and ran his tongue over them, chasing the taste. Eames' hand twitched against his shoulder, and Arthur could see him swallow. Maintaining eye contact, he slowly pushed a finger into his mouth and then dragged it out, his lips pursed around it. He felt a dark sort of thrill at getting a response from Eames, at seeing his pupils dilate and feeling his fingers dig into his shoulder.
"Arthur," Eames said, his voice strained, but Arthur wasn't interested in anything he might say. He stood up and moved close to Eames, who'd fallen silent on whatever protest he'd been about to make and had moved his hand from Arthur's shoulder to his side, and brought his whiskey-and-saliva covered fingers to Eames' lips.
"Hey," Arthur said, his voice low. He stretched up a little to press his lips against the side of Eames' mouth and his own fingers. "Wanna taste?"
Eames took hold of Arthur's wrist, forcing his hand back -- but he didn't push Arthur away. He released Arthur's wrist, and his hands came to rest on Arthur's back, rucking up his shirt and drawing him in until their hips were in contact. Eames was hard, Arthur could feel it. Arthur was too, but that was less important right now. This was, Arthur recognized, his last chance at having his way with Eames, and he didn't even consider turning it down. One last fuck, Arthur thought, pressing his face against Eames' cheek and inhaling. One last hello, and goodbye.
"Arthur," Eames said, his voice tight.
"Eames," Arthur said, resting his hands on Eames' chest and -- pushed, until Eames' back hit the wall. He slid his hands down and unbuckled Eames' belt, worked his fly open, his fingers quick and deft at their task. Eames didn't make a single move to stop him, not until Arthur dropped to his knees.
"Are you --" Eames paused, the touch of his hand in Arthur's tousled hair oddly gentle. "Arthur, are you sure?"
Instead of answering, Arthur freed Eames' cock from his underwear and weighed it in his hand for a moment, his eyes half lidded. He glanced up at Eames when he leaned in, licking a wet stripe up the underside and swirling his tongue over the tip before opening his mouth wider and letting the head slide in. He moaned a little, and Eames' inhaled sharply, his hand briefly tightening in Arthur's hair. Arthur wrapped a hand around the base and closed his eyes as he sucked Eames further in. He made it wet and dirty, almost sloppy at times, until Eames was breathing hard, struggling not to thrust forward and give Arthur more than he could handle.
Arthur pulled back, letting Eames slip out with a wet pop. He looked at the length in his hand, the pre-come already gathering at the tip, and ran his tongue idly over his swollen lips.
"I can," Eames said, and Arthur looked up. "You don't have to --"
Arthur felt his lips pull up in a smirk, and Eames fell silent.
"You think I want to stop now?" Arthur asked, ghosting his mouth over Eames' cock, flicking his tongue out to catch a bead of pre-come, feeling reckless and filthy. "You'd be surprised," he breathed, and took Eames in until the head hit the back of his throat, until his nose was buried in the coarse hair at the base, and above him, Eames was cursing, breathless. He swallowed and drew back until just the tip rested in his mouth, then pulled completely away.
"Fuck, don't stop-- Arthur --" Eames said, his hand clenching in Arthur's hair before he got a hold of himself and regained his control. That wouldn't do; Arthur wanted Eames to lose control, to really want it (want him).
"You can fuck my mouth," he told Eames, his voice coming out more breathless and raw than he'd intended. "I can take it."
Eames licked his lips, his expression conflicted until Arthur said, "Please, Eames," and then he nodded.
"Okay," he said, his voice wrecked. "Okay." He brushed his thumb against the corner of Arthur's mouth, against his cheekbone, before gripping a fistful of hair in both hands, the sting of it sending spikes of arousal down Arthur's spine. Eames' eyes got darker like he knew; he held Arthur's head still as he pushed his cock back into Arthur's pliant mouth.
It wasn't quite enough, at first, he didn't give Arthur enough. Arthur moaned, his fingertips pressing against the warmth of Eames' hips; he was gagging for it, beyond caring of how desperate he seemed. Eames groaned and stopped holding back, beginning to fuck Arthur's mouth in earnest, his hips snapping forward with an almost brutal force, leaving Arthur no choice but to take it -- and Arthur wanted it, wanted it. His jaw was aching, his throat and lips felt bruised, and his chin was wet and sticky with saliva and Eames' pre-come. He was so hard it was painful, but he had no coordination or brain capacity left to do anything but cling to Eames and let himself be used.
Eames came with his cock buried in Arthur's throat, the press of his fingertips against the back of Arthur's skull hard and unforgiving, and it was perfect. Arthur choked, just a little, when Eames tugged at his hair as he drew back, another burst of come hitting Arthur's tongue and the back of his throat before Eames pulled out completely. Arthur swallowed, pressing his face against Eames' hip as he dropped his hands to tug at his zipper of his jeans, desperate to come. He was panting, his mouth hanging open, bereft without the weight of Eames' cock there, and he was smearing Eames' skin with the fluids dripping down his chin -- and he didn't care, he didn't care. He'd barely touched himself and he was already coming, letting out a keening cry and gasping as he spilled over his hand. He choked, feeling himself beginning to tear up, the reaction unexpected and incomprehensible; he squeezed his eyes shut against the tears threatening to spill.
When he felt less like he was about to fall apart right then and there, Arthur drew back a little and brought a shaky hand to his mouth, wiping his chin with the back of it. He then wiped his hands on his jeans and zipped himself back up, forcing himself to stand up despite feeling like his legs might not support his weight. He didn't look at Eames as he staggered to the table and drained his glass of whiskey in one go. Behind him, he could hear Eames putting himself to rights, the sound of him buckling his belt loud in the quiet of the room.
"Where are you off to, then?" Arthur asked, not sure why he wanted to know. He had no intention of ever seeing Eames again.
"Haven't decided yet," Eames said, his voice subdued.
"Well," Arthur said, not turning around. "Goodbye, Mr. Eames."
For a moment, Arthur couldn't hear anything; then Eames moved again. Arthur tensed up when he walked by, but didn't feel relieved when Eames continued past him without pausing. From the corner of his eye, Arthur could see Eames picking up his duffel. Eames lingered in the doorway, his back to Arthur, a hand resting against the door frame.
After a few heartbeats, he patted the frame twice and said,
"Goodbye, Arthur."
Arthur didn't look up to see Eames go, didn't move until he heard the front door fall shut. Then he curled up in his chair and picked up his glass, staring at it like he could will whiskey to appear in it -- Eames had taken the bottle when he'd walked by the table, just like he'd said he would.
"Fucker," Arthur told the empty room, pushing the glass across the table. He hugged his knees to his chest and stared at the peeling wallpaper on the opposite wall, swallowing back stupid, stupid tears, refusing to let them fall.
Grimly, with determination, he began to sort through and fold away his memories of Eames, gathering up his feelings and molding them into a more easily manageable shape; he imagined them to be small enough to fit into the palm of his hand, unable to overwhelm him, and then he put them into a little box, which he put into a bigger box, the one where he kept all the things he didn't want to think about -- things that hurt him or confused him or got in the way.
Eames belonged in the box; there could be no other place for him in Arthur's mind.
***
IV: Bridges