Inception: the lights, the tv, and the radio
Title: the lights, the tv, and the radio: parts 3 and 4
Characters/Pairing: Eames/Arthur
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: ~1400 and ~1800
Disclaimer: Sadly these characters don't belong to me. Also sadly, this fic earns me no money.
Summary: Arthur has faked his own death (and not for the first time) to escape his demons, past and present. He lets everyone, including the Inception team, believe he is dead. Still, he cannot stop himself from reaching out to Eames. Eames, already haunted in feeling by might-have-beens, starts fearing he is haunted in fact.
Author's note: I found an amusing label for this fic on a Delicious bookmark of it:
so fucking depressing, arthur fakes his death but he just can't keep himself from reaching out to eames from ~BEYOND THE GRAVE
Maybe I should make that the new summary? =P
_______________________________________
Part 3
“Call,” Eames says, matching his opponents’ final bets, the empty noise around him swallowing his voice. The players eye each other, gazes flat with distrust and detachment as they reveal their hands silently, letting the cards do the talking. His full house is beaten by a pathetically low strait and he watches the last of his chips, most of them sadly genuine, slide across the stained, pitted table to an opponent’s pile.
With a quick nod and a grunt of self-disgust, Eames leaves the table and jams his hands into his pockets as he strides out of the smallest, seediest casino he could find and into a damp Atlantic City night. Don’t know why I don’t just go back to Mombasa. The dives there have an allure of danger about them. Stateside, they’re just dirty.
“What the hell am I waiting for?” He mutters the question to himself, finally defining the vague, unsettled feeling he’s had since the funeral. That sickly dancing of his nerve endings and flutter of his stomach as he moves from place to place, but always in America. What the fuck do I think is going to happen?
It’s those damned flowers, he know… and his own stupidity. The smell seems to have permeated his skin and taken ghostly residence in his brain. He travels everywhere, trying to escape it, but at the same time, seeking it out. Still his eyes search the face of every dark-haired man he passes and scan the page of every newspaper. Looking for what? A fantasy? “They were just flowers,” he derides himself. Just cut, dead things.
He needs work. He focuses on this practical thought as his feet take him up pocked, rutted streets, past dilapidated buildings to the shabby motel he currently calls home. The drizzle that’s been misting him turns to actual rain and he spreads his arms, tips his head back slightly to welcome it.
Work, work, work, the word washes over him with the rain. He loves dreamwork, usually - loves the thrill and challenge it gives him and the money it nets him. But now? Despite the desirable distraction that work might provide, he’s avoided it, not wanting the reminders and afraid that the smell of lilies will follow him even into his subconscious.
You have turned into a serious basket case, he mocks himself as he shoves his key into his lock and gives it a sharp turn. He practically kicks the door open and walks in, violently flipping the light switch on his way. The acrid musk of stale cigarette smoke and the old sweat of other, uncounted losers wraps around him: his bitter welcome.
“Hm?” He pauses just inside the room as the door closes behind him. Something is amiss - there is movement by his feet when nothing should be there. He looks down just as a stiff bit of paper on the floor stops fluttering in the draft. His name and address stare back at him.
Impossible. An electric chill of foreboding shivers its way up his spine. He does not get mail. No one knows him here and no one who knows him is aware of his location. He stoops down to pick it up and fails once as his fingers tremble and it slips from them. He finally manages to grasp it, lift it, and, with a deep shuddery breath, turn it over.
No, he thinks as the postcard begins shaking even more furiously in his hand. “No way.” The words are no louder than the rustle of the paper in his quivering hold. He knows this picture - has had it committed to his heart’s memory along with the rare image of Arthur’s smile and the remembrance of the other man actually talking to him. He flips it over again. There is nothing written on the back except this address and “Mr. Eames.” It looks like Arthur’s handwriting… maybe… He can’t be sure - has nothing with which to compare it. But those thin, barely open e’s and the long diagonal slashes to dot the i's… Eames doesn’t know anyone else who writes this way. It certainly does look like Arthur’s hand, only shaky, the pen strokes filled with urgency.
A drop of water falls from Eames’ head to land on the postcard as his shaking spreads from his hands to the rest of his body. The drop runs a zigzag path down the postmark, drawing his eyes to it.
“Fu-“ he can’t even complete the syllable as the card drops from his hand and he backs away from it until his knees hit the bed and he falls onto it. No, no, no. That’s not-It can’t be!” But it is, the image almost indelibly imprinted behind his eyes tells him. It is the town where Arthur’s ashes are interred.
The forger’s hand goes to his breast pocket and the totem within. He pulls it out, strokes it, flips it between trembling fingers. Of course this is reality. He wouldn’t dream this and he can’t imagine anyone dreaming it for him. His totem slips through his fingers and lands on the bed. Fucking useless, he thinks, not sure if it’s the poker chip or his action he’s describing.
He jumps to his feet and goes to the table and the half-full bottle of Scotch that waits on it. More of it ends up around rather than in his glass, but he gets enough. He downs it in one go and refills it.
“Why?” he asks the Scotch-soaked table, voice quavering and weak, like the buzz of a dying fly. Why is he haunting me?
After the flowers, he wanted to believe that Arthur’s still alive. But he’s read every version of the accident report - watched every news clip. The burnt remains were conclusively - unquestionably -identified by dental records. He’s managed to convince himself that the flowers were just a coincidence. But this…
His hands clench into fists on the tabletop and his flaring nostrils fill with the sharp scent of alcohol as his mind turns itself inside out, looking for reason. “Why?” echoes through the chaos that is his consciousness, but the only answer is the sound of the rain outside, growing in intensity.
Rain… The sound calls forth a memory: another unkindled ember from the past.
“Bloody rain,” Eames cursed, watching the torrents streaming down from the sky as he stood with Arthur under the awning of the empty shop they were currently using.
“Just a cloudburst. It’ll be over soon,” the dark-haired man replied calmly, eyes coolly observing the water running off the faded canvas. He didn’t show the least concern or discomfort about being effectively stranded, alone with Eames.
“So…” The forger searched for a topic - any topic - not wanting to waste the rare moment. There they were, just the two of them, and Arthur was looking at the falling rain with a tiny smile bowing his lips. “So…” It was almost romantic, like they were behind a waterfall - nothing but the cold rush of water and two warm bodies.
“Yes, Eames?” Arthur turned that half-smile on him and Eames heard his heart pound over the thunder of falling water.
“How’d you get into that kind of art - Escher, Penrose stairs, paradoxes and all that?” He reached back for that one topic that had gotten his companion to open up before.
The point man raised one fine dark eyebrow, but still answered, “I guess it’s from when I was a kid.” Eames’ lips curved into a distant smile of his own as he tried to imagine the child Arthur. His mind filled with the image of a dark-haired boy in a little suit with a clip on tie. “Are you even listening?”
“Every word, darling. When you were a kid…?”
The smile faded in and out, but finally remained as Arthur continued. “There was this trick art gallery in my town. I used to go there when things got ba-when I needed to get away from… things. I’d feel… I liked it there.”
“An escape?” Eames responded, wanting the other man to continue and vaguely saddened by the self-editing in the narrative. “I can understand that.” He wanted to know more.
He wanted to know more. He wanted to know about Arthur - wanted him in his life like he’s never wanted anyone before.
And now he’s gone and I can’t let go. That’s what this is - what it’s all about. Somehow, he’s doing this to himself.
Still, he reaches for the remote and turns on the TV, wanting some sound besides the rain, his pulse, and his own dark thoughts. Its noise washes around him, meaningless, as his eyes drift back to the postcard on the floor.
“Enough,” he tells it, downing his second glass of Scotch. “I’m out of here.”
He’ll go to Mombasa - anywhere - and dare the ghost of his unfulfilled longing to follow him there.
-----------
Part 4
Arthur jolts up in bed, soaked with sweat and gasping, as if he’s been pulled from the water, rather than slumber. He looks around frantically, eyes searching his surroundings for anything familiar. Slowly, he recognizes the small, spare bedroom in the apartment that’s been his home for the past month. Although, giving it the name “home” is a bit generous. This is just an empty nest he’s roosting in until he’s ready to migrate, seek warmer climes. The only homey touch about the place is a crocheted blanket his landlady, an older widow who lives in the main part of the house of which his apartment is part, made for him. The bright, warm colors don’t suit him at all, but still… there’s something comforting about it. If nothing else, it’s as good as a totem when he awakens from a nightmare.
Not again… He hugs the blanket around himself as the savage remnants of his dream claw at his mind and illusory icicles of fear stab at his flesh, making him shiver. But the colorful acrylic isn’t quite enough… it’s not solid enough… still too new to him…
Arthur jumps out of bed and wobbles over to his closet on shaky legs, hands moving frenetically, combing his hair, wiping his eyes, grabbing jeans and sweatshirt and pulling them on. He slides his feet into some flip-flops on his way out the door, then moves at a pace that can barely be called walking: down the back stairs, along the trail through small coastal pines, and out onto the beach.
He breathes deeply, the familiar mix of salt, sand, and seaweed filling his nostrils, anchoring him. His eyes take in a small expanse of waves, gray under the white blanket of the marine layer. The soothing white noise of the rolling surf enters his ears and moves along his synapses to massage his brain, coaxing and calming. He slips his feet free of his sandals and absently rolls up the cuffs of his jeans before moving barefoot, flip-flops in hand, to where the tide meets the shore. The sand is prickly with pebbles and the water is cold. It’s not comfortable, but it’s comforting.
Just memories, he reminds himself. Memories distorted and magnified by a lens of irrational fear.
Slowly, the lingering image of a large, dark, menacing shadow over him is shrouded as Arthur draws the mist around him into his mind. The harsh sound of a voice shouting about possession and vengeance fades into the crying of gulls. The pull of receding waves tugs away oppressive fear and phantom pain. Twice dead to that man… the only danger here is the undertow. Painstakingly, he works his way back to rationality.
Nobody told me, he thinks as he starts walking along the beach, waves lapping at his feet. They told him that he’d probably lose the ability to dream on his own, but no one told him that it might come back. Or that it would return so unpleasantly.
I quit lucid dreaming cold turkey. The drugs and technology are too traceable - it might attract unwanted attention. I guess this is withdrawal. The nightmares started a couple months after his funeral: first as just vague terrors that had him waking suddenly in a nervous sweat, unsure of his surroundings, then steadily growing worse. He hasn’t had a good - or even indifferent - dream yet. Just the terrifying visions that reduced him to a child, shivering and disoriented in an unfamiliar place. That’s why he came back to this place - to the town he vowed never to return to. It is the only familiar place he can go back to - where the past haunts him but faintly. He can’t say it was ever home, but the Pacific has always been a solace to him.
And this almost nothing town is as good a place as any to lay low. A town that still has a grammar school - a blip on the Pacific Coast Highway. He’ll be safe enough here until he’s finished preparing his new identity.
At least I have something to do here. With this thought, he slips his flip-flops back on and follows a seasonal streambed up and back toward his apartment. Wild blackberry grows along its damp banks and he reaches out, careful of the poison oak growing together with the thorny bush, and picks a dark berry. He puts it in his mouth, letting its overwhelming tartness drive out the aftertaste of fitful sleep. The flavor also brings back a distant memory: his father, slapping away Arthur’s small hands, sending berries flying, before turning the hose on him to wash away any poison oak oils that might be clinging to him. It no longer hurts - the blackberry thorns that prick him as he picks another berry hurt more. I was so naïve, thinking my father was the worst the world had to offer. He eats the small fruit, darker and softer than the first, and its sweetness counteracts the bitterness of self-derision.
He walks on to the wooden stairs that lead up to his apartment, focusing his mind on the present with each step. Shower, breakfast, clothes, drive, work, lunch, work, drive, dinner, drink, sleep. Unexciting, but a distraction, nonetheless. The work is like the blanket in his bedroom: it gives him some semblance of belonging.
“Excuse me,” Arthur asked the shopkeeper, who was half-hidden behind a display of antiques, “could you tell me what happened to the trick art gallery that used to be here?”
“Trick art?” the man replied, puzzled. “Oh, you mean the optical illusions house. I closed that years ago. Local kids have got too many damned video games now and the tourists only want rustic art, antiques, and pies.”
“You?” Arthur asked, moving further into the shop to get a better look at the man. He was distracted by something on a side counter: a miniature set of Penrose stairs, carved in driftwood. He reached out to it, fingers stroking the smooth wood before picking it up, turning it, and perfecting its illusion. “This…”
“Oh, well I’m a bit embarrassed to admit that that’s my own-Arthur?” He turned to the man and the question in his voice. “By God, it is Arthur Bailey. Where’ve you been all these years, boy?”
“I ran away.” It was all his brain offered in response as he set the carving down again. He hadn’t expected to be recognized - had just wanted to find his old refuge and see if it might shelter him once more.
“Everybody in town knows that. They all figured you’d gotten into trouble and ended up dead or in prison. I knew better though,” the man said warmly, eyeing Arthur’s casual but respectable clothes. The former point man felt shamed by the scrutiny, sure the man was overvaluing him the way he might a forged antique.
“I did get into trouble,” he admitted, “but I straightened myself out.” For a while. “I’m just passing time now, waiting for documentation to work abroad.” It was true enough.
“You sticking around here?”
“I don’t know.” A fully truthful answer.
“Well then…”
He comes back from the memory as he turns off the shower. He takes his time, though, letting it slowly slide away as he towels himself dry, savoring a remembrance that causes no pain.
The old man, one of the few people Arthur wanted to remember from this town, insisted he stay. He recommended this apartment and strong-armed him into helping in the shop while his usual assistant was in the hospital.
And it is the first thing Arthur has been remotely glad about since… his new life began. Besides the hint of purpose it gives his days, it also grants him distraction. In the rustic Americana and would-be antiques, there is nothing to remind him of Eames.
Don’t think about elephants, Arthur.
Even after months of separation, the forger is never far from his thoughts. It doesn’t help that, through the same anonymous contacts he uses to get his false documentation, he still gathers information about Eames’ whereabouts. It’s stupid, pointless, and painful, but he can’t stop. He knows that after he sent that postcard, Eames went back to Mombasa. Arthur didn’t send him any more unsigned notes after that. He tried to stop the risky attempts to reach out.
But one day, someone came in the shop and sold a deck of 19th century playing cards. Arthur looked at the faded, yellowed paper and his heart became dry ice in his chest, still, heavy, and burning cold. Eames, its pitiful voice called.
Eames would love those. The first time Arthur worked with him, the forger played a hand of solitaire with cards just like those, in a dream. He told the then point man how he wished he could find a deck like it in reality. Then, he looked up at Arthur, curved his full lips in a slow smirk, and winked. Arthur thought he’d wake up then, kicked from the dream by the skipping of his heartbeat.
The genuine cards assaulted his heart with a different kind of arrhythmia. No one bought them for days and they sat in the shop like 52 lead paperweights, pressing down on his chest. Finally, he bought them himself, drove hundreds of miles to L.A., and sent them to Eames’ address in Mombasa.
The forger moved again after that and Arthur tries not to think about why. Tries not to find out his current location.
Tries not to think about elephants as his eyes follow the miniature Penrose stairs, around and around, in his free moments at work.
It works well enough through the day and dinner and the nightcap he indulges in perhaps too often. It works well enough until he lays down at night closes his eyes… and dreams…
He’s in the warehouse in Paris. In front of him, Eames sleeps on one of the lounge chairs. The forger’s not hooked up to the PASIV - he’s just laying there, sturdy limbs stretched out, inky curls of his tattoo’s design peeping out from rolled up sleeves, broad chest rising and falling slowly as he naps. Arthur crosses his arms in front of his chest - the other man is supposed to be working. He considers how he should wake him.
Before he can decide, Eames wakes up and stretches languidly as his eyes blink slowly open. Arthur feels heat in his cheeks, and lower, and it only increases when the sleepy man looks up at him and grins, without a hint of smugness or mockery. “Morning, sunshine,” he says. “Help me up?” The request is made with a lazy lifting of an arm. Arthur reaches out to the extended hand and-
Wakes up, real hand reaching out from his covers to a man who is not there and heart clenching within his chest. The blanket over his lower body may stave off cold and night terrors, but its bright patterns, so like, yet unlike the forger’s preferred fashions, can do nothing for longing.
Go out to the beach, Arthur. Walk in the waves. But the ocean is just another barrier that lies between them.
Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s sitting at his computer. And before he can stop himself, he’s opened the email that’s been waiting, unread, in his inbox for three days.
Eames is in Paris.
~to be continued~
----------
What's this? It couldn't possibly be yet another WIP that I haven't updated in months.
Oh. No. Wait.
It is.
Sorry.