quit these pretentious things and just (rewind the clock to 2007)
I CAN'T BELIEVE I'M POSTING HERE AFTER 2 YEARS, but the power of Inception, right. This is for summertea, who knows all the ways into my heart. We started talking about where Arthur would keep his secrets, because a bank or prison seemed too pedestrian and we decided he was pretentious enough to probably use a moleskin (what, they're secure). Wrote the entire fic with Arcade Fire's "Sprawl II (Mountains Beyond Mountains" on repeat.
time to cut the lights
Arthur & Eames, the closest I get to Arthur/Eames
Everyone exits a dream differently. Some wake up elated, some disappointed. Some in shock, with an imaginary pain and flash of red. More times than not, though, people wake up with an emptiness, with the feeling that reality can no longer offer them what they need.
So this is what Cobb teaches Arthur first: you must fight this extremely dangerous feeling. Their work is never about finding a reason to go into dreams; there are always reasons. It's about having a reason to wake up in the end.
(It's one of Cobb's more useless lessons, of course. Injecting someone into their first shared dream is the same as handing a packet of cigarettes to a teenager; you tell them it's their choice but no one is ever surprised with the addiction starts.)
*
Eames, though skilled in forgeries, is best known in extraction circles as a thief. He only expanded into forgery to fill the demand as jobs became more complicated, dreams even more limitless. In truth, labels are only a reference point; anyone interested in pursuing a serious profession in the field should know how to crack a safe, shoot a gun, drive a stick shift or flying vehicle, and generally avoid death. Well, at least in theory - doing such things in a dream does not necessitate doing them in reality, though of course it helps. (Human forgery is actually the only skill Eames doesn't do in reality for obvious reasons. When asked why he even bothers with jobs on the ground level when he makes more than enough for the same skills in dreams, Eames always smiles and replies he likes to keep himself genuine. No good to act one way up top and another down below, he insists.)
The safe he's working on right now shouldn't be difficult - it's an older model, one that requires two keys to align at the same time. He keeps his hand steady as he picks gently at the locks. The sensitivity is in the timing, and he holds his breath to listen for the soft click. Just before the dial stops turning, lights flood the room without warning, and Eames lets out a swear as a siren sounds above.
"What is this?" a voice asks coolly behind him. Eames turns around and his surprised expression evaporates. He sheepishly removes his black ski-mask.
"What're you doing here?" he asks with a raised eyebrow.
"I believe I asked you first," Arthur returns dryly, obviously unimpressed with finding Eames in full heist gear, still bent precariously over the safe handle.
Eames stops to consider the question and then, figuring the job is as good as over anyway, stands up and calmly brushes off his pants. "I've come to rob your bank, darling," he replies grandly. He pauses to let Arthur soak in the flattery of his statement.
Arthur regards him for a moment. Then, "And why have you come to rob my bank?"
The question forces another pause, and Eames stops short of telling Arthur it's quite unfair of him to ask two questions in a row. Instead, he puts on a large smile and retaliates, "Why would I want to rob your bank? Perhaps you want me here? Or why shouldn't I--"
"Cut it out, Eames," Arthur interrupts him. "I know you're not a projection."
Eames' smirk turns sullen. "How do you know?" he demands.
At this, Arthur finally gives a smile, a slight upturn of the lips that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Because I never dream about you."
"Well, that's a bit insulting," Eames complains.
"What are you doing here?" Arthur asks again, his voice tired.
"You fell asleep on the job," Eames tells him by way of explanation. "Should watch your mind better, love." He looks around the room, hoping for an exit before Arthur manages to bore him to death with questions. All the doors seem to have suspiciously disappeared.
"I'm testing a new chemical," Arthur frowns. "Didn't realize I had to write a note to remind others 'Private nap. Please don't disturb'."
"Curiosity always gets the better of me," Eames grins. He looks at the safe longingly; just needed a couple more seconds, he thinks.
"There's nothing in there," Arthur informs him. He gestures with his hand and the door springs open, revealing a bare expanse of metal and glass, the floor spotless. Of course.
Before Eames can even extend a curious hand, he suddenly finds himself on a neat sidewalk between twin towering skyscrapers, his pupils rapidly adjusting to the bright sunlight. The street is empty except for the two of them, though he can hear vague traffic sounds in the distance. He cocks his head, but it's impossible to tell the direction. It doesn't escape his notice that Arthur has generously replaced his black clothes with a gray suit, complete with a tie that digs uncomfortably into his neck. He pulls at it and only rolls his eyes when it refuses to budge.
"This is a rather uninspired scene," he says. A car drives by them, slowing at the red light and then smartly making a right turn; all of its windows are tinted. "Where's all the people?"
Arthur, unsurprisingly, ignores his question. He glances down at his watch and asks, "Isn't it about time you left? Do you need help?" A van appears around the corner and starts picking up speed. Eames looks at it in distaste.
"You dying serves the same purpose," Eames tells him with a wave of his hand. The van is instantly replaced with a semi-truck.
"It's my dream!" Arthur crosses his arms.
"Well, I'm not leaving empty-handed," he decides. He eyes Arthur, and a smile begins playing around the corners of his mouth. "Let me pick your pockets at least."
Arthur's hands drop to guard his pockets, and his eyes narrow. "What are you doing?" he asks, a note of uneasiness creeping into his voice as Eames circles around him.
"Just stay still, darling," Eames says soothingly.
"Eames, stop--" Arthur takes a step back. "This isn't a good idea--"
"What isn't a good idea?" Eames asks innocently. The lines on Arthur's face pull taunt with displeasure, and the traffic sounds in the distance appear to grow louder. This is the first time Arthur shows any reaction the entire dream; Eames was starting to worry he was the dreamer and Arthur the projection. Without taking his eyes off Arthur's, he holds his hands up in faux surrender and bows slightly. "All right, all right, you made your point. I'll leave."
Arthur looks unconvinced, but his shoulders relax, his arms still protectively close.
The movement is so slight that even Eames wants to pat himself on the back; his fingers barely brush the fabric on Arthur's jacket before he makes contact and triumphantly pulls up a leather-bound notebook. "Always so trusting," he murmurs. He catches the flash of anger across Arthur's face and then--
The notebook suddenly disappears. As does everything else.
*
Eames can't see anything, as if someone tied a blindfold over his eyes. Well, someone probably did, he thinks darkly. He feels around and realizes with a start that he's floating; in what, he has no idea.
A flashlight clicks on, and Eames can see Arthur's annoyed face illuminated by the eerie light.
"Now look what you made my subconscious do," he says flatly, pointedly shining the flashlight into Eames' eyes; Eames blinks furiously.
"Well, this is a hell of a way to protect your mind," he bristles. "Always knew you had no imagination, but shutting down your entire subconscious is impressively dull, even for you."
When Arthur doesn't reply, Eames snaps his fingers impatiently. "Quick, dream me up a gun so I can shoot you in the face and put me out of my misery."
Arthur remains petulantly silent.
Eames sighs. "All right, fine. I'll just club you with the flashlight, it'll have to do." He lurches his body forward and makes a grab for it; Arthur lets out a sound of alarm and hastily clicks the flashlight off.
After a while in the darkness, Eames starts singing all the show tunes in his repertoire. If Arthur wants to claw his ears out, he doesn't give Eames the satisfaction of showing it.
*
They wake up just as the warehouse windows tint orange with dusk. Eames nearly falls off his lawn chair; if he could hug the floor in appreciation of gravity, he would. Faint strains of alternative rock sound from the direction of the office; Ariadne probably hasn't left for the day yet. Eames automatically glances at the clock before turning to Arthur.
"Getting into your head isn't even worth the trouble," he huffs, stretching his legs out and throwing him a dirty look. "No creativity. Considering how miserable your life must be just by being you, I figured you'd at least dream up a better one for yourself."
Arthur yawns leisurely and sits up, making no move to get out of his chair. "But if I made things pleasant for you, you'd never want to leave," he explains with a quirk of his brow.
"You've obviously never experienced one of my good dreams," Eames tells him, leaning forward and trailing a hand down his shirt suggestively with a grin.
An unreadable expression passes across Arthur's face, and his eyes appear almost black in the dimming room. He studies Eames and tilts his head, the evening shadows falling to shield his eyes from view. Eames feels a twinge of discomfort, as if he's being methodically dissected, and he starts to rise from his chair when Arthur asks, "Why don't you just stay in your dreams, then?"
Eames stops mid-rise and sits back down. A short silence, then another practiced smile. "You're not going to get rid of me that easily," he says airily.
"I'm serious," Arthur presses.
"Of course you are," he mutters, letting out a heavy sigh. He looks at the warehouse door, so close - a few long strides, a couple turns on the street, and he could be anywhere in the world. He turns back to Arthur. Then, "You ever notice how everything makes sense in a dream?" He leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees and weaving his fingers conspiringly. "Even when there are fish in deserts and women that refuse me?"
Arthur rolls his eyes, but he nods anyway.
"Well, that's because nothing can phase you in your own dream," he continues. "It's a surprise just waking up. And I like being surprised." While Arthur thinks his words over, Eames leans forward a bit more, until their knees almost touch. "So, Arthur," he drops his voice, their faces dangerously close. He can hear the quiet intake of Arthur’s breath. "Surprise me. What makes you wake up?"
Arthur leans back so fast that the lawn chair snaps under him. The shock sends him scrambling to balance himself, and one hand drops to the floor to stop his entire body from tumbling after it. Eames laughs and laughs and laughs.
*
What Arthur doesn't tell Eames (but suspects he can guess for himself): he never dreams about people. For all that dreams can defy physics and erase the boundaries of time, projections are always one-dimensional. No depth, no complexity, only a shade of the imperfections of the original. So why even bother, Arthur thinks; what's the point when reality already holds all the people he needs.
time to cut the lights
Arthur & Eames, the closest I get to Arthur/Eames
Everyone exits a dream differently. Some wake up elated, some disappointed. Some in shock, with an imaginary pain and flash of red. More times than not, though, people wake up with an emptiness, with the feeling that reality can no longer offer them what they need.
So this is what Cobb teaches Arthur first: you must fight this extremely dangerous feeling. Their work is never about finding a reason to go into dreams; there are always reasons. It's about having a reason to wake up in the end.
(It's one of Cobb's more useless lessons, of course. Injecting someone into their first shared dream is the same as handing a packet of cigarettes to a teenager; you tell them it's their choice but no one is ever surprised with the addiction starts.)
*
Eames, though skilled in forgeries, is best known in extraction circles as a thief. He only expanded into forgery to fill the demand as jobs became more complicated, dreams even more limitless. In truth, labels are only a reference point; anyone interested in pursuing a serious profession in the field should know how to crack a safe, shoot a gun, drive a stick shift or flying vehicle, and generally avoid death. Well, at least in theory - doing such things in a dream does not necessitate doing them in reality, though of course it helps. (Human forgery is actually the only skill Eames doesn't do in reality for obvious reasons. When asked why he even bothers with jobs on the ground level when he makes more than enough for the same skills in dreams, Eames always smiles and replies he likes to keep himself genuine. No good to act one way up top and another down below, he insists.)
The safe he's working on right now shouldn't be difficult - it's an older model, one that requires two keys to align at the same time. He keeps his hand steady as he picks gently at the locks. The sensitivity is in the timing, and he holds his breath to listen for the soft click. Just before the dial stops turning, lights flood the room without warning, and Eames lets out a swear as a siren sounds above.
"What is this?" a voice asks coolly behind him. Eames turns around and his surprised expression evaporates. He sheepishly removes his black ski-mask.
"What're you doing here?" he asks with a raised eyebrow.
"I believe I asked you first," Arthur returns dryly, obviously unimpressed with finding Eames in full heist gear, still bent precariously over the safe handle.
Eames stops to consider the question and then, figuring the job is as good as over anyway, stands up and calmly brushes off his pants. "I've come to rob your bank, darling," he replies grandly. He pauses to let Arthur soak in the flattery of his statement.
Arthur regards him for a moment. Then, "And why have you come to rob my bank?"
The question forces another pause, and Eames stops short of telling Arthur it's quite unfair of him to ask two questions in a row. Instead, he puts on a large smile and retaliates, "Why would I want to rob your bank? Perhaps you want me here? Or why shouldn't I--"
"Cut it out, Eames," Arthur interrupts him. "I know you're not a projection."
Eames' smirk turns sullen. "How do you know?" he demands.
At this, Arthur finally gives a smile, a slight upturn of the lips that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Because I never dream about you."
"Well, that's a bit insulting," Eames complains.
"What are you doing here?" Arthur asks again, his voice tired.
"You fell asleep on the job," Eames tells him by way of explanation. "Should watch your mind better, love." He looks around the room, hoping for an exit before Arthur manages to bore him to death with questions. All the doors seem to have suspiciously disappeared.
"I'm testing a new chemical," Arthur frowns. "Didn't realize I had to write a note to remind others 'Private nap. Please don't disturb'."
"Curiosity always gets the better of me," Eames grins. He looks at the safe longingly; just needed a couple more seconds, he thinks.
"There's nothing in there," Arthur informs him. He gestures with his hand and the door springs open, revealing a bare expanse of metal and glass, the floor spotless. Of course.
Before Eames can even extend a curious hand, he suddenly finds himself on a neat sidewalk between twin towering skyscrapers, his pupils rapidly adjusting to the bright sunlight. The street is empty except for the two of them, though he can hear vague traffic sounds in the distance. He cocks his head, but it's impossible to tell the direction. It doesn't escape his notice that Arthur has generously replaced his black clothes with a gray suit, complete with a tie that digs uncomfortably into his neck. He pulls at it and only rolls his eyes when it refuses to budge.
"This is a rather uninspired scene," he says. A car drives by them, slowing at the red light and then smartly making a right turn; all of its windows are tinted. "Where's all the people?"
Arthur, unsurprisingly, ignores his question. He glances down at his watch and asks, "Isn't it about time you left? Do you need help?" A van appears around the corner and starts picking up speed. Eames looks at it in distaste.
"You dying serves the same purpose," Eames tells him with a wave of his hand. The van is instantly replaced with a semi-truck.
"It's my dream!" Arthur crosses his arms.
"Well, I'm not leaving empty-handed," he decides. He eyes Arthur, and a smile begins playing around the corners of his mouth. "Let me pick your pockets at least."
Arthur's hands drop to guard his pockets, and his eyes narrow. "What are you doing?" he asks, a note of uneasiness creeping into his voice as Eames circles around him.
"Just stay still, darling," Eames says soothingly.
"Eames, stop--" Arthur takes a step back. "This isn't a good idea--"
"What isn't a good idea?" Eames asks innocently. The lines on Arthur's face pull taunt with displeasure, and the traffic sounds in the distance appear to grow louder. This is the first time Arthur shows any reaction the entire dream; Eames was starting to worry he was the dreamer and Arthur the projection. Without taking his eyes off Arthur's, he holds his hands up in faux surrender and bows slightly. "All right, all right, you made your point. I'll leave."
Arthur looks unconvinced, but his shoulders relax, his arms still protectively close.
The movement is so slight that even Eames wants to pat himself on the back; his fingers barely brush the fabric on Arthur's jacket before he makes contact and triumphantly pulls up a leather-bound notebook. "Always so trusting," he murmurs. He catches the flash of anger across Arthur's face and then--
The notebook suddenly disappears. As does everything else.
*
Eames can't see anything, as if someone tied a blindfold over his eyes. Well, someone probably did, he thinks darkly. He feels around and realizes with a start that he's floating; in what, he has no idea.
A flashlight clicks on, and Eames can see Arthur's annoyed face illuminated by the eerie light.
"Now look what you made my subconscious do," he says flatly, pointedly shining the flashlight into Eames' eyes; Eames blinks furiously.
"Well, this is a hell of a way to protect your mind," he bristles. "Always knew you had no imagination, but shutting down your entire subconscious is impressively dull, even for you."
When Arthur doesn't reply, Eames snaps his fingers impatiently. "Quick, dream me up a gun so I can shoot you in the face and put me out of my misery."
Arthur remains petulantly silent.
Eames sighs. "All right, fine. I'll just club you with the flashlight, it'll have to do." He lurches his body forward and makes a grab for it; Arthur lets out a sound of alarm and hastily clicks the flashlight off.
After a while in the darkness, Eames starts singing all the show tunes in his repertoire. If Arthur wants to claw his ears out, he doesn't give Eames the satisfaction of showing it.
*
They wake up just as the warehouse windows tint orange with dusk. Eames nearly falls off his lawn chair; if he could hug the floor in appreciation of gravity, he would. Faint strains of alternative rock sound from the direction of the office; Ariadne probably hasn't left for the day yet. Eames automatically glances at the clock before turning to Arthur.
"Getting into your head isn't even worth the trouble," he huffs, stretching his legs out and throwing him a dirty look. "No creativity. Considering how miserable your life must be just by being you, I figured you'd at least dream up a better one for yourself."
Arthur yawns leisurely and sits up, making no move to get out of his chair. "But if I made things pleasant for you, you'd never want to leave," he explains with a quirk of his brow.
"You've obviously never experienced one of my good dreams," Eames tells him, leaning forward and trailing a hand down his shirt suggestively with a grin.
An unreadable expression passes across Arthur's face, and his eyes appear almost black in the dimming room. He studies Eames and tilts his head, the evening shadows falling to shield his eyes from view. Eames feels a twinge of discomfort, as if he's being methodically dissected, and he starts to rise from his chair when Arthur asks, "Why don't you just stay in your dreams, then?"
Eames stops mid-rise and sits back down. A short silence, then another practiced smile. "You're not going to get rid of me that easily," he says airily.
"I'm serious," Arthur presses.
"Of course you are," he mutters, letting out a heavy sigh. He looks at the warehouse door, so close - a few long strides, a couple turns on the street, and he could be anywhere in the world. He turns back to Arthur. Then, "You ever notice how everything makes sense in a dream?" He leans forward, propping his elbows on his knees and weaving his fingers conspiringly. "Even when there are fish in deserts and women that refuse me?"
Arthur rolls his eyes, but he nods anyway.
"Well, that's because nothing can phase you in your own dream," he continues. "It's a surprise just waking up. And I like being surprised." While Arthur thinks his words over, Eames leans forward a bit more, until their knees almost touch. "So, Arthur," he drops his voice, their faces dangerously close. He can hear the quiet intake of Arthur’s breath. "Surprise me. What makes you wake up?"
Arthur leans back so fast that the lawn chair snaps under him. The shock sends him scrambling to balance himself, and one hand drops to the floor to stop his entire body from tumbling after it. Eames laughs and laughs and laughs.
*
What Arthur doesn't tell Eames (but suspects he can guess for himself): he never dreams about people. For all that dreams can defy physics and erase the boundaries of time, projections are always one-dimensional. No depth, no complexity, only a shade of the imperfections of the original. So why even bother, Arthur thinks; what's the point when reality already holds all the people he needs.