A Bad Dream, pt. seven
Title: A Bad Dream
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~6700
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sometimes, the recovery can be just as hard to cope with as the trauma. Arthur and Eames learn this the hard way.
Warnings: Language, content, references to sex/noncon situations
Author's Note: I apologize for the brief intermission. We may now resume our regular scheduled programming. :D (read: This chapter just didn't want to be written omggg please ignore the tedium)
part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six, part eight, part nine.
+
Eames was woken gradually by a faint, tinny ringing. He growled and pushed his face deeper into the pillow, trying to shut it out.
Eventually, when the ringing didn't stop, Eames heard a creak and rustle of bedcovers and felt the mattress lighten at his side.
“What is it, Cobb?”
Opening one eye, Eames turned his head and blearily saw Arthur struggling into a pair of trousers, cradling his cell phone between his ear and shoulder. He caught Eames' eye and mouthed, Morning, and then, into the phone, “Uh-huh.”
Eames wondered vaguely where his totem was.
Probably in his pants, he concluded. Which were definitely on the floor.
Actually, he thought, settling back into the soft bed like a spoiled, indolent house cat, if this was a dream, he didn't want to wake up from it.
Arthur's cell phone snapped shut. “That was Cobb. He expects us both at the loft today to work on the revised plan.”
“Mmhm.” Eames rolled over lazily, stretched. “No good-morning kiss?”
“After I brush my teeth, maybe,” Arthur replied. “And after you brush yours. But preferably before you have any coffee or cigarettes.”
Eames threw a pillow at him. “Sure you can pencil that in, Arthur, you romantic devil, you?”
Arthur just smiled, that particular smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle, and made Eames love him all over again.
They showered -- one after the other, which seemed safer, and Eames guiltily hoped Arthur wouldn't fault him for locking the bathroom door, since it was just a paranoid ritual and not anything personal -- and Arthur fetched Eames' possessions from his room on the seventh floor so that he could find something to wear that wasn't still slightly soggy or custom-fitted to Arthur.
“You took the stairs, didn't you?” Eames grinned wolfishly when he returned, sitting on the bed in a towel. Arthur pursed his lips.
“Eames, you're going to make me regret sharing with you.”
“Don't be that way. I love learning about you. This is why your hotel rooms are always on the second floor, isn't it, to minimize your elevator exposure?”
Arthur seemed to take a couple seconds to figure out whether Eames was genuinely making fun of him or not, then relented, “There's also, 'Oh, it's taking too long to get here, let's just take the stairs, it's only one flight.'”
“Fucking adorable,” Eames murmured, pulling him down into a kiss.
Arthur was flushed when he pulled away, and straightened out his shirt self-consciously. He was quiet for a moment.
“What is it?”
“I'm trying to think of something else I can tell you,” said Arthur. His brow furrowed. “I'm allergic to dogs.”
“Arthur, you're going to turn me on if you get any more scandalous than this,” Eames teased him. “That's almost as racy as my being allergic to cats.”
Arthur frowned. “I like cats.”
“I like dogs. There goes any of the pets we might have had.” Eames pulled him by the tie into another kiss and purred, “It's like we're fucking star-crossed, darling.”
Arthur just smiled again. Then his expression became suddenly serious.
“I don't give head.”
“Okay,” said Eames, surprised at his sudden candidness.
“I just ... the idea ...” Arthur struggled for words, so Eames quickly nodded understanding, letting him lapse into relieved silence. He didn't really have to verbalize -- it was difficult to imagine prim, fastidious, strait-laced Arthur letting himself go enough to do something like get on his knees and suck cock -- although once the image was in Eames' head, it was very difficult to get out.
“Just as well I won't let you touch me, then,” he said, easing Arthur's discomfort. “See? Star-crossed.”
“Get dressed, Mr. Eames,” Arthur said, and Eames didn't even care about the briskness in his tone. Arthur had shared. He was so proud he could burst.
+
He had to borrow a pair of Arthur's shoes (and then he had to ask why Arthur had two pairs of shoes on him anyway and Arthur just sighed like he couldn't believe Eames was so embarrassing as to suggest that one pair alone would be appropriate in all situations that might come up on a job) and they meandered to the apartment building in no great rush. By the time they reached the loft, it was curiously empty, apart from the unconscious Ford at the far end of the room. Arthur picked up a note off the nearest desk and held it up.
Gone to get breakfast. -Cobb
“No Ari, either,” Arthur mused aloud. “Though if she's got any sense she'll have skipped town back to Paris. Honestly ...” He turned, and saw the gaze Eames had fixed on him. “What?”
“Kiss me,” said Eames.
Arthur gave him a shrewd look that Eames couldn't decipher, but it didn't matter, because then Arthur was closing the distance between them and claiming Eames' lips, and Eames would definitely never get tired of this. It felt like freedom, every time their lips met. They backed up, toward the corner, Arthur's hand cupping his cheek, and Eames wasn't even aware that they were moving until his back bumped the wall.
He stiffened. Arthur quickly pulled back, knowing the problem instinctively, his other hand caught in Eames' shirt so that he tugged the forger with him, away from the confines of the wall, but Eames stopped to catch his breath for a moment and hated that he couldn't read the look in Arthur's eyes. Reading people was what he did, but Arthur was always a blank slate. They were momentarily frozen.
“By all means,” JJ's dry tones drifted over to them from the open doorway where he stood, “don't stop on my account.”
For an instant the scene seemed to change -- not seeing him, Eames heard that fucking voice, felt Arthur's hands on him, not slim and precise but broad and powerful hands, hurting hands, and he felt the wall at his back, as oppressing as a mattress or the floor. He reacted impulsively, and shoved Arthur away so hard that the point man hit one of the tables with a hard thud and nearly fell over backwards.
JJ raised his eyebrows.
“Didn't mean to startle you,” he said, and started walking across the loft to the whiteboard, carelessly shrugging out of his coat.
Arthur hadn't moved, still sprawled against the edge of the table, and was staring hard at Eames. Eames felt shaken and flustered, blood itching in his veins. He could still see the faint bruise he'd left on Arthur's jaw from the other night.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“Okay,” said Arthur, picking himself up cautiously. He looked wary, almost like he thought Eames might attack him again. And suddenly, irrationally, Eames was angry with him. They were still so far from okay.
Turn around, he wanted to snarl, grab Arthur by the shoulders and shake him and twist him round. Don't you see him? Open your fucking eyes. Can't you see what he is?
Instead, he growled, “Stop looking at me like that,” and stormed out the door.
He had no qualms leaving Arthur alone with JJ. Arthur was a much stronger person than him. Arthur would never let another man bully or brutalize him, and would never understand why Eames behaved as irrationally as he did.
He didn't go far -- just paced up and down the block a few times, smoking furiously and thinking. He thought, fleetingly, of killing JJ. But it didn't seem fair when he wasn't a hundred percent certain -- and Eames saw potential triggers everywhere he looked -- and, besides. He might have enjoyed blowing things up indiscriminately in dreams, but in reality, Eames was not much of a killer. He was, as he'd once told Arthur long ago (and been met with a dismissive roll of the eyes) more of a lover than a fighter.
And anyway, how could he justify a murder when the crime he was accusing the man of had not, technically, even taken place? No court in the world would convict a man based on bad dreams.
He wasn't antagonizing Eames, anyway. He wasn't being aggressive or overtly forward. He'd barely spoken a word to Eames, actually, since he was working in closer contact with Arthur and Cobb. He didn't seem interested in Eames at all. All Eames had to do was tough it out, tolerate him and get this job over it. As long as he kept his head together during the actual job, and didn't think of Charlie, or let his projections in...
He caught himself standing stock-still, rubbing his totem. None of the people on the street even took any notice of them; they just drifted around him. Ah, New Yorkers.
He forced himself to get it together and returned to the warehouse with a newly-purchased copy of The Times tucked under his arm. Ariadne and Cobb had made an appearance, along with pastries and coffee. Arthur was sitting at his desk and reading a file. He didn't look up when Eames walked in. Eames grabbed a cup and a danish, flopped into the chair at his own desk, thumbed the paper open to the crossword puzzle and picked up a pen.
That was the extent of work he got done, while the others all converged and discussed how the plan was to change with Ariadne as the bait, since she had never had to distract a mark before or even had more than minimal contact with one, as she normally stayed out of the dreams. At least, that was all he did until Ariadne approached and asked him for some help in the dreamspace. He resignedly left his desk and hooked himself up with her.
“What did you want help with?” he asked, once they found themselves standing in a typical gym she'd fashioned from nothing.
“Anything you can think of,” she said. “I've made some shortcuts, hidden escape routes ... what else should I cover?”
“Arthur will give you some weapons training,” he said. “You shouldn't go unarmed once you're under with Ford. He's obviously shown that even his projections are interested in you.”
Ariadne nodded, flushing. “What else? What would you have done?”
Eames had no desire to tell her that he wouldn't have cared if he'd had to pull Ford into the alley behind the gym and suck him off, if it distracted him long enough for Cobb to find anything important, because he valued his own body far less heavily than he did hers in the dreamscape. So he said, “All you need to do is stall him. Just be your natural, charming self, Ari. You don't have to do anything unsafe. Hopefully, you won't even have to leave the gym.”
“What if his projections attack me, or something?” she asked, looking nervous for the first time.
“They won't.” Hopefully, he added silently. “They don't see you as an invasion or a threat. You've just roused their interest, is all. And besides, I'll be here with you the whole time.”
“You will?”
He nodded, affecting wide-eyed indignation. “What, did you really think we'd leave you alone with him?”
She allowed herself a small smile.
“I'll be standing right nearby to step in if you need me, or if you want to tag out and leave. Don't be afraid to.”
“Could you really?” Ariadne asked. She was half apprehensive, half fascinated, and he got the sense that she'd been waiting to ask this question. “Forge me?”
“Absolutely,” he said, and then he was her, a mirror image, down to the clothing. “You would be surprised at how people you know are generally the hardest to forge. The easiest forgery is somebody the mark knows, because you're allowed to leave small imperfections; their subconscious will fill in the blanks for you. But I'd call this passable, wouldn't you?”
Ariadne looked quite astonished to be hearing this in her own voice. She blinked, momentarily gaping.
“Do I really sound like that?” she managed to say at last, and Eames chuckled, shedding the disguise.
“Of course, I don't do it often to my teammates. Doesn't seem respectful. Still, for the purposes of the job, I'd far rather put myself in Ford's crosshairs than leave you to it, no matter how safe we make this.”
“How do you do it?” Ariadne asked, her eyes searching him intensely. “I've tried to. I can create all kinds of illusions, I mastered Escher's waterfall in an hour. But I can't change my appearance at all. Arthur and Cobb are the best dreamers in the business and they can't do it. You're the best in the world. So how do you?”
Eames had to laugh again. “You remind me of Arthur. He used to get so frustrated that he could never learn to forge. But it's not something you learn.”
“No?”
“No. Forging is an art that requires a certain amount of self-actualization. You can't be taught that.”
She silently framed the word with her lips, considering it.
“Self-awareness, self-enlightenment, almost,” he said. “An embracing of reality and, at the same time, an ability to see past the truth. It's an attachment to the present moment and an awareness of your true self. You can't do it because you've been taught to control the dreams, like they're something to be tamed. Arthur, too. Forging is far more subtle than that.”
“Then how come you could always do it?” Ariadne asked, hesitantly, and Eames knew what she meant.
“You mean, how could I forge when I forgot who my true self was,” he said.
She nodded, almost shyly.
“I don't know,” Eames confessed. “I suppose because I was so dissociated. Maybe that's all it takes, as well. A constant splitting of the mind. I had to be somebody.”
He was glad that she didn't push the topic after that. They ran through a couple of plans, a couple back-up plans, and she let him tinker with her architecture. When it was nearly time for the timer to run out, she said, “Do you want me to back off for awhile? See if your projection shows up?”
Eames thought about it and shook his head slowly. “No,” he said quietly. “I don't think I'll be having too much trouble with that projection on this run.”
Afterward, when he'd returned to his desk and crossword puzzle, Cobb and Arthur took Ariadne under to give her some lessons in defending herself in a dream, leaving Eames and JJ the only two conscious parties in the room for fifteen tense minutes. They both stayed at their desks, and the only sound to be heard was the scratching of JJ's pen on his paper. He didn't look up once. Eames sat there without moving, his forehead covered in a fine sheen of sweat, his brain locked up firmly and refusing to register any of the crossword hints. By the time the others were awake again, he was full of doubts, and he didn't like that feeling.
+
Arthur finally approached him at the end of the day, PASIV case in hand, after he left the building.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” Eames said. “It was me.” He faltered. “Sorry for shoving you.”
Arthur relaxed at once, shrugging it off easily. He cast a sidelong glance at Eames while they walked, the corners of his eyes crinkled.
“JJ complained to Cobb. He thinks we should be showing a little more professionalism considering we're on McAvoy's time and dollar.”
“Mmm. And what did Cobb say to you?”
“Cobb said he's very glad that we're good again and he doesn't care if we shag on his desk, just so long as we pull ourselves together long enough to do this job.”
“What a good boss,” said Eames, beaming.
“Then he looked a little concerned and expressly asked that we don't actually fuck on his desk,” Arthur finished. Eames sighed.
“Cobb is such a dad.”
Arthur nodded agreement, smiling, and said nothing.
Impulsively, Eames blurted out, “I don't like JJ.”
Arthur frowned, his eyebrows drawing together. “Me neither.”
If it was possible, Eames loved him even more.
“I don't think he's a fool, though,” Arthur added. “Even if Cobb wasn't too impressed with Ford's security, it's pretty heavy. They're not militarized, but that just meant they'd rather resort to brutal means of ripping us apart than straight-out shooting us. We had to shoot ourselves, in the end, when they caught up, and it took them about an hour, but we were still on the move almost the whole time. JJ was right to call us, there's no way he could have done the whole job alone.”
He fell silent, and Eames could almost hear him thinking.
“I really should just kill Ford,” he muttered under his breath, staring down at the sidewalk and avoiding other pedestrians warily. “The way those projections honed in on Ariadne... Why does he even have subcon security anyway, you know? Who does that, except somebody with a huge secret?” He heaved a heavy sigh. “Or someone paranoid with bipolar disorder and a dead girlfriend, and no actual training at all.”
Eames wished he could agree, but he'd read the case reports inside and out. He wanted to see Ford dead. He just didn't want to see Arthur do it.
“I wished we'd never taken Ari under with us,” Arthur said.
“Me, too,” said Eames.
“We could never convince her to sit this one out, though.”
“No,” Eames agreed. Now he was almost certain Arthur was thinking the same thing he was.
Arthur didn't seem to want to discuss it, though, because the next thing he said, with another sigh, was, “Indian takeaway for dinner?”
“I was actually thinking of a little Mexican place in the Village. Maybe a little jaunt to Times Square afterward.” Eames slipped a hand into Arthur's and smiled. “Let me show you my New York, Arthur. Please.”
Arthur swept a glance around at the street their work building was on, full of brick apartments and rusting fire escapes and a heavily graffitied garage or two. He looked back at Eames doubtfully.
“Please,” Eames repeated.
Arthur was somebody who appreciated fine arts and cuisine, but even then he only indulged when he was in the mood for it, and never on a job. He wasn't a social being -- a night in was always favoured over a night spent in the company of a crowd -- and he looked as though dining in Greenwich Village at a Mexican place was possibly the worst idea he'd heard in his life.
But he consented. Eames was thrilled. It meant that maybe, he was changing Arthur, too; getting him to open up a little, something Eames had been striving for for a very long time.
He didn't even think Arthur hated it, by the time they got back to the hotel and Eames officially checked out of his own room and moved into Arthur's; but when they got into bed Eames curled up on his own side and didn't initiate a thing, because Times Square just hadn't held its usual glamour for him. There were too many people crowded around and he'd seen JJ in all of them, and neither of them could be expected to change overnight, after all. Arthur just kissed him and gave up without a word.
+
They spent one more day preparing. Cobb, Arthur and Ariadne were under for half an hour while Eames worked on his crossword and JJ made little notes on the whiteboard.
Apropos of nothing, the other man said, “I didn't think they sold The New York Times in England.”
Startled, Eames bit down on the pen he was contemplatively chewing and nearly caught his tongue in his teeth. He withdrew the pen slowly, determined not to look up.
“Hence reading it,” he said, in a very measured tone, “in New York.”
“I mean that you seem to be pretty into it. You've been here, how many days now? And you've spent every day sitting there and reading the newspaper.”
Eames hated him. Hated him so much for even daring to talk to him. Managed to hate him even more, somehow, for this slight.
“I'll worry about doing my job,” he said quietly. “You worry about doing yours.”
JJ walked over. Eames swallowed hard and stared down at the crossword as the man came up to him and circled around him, like a predatory shark. His proximity scalded Eames' back.
“The crossword,” JJ remarked, right behind him. “Are you good at it?”
That bristling, burning itch was sparking through his veins again. The smothered fight-flight instinct, wanting to burst right out of his chest. Eames unstuck his throat.
“I can usually finish Saturday's.”
“'Lovers in Moonlight surrealist',” JJ read over his shoulder. He leaned over. The sharp scent of his cologne made Eames go rigid in his seat as JJ touched the tip of his finger to the blank space on the paper and gently trailed it across, spelling aloud slowly and softly, “C-H-A-G-A-L-L.”
Eames didn't say anything.
JJ straightened up.
“Well,” he said. “I'll let you get back to work.”
He was walking, he was walking away and all Eames could think, faintly, was the same thing he'd told himself after every single torment the man of his nightmares had exacted on him: I survived.
JJ took a seat at his own desk.
“I always thought of Chagall as more of a modernist,” he said, without looking at Eames.
Suddenly, Eames had no desire to continue working on the crossword.
+
He was quiet for the rest of the day.
“Everything alright with you?” Arthur asked, climbing into bed next to him and switching off the lamp nearest him. “You've just been getting quieter since ... the other night.”
“No. It's nothing,” Eames hastened to assure him. “I just--” He let out a slow breath. “I'll be glad when this job is over.”
“Me too. You have no idea.” Arthur shoved his pillow into place with particular violence. “Ariadne is hell-bent on doing this.”
“Mm,” Eames said non-committally.
There was a moment's silence, and they both seemed to anticipate what the other was going to say, because Arthur started, “Eames--”
“I can forge her. Ford's subconscious would never know the difference. She wouldn't even have to be near him.”
“That's not -- I just--” Arthur stopped, his eyes squeezing shut for a minute. “It's just,” he finally continued, “we lost Mal to dreaming. We almost lost Cobb. And I almost lost you.” He took a deep breath. “If something were to happen to Ariadne on a job ...”
“I know,” said Eames. “I know how hard it is to come back from.”
“It's going to be a simple run. I know this. There's just this voice in the back of my head that keeps saying something is going to go wrong. What were we even thinking, bringing her? We're poking around in the head of an accused serial rapist, for God's sake.”
“She's a big girl,” Eames reminded him. “But I know what you mean.”
He heard Arthur swallow. Then the point man rolled over, and even in the dark Eames could see the desperation in his eyes.
“I don't want you to do this,” he said. “I didn't before, and I still don't. But I think maybe you can.”
“I know I can.”
“Just keep her safe, Eames,” said Arthur. “Just -- keep her safe, however you can.”
“I will,” Eames promised him. “I will.”
+
They cleaned out the loft and wiped their fingerprints from every surface, and went under together after night fell.
The architecture was a blend of Cobb and Ariadne's joined efforts. The main setting would be the street Ford lived on and where his gym also happened to be, a block away. The streets looped back on themselves and there were shortcuts and safe rooms. Arthur, as the dreamer, would be keeping out of the way, hopefully where no security would find him, while Cobb and JJ would be doing the extracting. Ariadne and Eames waited at the gym.
Cobb's voice crackled from a tiny earpiece in both their ears: “He just left the building. He's on his way.”
“Cheers,” Eames answered him through the equally tiny, inconspicuous mouthpiece attached to his collar. To Ariadne, he said, “That gives us about two minutes.”
He'd crafted himself a rather buff-looking American, the sort one would expect to find in a gym in New York. Ariadne shivered, hovering in his shadow and stealing glances at all the projections, who would, unsettlingly, steal glances back at her every now and then.
“It's all surprisingly ... normal,” she whispered. “Except for all of them staring at me, I mean. I expected more ... you know ...”
“Texas Chainsaw Massacre?” Eames inquired. “I would think it's standard fare, though. Your typical sociopath isn't like in the movies. Consider our friend Ford. He's an unemployed bum who can't hold down a job and he spends all day shut up in his apartment, probably binge-drinking, except to go to the gym. If he is our man, he wasn't smart enough to hide any of the bodies. He's not exactly Hannibal Lecter, is he?”
“So you're saying it's not necessarily a point in his favour,” said Ariadne.
“No, not necessarily. Killers and rapists come from all walks of life -- and all kinds of minds.” He fell silent, thinking of the relative silence and tranquility of JJ's dreamspace. How peaceful a backdrop it had been to the violence.
“There he is,” Ariadne said suddenly.
Ford had just walked in, wearing track pants and a sleeveless shirt. He headed for the treadmills.
“He's arrived at the gym, get moving,” Eames radioed Cobb. “Let him get settled,” he said to Ariadne. “Give it ten minutes or so.”
He crossed the floor of the gym, winding his way around the bench presses, and claimed the treadmill next to Ford's. Ford was idly thumbing through his iPod. He eventually put his earbuds in and set the treadmill to a jogging speed. Eames did the same.
Ten minutes had nearly passed when Ariadne appeared at Ford's side.
“Hey,” she said, “are you gonna be done in a minute?”
Ford glanced down at the row of occupied treadmills, cast Ariadne half a glance, and shook his head, his breath huffing steadily.
She was undeterred. Raising her voice so that he could hear her over his music, she said, “Do you like your iPod?”
“What?”
“Your iPod. I've been thinking of upgrading mine and I wanted to know what you think of that model. Sorry,” she said, blushing and smiling prettily, playing it coy, “I just couldn't help but notice. I was watching you from over there.”
Ariadne, you minx, Eames thought, impressed.
Now Ford took notice of her. So did half the projections in the vicinity. Ariadne didn't waver, didn't acknowledge them, and in a few seconds they all began to turn away again, except for Ford.
He hit a button on the panel of the treadmill that made it decelerate to a slow halt, and pulled out both earbuds.
“What did you say your name was?”
“I didn't,” said Ariadne. “It's Katy.”
“Katy,” he said, starting to smile. “I'm Joe.”
He reached out and shook her hand. She didn't falter. Eames was proud of her.
“Here.” Ford was handing over the iPod. “Why don't you see how she handles?”
“Thanks.” Ariadne started playing with it, scrolling through playlists. “Oh, I love your taste in music,” she gushed. “These are some of my favourite bands.”
Ford was grinning, obviously enchanted, by the time she handed it back to him. He stuffed the iPod back into his pocket, stepped off the treadmill, and said, “It's all yours. Will I see you here tomorrow? Same time?”
“Sure -- but--”
“See you then,” Ford said, and then he was leaving, and Ariadne was too startled to come up with an argument. Eames hopped off the treadmill and pulled her aside.
“Cobb, you'd better get out of there,” he said into his mouthpiece. “We made contact but he's leaving the gym just now.”
Cobb swore. “Alright. You'd both better get out, then. We'll reconvene up above. Arthur, you sit tight for now.”
They met back in reality -- all except Ford and Arthur, who had to remain in the dreamscape to keep the dream going.
“I don't understand,” Cobb said. “Why did he cut it short?”
“No idea,” said Eames. “We'll just have to give it another whirl after a day's passed.”
Ariadne had held up very well by that point, but she looked a little pale all the same.
“You want to know the weird thing?” she told Eames. “He's almost the kind of guy I'd go for, if I didn't know he's probably a psycho.”
+
It would take almost two hours for a full day to pass by in the dream. Eames hooked himself up before one hour had gone by.
“You shouldn't be here,” Arthur said, startled, when Eames appeared in his safe room.
“Just wanted to see how you're holding up.”
“Well, it's boring, but at least the security hasn't discovered me yet.”
“Do you think they're looking?”
“By now? Probably.”
Arthur was sitting on the floor, back to the wall. Eames walked over and took a seat next to him.
“Do we have a new plan?” Arthur asked.
“Same thing tomorrow.”
“It'd better get done, then,” said Arthur. “I don't know how long his subconscious will tolerate us here. How did Ariadne do?”
“Not terribly. I don't like that he left all of a sudden like that, though. Like he's planning something.”
He wound a hand around Arthur's, and Arthur let him.
“Be careful,” said Arthur, rubbing his thumb over Eames' hand distractedly.
“Darling, I'm always careful,” Eames told him.
They sat, leaning against one another, holding hands, until the timer ran out and Eames woke up.
+
Something went wrong almost immediately.
“The projections are antsy,” Cobb reported. “Ford's just left the apartment. We can't waste any time, we're just going in.”
Both Arthur and Eames were silent on their ends. Ariadne was watching the projections nervously, one of whom shouldered past Eames on his way to the gym's wheat-grass smoothie bar.
In less than a minute they heard Cobb's voice again, now harried and rough:
“Shit. They're on us.”
Eames hastily beckoned Ariadne aside, all the way to one of the back doors they'd added to the layout of the gym. They slipped out into an empty alley.
“Have they caught up to you?”
“No, but we'll have to call it off. We can't access the apartment with them all over us.”
“I have a back-up plan,” said Eames. “Arthur, are you getting this?”
“Loud and clear.”
“Alright. Cobb, how long do you think you can give these projections the run-around?”
Cobb's staticky voice was full of doubt. “How long would you need?”
“Thirty minutes to an hour? I just need you and JJ to distract the security and lead them away from the apartment.”
“They're all over, Eames, I don't think they would miss another break-in attempt.”
“I just need you to do it, Cobb. Can you?”
Cobb's reply didn't come right away. When it finally did, they heard a revving car engine in the background.
“Alright. But don't do anything stupid.”
Ariadne looked back at the gym, toying nervously with the collar of her t-shirt. “Okay, so, what's the new pl--?”
The last word was smothered as Eames struck from behind, wrapping both arms around her and clamping a chemical-soaked cloth over her face.
“I'm so sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered in her ear as she thrashed furiously, clawing at his arm. It only took a couple seconds for her struggles to slacken before she went totally limp in his arms.
Arthur was waiting at the other end of the alley for him.
“How long will it take you to get her underground?” Eames asked, transferring Ariadne to his arms.
“A hundred seconds or so if I take the back alleys you added,” said Arthur. “She'll be safe with me, don't worry.”
Eames nodded quickly. “See you, then.”
“Hey.” He half-turned. Arthur had fixed him in a burning gaze. “Come back to me, okay?”
“Of course I'll come back,” said Eames, mystified.
Arthur started to open his mouth, but then just shook his head and turned away. “See you,” he said, and was gone.
Eames didn't like to think of himself as a misogynist, and that wasn't what this was, not to him. It had nothing to do with Ariadne being a female. The plain truth was that he'd have pulled this same stunt on Arthur, if it were the point man on the line (maybe not Cobb, because Cobb was probably more capable than Eames at taking care of himself in a dream. Not that Arthur wasn't -- because, zero-gravity, and God would Eames have loved to see that -- but it was Arthur). Eames was a man who knew the value of self-preservation, and did not like to stick his neck out unnecessarily. What he said was If you're not back before the kick, I'm leaving with or without you, and he meant it. But there was something about this team, and somewhere along the line, he'd stopped meaning it. Some part of him just couldn't handle the thought of Ariadne doing this.
He pulled together his disguise hastily and went back inside. He did not have to wait long for Ford to spot him.
“I was wondering if you'd show up.” Ford approached from behind, a smile in his voice. “Katy.”
“Hi.” Eames-as-Ariadne turned and smiled brightly at him. He wasted no time. If Ford wouldn't make the first move, Eames would have to. “Listen, I did something really dumb. I forgot to bring any juice with me and my blood sugar's getting low.”
Ford blinked. “You could get a smoothie?”
“No money.” Poor Ariadne. He really was making her look like a bimbo here. He twined a strand of hair around his finger and smiled. Ford liked the colour of their hair. “So I'll have to get going. Unless you've got any snacks? My apartment's, like, twelve subway stops away.”
Ford seemed surprised, but he didn't question the random onset of hypoglycemia, nor why somebody would choose to be a member of a gym that was, like, twelve subway stops away from home, nor how Katy had seemed to anticipate that his apartment would, naturally, be closer. He was dreaming and he was deep: these were all normal-seeming things. Either that, or he was as stupid as Eames was pretending to be.
Do it, you prick, he urged silently. I'm practically handing her over to you.
It didn't take Ford very long at all to decide where he wanted this to go, because he recovered in a snap. “I do at my apartment. It's just down the street from here.”
Eames let Ariadne's face light up. “That would be perfect, thanks so much.”
He was surprised at how calm he felt, walking alongside Ford to the apartment. He'd expected nervousness, even anxiety or some form of regression. Instead, he only felt a cold, calm indifference. Was that bad? He had to wonder at himself. Did his mind feel it was back on familiar territory, leading a mark back to a bedroom in the form of some pretty young thing, tailor-made to their interests?
In the street, car horns blared, brakes screeched, and people shouted. The projections were starting to get riled up. He'd have to be fast.
The apartment, once they'd climbed three flights of stairs to reach it, was no surprise. Immediately inside were empty cans of beer, a TV, and a game console. The whole place smelled almost nauseatingly of weed. It was dark and unclean, the lair of someone who couldn't be bothered to take care of his things. Eames feigned interest.
“Nice place. Do you share it with anyone?” he asked, wandering around freely while Ford watched him. “Mind if I look around?”
“Just me, and no problem,” he said. “I'll see if there's anything in my fridge for you to eat.”
He was sort of nice, in an odd way. If he wasn't a rapist and killer, Eames thought, he was definitely some sad, lonely person who'd never been hit on by anything as attractive as Ariadne since his girlfriend had died. The way his eyes tracked her form, he was either soaking up her attention like a starving weed to sunlight, or imagining what she'd look like tied to his bed.
And still, no fear. Just a small, indignant flutter of protectiveness on Ariadne's body's behalf.
Eames dove into the bedroom as soon as Ford disappeared around a wall. There was only the three squashed rooms -- if they could be called rooms, since they had no actual doors -- kitchen, den between, and bedroom with attached bath. He almost fell flat on his face tripping over the sea of dirty laundry on the bedroom floor. The whole room smelled musty and unpleasant.
Cobb had probably checked the places one would usually hold a secret: the closet, the dresser, the mattress. Since he had a minute or less, Eames immediately ticked those off. Cobb would have been thorough. But Cobb also wasn't a professional thief, and the first thing Eames pounced on was the bedside table. He slid open the top drawer. It was empty. He knocked on the top of the table. Instead of a hollow report, it gave a muffled thump.
Oh, this had to be a record. Even for Eames. He reached inside the top drawer and let his fingernails scrabble against the wood backing before he found a hold and slowly pulled out the secret drawer.
Where would the layperson put a secret if he had only the most basic grasp of subcon security? Not in a safe, nor a bank vault, nor safety deposit box. Eames couldn't believe they hadn't thought of this before.
Inside the hidden drawer were photographs. Not one or two, either. Hundreds had to have been crammed in here. Eames rifled through them swiftly, naming the girls that appeared in each picture. Lacey Thomas. Christie McAvoy. Maria Gilthorpe, who'd been Ford's girlfriend, the first victim. He counted them out. All seven girls, all stripped and posed in obscene ways. These were not all pictures Ford had taken. Most of them, slightly unfocused, Eames recognized to be memories.
He was just raising his hand to his collar to message Cobb that he'd done it when he heard Ford's voice behind him. “What are you looking at?”
Eames slid the drawer shut and turned around slowly. Ford was standing right in front of the door, blocking his exit, holding a knife.
Of course he was holding a fucking knife.
There was something, Eames thought distantly, that he ought to have done right then. Dropped the disguise. Contacted Cobb. Trusted the others to wake him up once they were all out.
But he couldn't think of a single thing to do. Not a one. He was a statue. Without fear, without thoughts, empty. Just a shell.
JJ opened the door and without missing a beat he jammed a taser into Ford's side. He didn't even look as the man gave a strangled scream over the ferocious electric crackling and dropped to his knees with a thud, because his brown eyes were locked on Eames'. Ford hit the floor and was out.
“I've been waiting all week for the chance to talk to you alone,” JJ said, smiling, and he shot Eames in the head.
next
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~6700
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sometimes, the recovery can be just as hard to cope with as the trauma. Arthur and Eames learn this the hard way.
Warnings: Language, content, references to sex/noncon situations
Author's Note: I apologize for the brief intermission. We may now resume our regular scheduled programming. :D (read: This chapter just didn't want to be written omggg please ignore the tedium)
part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six, part eight, part nine.
+
Eames was woken gradually by a faint, tinny ringing. He growled and pushed his face deeper into the pillow, trying to shut it out.
Eventually, when the ringing didn't stop, Eames heard a creak and rustle of bedcovers and felt the mattress lighten at his side.
“What is it, Cobb?”
Opening one eye, Eames turned his head and blearily saw Arthur struggling into a pair of trousers, cradling his cell phone between his ear and shoulder. He caught Eames' eye and mouthed, Morning, and then, into the phone, “Uh-huh.”
Eames wondered vaguely where his totem was.
Probably in his pants, he concluded. Which were definitely on the floor.
Actually, he thought, settling back into the soft bed like a spoiled, indolent house cat, if this was a dream, he didn't want to wake up from it.
Arthur's cell phone snapped shut. “That was Cobb. He expects us both at the loft today to work on the revised plan.”
“Mmhm.” Eames rolled over lazily, stretched. “No good-morning kiss?”
“After I brush my teeth, maybe,” Arthur replied. “And after you brush yours. But preferably before you have any coffee or cigarettes.”
Eames threw a pillow at him. “Sure you can pencil that in, Arthur, you romantic devil, you?”
Arthur just smiled, that particular smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle, and made Eames love him all over again.
They showered -- one after the other, which seemed safer, and Eames guiltily hoped Arthur wouldn't fault him for locking the bathroom door, since it was just a paranoid ritual and not anything personal -- and Arthur fetched Eames' possessions from his room on the seventh floor so that he could find something to wear that wasn't still slightly soggy or custom-fitted to Arthur.
“You took the stairs, didn't you?” Eames grinned wolfishly when he returned, sitting on the bed in a towel. Arthur pursed his lips.
“Eames, you're going to make me regret sharing with you.”
“Don't be that way. I love learning about you. This is why your hotel rooms are always on the second floor, isn't it, to minimize your elevator exposure?”
Arthur seemed to take a couple seconds to figure out whether Eames was genuinely making fun of him or not, then relented, “There's also, 'Oh, it's taking too long to get here, let's just take the stairs, it's only one flight.'”
“Fucking adorable,” Eames murmured, pulling him down into a kiss.
Arthur was flushed when he pulled away, and straightened out his shirt self-consciously. He was quiet for a moment.
“What is it?”
“I'm trying to think of something else I can tell you,” said Arthur. His brow furrowed. “I'm allergic to dogs.”
“Arthur, you're going to turn me on if you get any more scandalous than this,” Eames teased him. “That's almost as racy as my being allergic to cats.”
Arthur frowned. “I like cats.”
“I like dogs. There goes any of the pets we might have had.” Eames pulled him by the tie into another kiss and purred, “It's like we're fucking star-crossed, darling.”
Arthur just smiled again. Then his expression became suddenly serious.
“I don't give head.”
“Okay,” said Eames, surprised at his sudden candidness.
“I just ... the idea ...” Arthur struggled for words, so Eames quickly nodded understanding, letting him lapse into relieved silence. He didn't really have to verbalize -- it was difficult to imagine prim, fastidious, strait-laced Arthur letting himself go enough to do something like get on his knees and suck cock -- although once the image was in Eames' head, it was very difficult to get out.
“Just as well I won't let you touch me, then,” he said, easing Arthur's discomfort. “See? Star-crossed.”
“Get dressed, Mr. Eames,” Arthur said, and Eames didn't even care about the briskness in his tone. Arthur had shared. He was so proud he could burst.
+
He had to borrow a pair of Arthur's shoes (and then he had to ask why Arthur had two pairs of shoes on him anyway and Arthur just sighed like he couldn't believe Eames was so embarrassing as to suggest that one pair alone would be appropriate in all situations that might come up on a job) and they meandered to the apartment building in no great rush. By the time they reached the loft, it was curiously empty, apart from the unconscious Ford at the far end of the room. Arthur picked up a note off the nearest desk and held it up.
Gone to get breakfast. -Cobb
“No Ari, either,” Arthur mused aloud. “Though if she's got any sense she'll have skipped town back to Paris. Honestly ...” He turned, and saw the gaze Eames had fixed on him. “What?”
“Kiss me,” said Eames.
Arthur gave him a shrewd look that Eames couldn't decipher, but it didn't matter, because then Arthur was closing the distance between them and claiming Eames' lips, and Eames would definitely never get tired of this. It felt like freedom, every time their lips met. They backed up, toward the corner, Arthur's hand cupping his cheek, and Eames wasn't even aware that they were moving until his back bumped the wall.
He stiffened. Arthur quickly pulled back, knowing the problem instinctively, his other hand caught in Eames' shirt so that he tugged the forger with him, away from the confines of the wall, but Eames stopped to catch his breath for a moment and hated that he couldn't read the look in Arthur's eyes. Reading people was what he did, but Arthur was always a blank slate. They were momentarily frozen.
“By all means,” JJ's dry tones drifted over to them from the open doorway where he stood, “don't stop on my account.”
For an instant the scene seemed to change -- not seeing him, Eames heard that fucking voice, felt Arthur's hands on him, not slim and precise but broad and powerful hands, hurting hands, and he felt the wall at his back, as oppressing as a mattress or the floor. He reacted impulsively, and shoved Arthur away so hard that the point man hit one of the tables with a hard thud and nearly fell over backwards.
JJ raised his eyebrows.
“Didn't mean to startle you,” he said, and started walking across the loft to the whiteboard, carelessly shrugging out of his coat.
Arthur hadn't moved, still sprawled against the edge of the table, and was staring hard at Eames. Eames felt shaken and flustered, blood itching in his veins. He could still see the faint bruise he'd left on Arthur's jaw from the other night.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“Okay,” said Arthur, picking himself up cautiously. He looked wary, almost like he thought Eames might attack him again. And suddenly, irrationally, Eames was angry with him. They were still so far from okay.
Turn around, he wanted to snarl, grab Arthur by the shoulders and shake him and twist him round. Don't you see him? Open your fucking eyes. Can't you see what he is?
Instead, he growled, “Stop looking at me like that,” and stormed out the door.
He had no qualms leaving Arthur alone with JJ. Arthur was a much stronger person than him. Arthur would never let another man bully or brutalize him, and would never understand why Eames behaved as irrationally as he did.
He didn't go far -- just paced up and down the block a few times, smoking furiously and thinking. He thought, fleetingly, of killing JJ. But it didn't seem fair when he wasn't a hundred percent certain -- and Eames saw potential triggers everywhere he looked -- and, besides. He might have enjoyed blowing things up indiscriminately in dreams, but in reality, Eames was not much of a killer. He was, as he'd once told Arthur long ago (and been met with a dismissive roll of the eyes) more of a lover than a fighter.
And anyway, how could he justify a murder when the crime he was accusing the man of had not, technically, even taken place? No court in the world would convict a man based on bad dreams.
He wasn't antagonizing Eames, anyway. He wasn't being aggressive or overtly forward. He'd barely spoken a word to Eames, actually, since he was working in closer contact with Arthur and Cobb. He didn't seem interested in Eames at all. All Eames had to do was tough it out, tolerate him and get this job over it. As long as he kept his head together during the actual job, and didn't think of Charlie, or let his projections in...
He caught himself standing stock-still, rubbing his totem. None of the people on the street even took any notice of them; they just drifted around him. Ah, New Yorkers.
He forced himself to get it together and returned to the warehouse with a newly-purchased copy of The Times tucked under his arm. Ariadne and Cobb had made an appearance, along with pastries and coffee. Arthur was sitting at his desk and reading a file. He didn't look up when Eames walked in. Eames grabbed a cup and a danish, flopped into the chair at his own desk, thumbed the paper open to the crossword puzzle and picked up a pen.
That was the extent of work he got done, while the others all converged and discussed how the plan was to change with Ariadne as the bait, since she had never had to distract a mark before or even had more than minimal contact with one, as she normally stayed out of the dreams. At least, that was all he did until Ariadne approached and asked him for some help in the dreamspace. He resignedly left his desk and hooked himself up with her.
“What did you want help with?” he asked, once they found themselves standing in a typical gym she'd fashioned from nothing.
“Anything you can think of,” she said. “I've made some shortcuts, hidden escape routes ... what else should I cover?”
“Arthur will give you some weapons training,” he said. “You shouldn't go unarmed once you're under with Ford. He's obviously shown that even his projections are interested in you.”
Ariadne nodded, flushing. “What else? What would you have done?”
Eames had no desire to tell her that he wouldn't have cared if he'd had to pull Ford into the alley behind the gym and suck him off, if it distracted him long enough for Cobb to find anything important, because he valued his own body far less heavily than he did hers in the dreamscape. So he said, “All you need to do is stall him. Just be your natural, charming self, Ari. You don't have to do anything unsafe. Hopefully, you won't even have to leave the gym.”
“What if his projections attack me, or something?” she asked, looking nervous for the first time.
“They won't.” Hopefully, he added silently. “They don't see you as an invasion or a threat. You've just roused their interest, is all. And besides, I'll be here with you the whole time.”
“You will?”
He nodded, affecting wide-eyed indignation. “What, did you really think we'd leave you alone with him?”
She allowed herself a small smile.
“I'll be standing right nearby to step in if you need me, or if you want to tag out and leave. Don't be afraid to.”
“Could you really?” Ariadne asked. She was half apprehensive, half fascinated, and he got the sense that she'd been waiting to ask this question. “Forge me?”
“Absolutely,” he said, and then he was her, a mirror image, down to the clothing. “You would be surprised at how people you know are generally the hardest to forge. The easiest forgery is somebody the mark knows, because you're allowed to leave small imperfections; their subconscious will fill in the blanks for you. But I'd call this passable, wouldn't you?”
Ariadne looked quite astonished to be hearing this in her own voice. She blinked, momentarily gaping.
“Do I really sound like that?” she managed to say at last, and Eames chuckled, shedding the disguise.
“Of course, I don't do it often to my teammates. Doesn't seem respectful. Still, for the purposes of the job, I'd far rather put myself in Ford's crosshairs than leave you to it, no matter how safe we make this.”
“How do you do it?” Ariadne asked, her eyes searching him intensely. “I've tried to. I can create all kinds of illusions, I mastered Escher's waterfall in an hour. But I can't change my appearance at all. Arthur and Cobb are the best dreamers in the business and they can't do it. You're the best in the world. So how do you?”
Eames had to laugh again. “You remind me of Arthur. He used to get so frustrated that he could never learn to forge. But it's not something you learn.”
“No?”
“No. Forging is an art that requires a certain amount of self-actualization. You can't be taught that.”
She silently framed the word with her lips, considering it.
“Self-awareness, self-enlightenment, almost,” he said. “An embracing of reality and, at the same time, an ability to see past the truth. It's an attachment to the present moment and an awareness of your true self. You can't do it because you've been taught to control the dreams, like they're something to be tamed. Arthur, too. Forging is far more subtle than that.”
“Then how come you could always do it?” Ariadne asked, hesitantly, and Eames knew what she meant.
“You mean, how could I forge when I forgot who my true self was,” he said.
She nodded, almost shyly.
“I don't know,” Eames confessed. “I suppose because I was so dissociated. Maybe that's all it takes, as well. A constant splitting of the mind. I had to be somebody.”
He was glad that she didn't push the topic after that. They ran through a couple of plans, a couple back-up plans, and she let him tinker with her architecture. When it was nearly time for the timer to run out, she said, “Do you want me to back off for awhile? See if your projection shows up?”
Eames thought about it and shook his head slowly. “No,” he said quietly. “I don't think I'll be having too much trouble with that projection on this run.”
Afterward, when he'd returned to his desk and crossword puzzle, Cobb and Arthur took Ariadne under to give her some lessons in defending herself in a dream, leaving Eames and JJ the only two conscious parties in the room for fifteen tense minutes. They both stayed at their desks, and the only sound to be heard was the scratching of JJ's pen on his paper. He didn't look up once. Eames sat there without moving, his forehead covered in a fine sheen of sweat, his brain locked up firmly and refusing to register any of the crossword hints. By the time the others were awake again, he was full of doubts, and he didn't like that feeling.
+
Arthur finally approached him at the end of the day, PASIV case in hand, after he left the building.
“Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” Eames said. “It was me.” He faltered. “Sorry for shoving you.”
Arthur relaxed at once, shrugging it off easily. He cast a sidelong glance at Eames while they walked, the corners of his eyes crinkled.
“JJ complained to Cobb. He thinks we should be showing a little more professionalism considering we're on McAvoy's time and dollar.”
“Mmm. And what did Cobb say to you?”
“Cobb said he's very glad that we're good again and he doesn't care if we shag on his desk, just so long as we pull ourselves together long enough to do this job.”
“What a good boss,” said Eames, beaming.
“Then he looked a little concerned and expressly asked that we don't actually fuck on his desk,” Arthur finished. Eames sighed.
“Cobb is such a dad.”
Arthur nodded agreement, smiling, and said nothing.
Impulsively, Eames blurted out, “I don't like JJ.”
Arthur frowned, his eyebrows drawing together. “Me neither.”
If it was possible, Eames loved him even more.
“I don't think he's a fool, though,” Arthur added. “Even if Cobb wasn't too impressed with Ford's security, it's pretty heavy. They're not militarized, but that just meant they'd rather resort to brutal means of ripping us apart than straight-out shooting us. We had to shoot ourselves, in the end, when they caught up, and it took them about an hour, but we were still on the move almost the whole time. JJ was right to call us, there's no way he could have done the whole job alone.”
He fell silent, and Eames could almost hear him thinking.
“I really should just kill Ford,” he muttered under his breath, staring down at the sidewalk and avoiding other pedestrians warily. “The way those projections honed in on Ariadne... Why does he even have subcon security anyway, you know? Who does that, except somebody with a huge secret?” He heaved a heavy sigh. “Or someone paranoid with bipolar disorder and a dead girlfriend, and no actual training at all.”
Eames wished he could agree, but he'd read the case reports inside and out. He wanted to see Ford dead. He just didn't want to see Arthur do it.
“I wished we'd never taken Ari under with us,” Arthur said.
“Me, too,” said Eames.
“We could never convince her to sit this one out, though.”
“No,” Eames agreed. Now he was almost certain Arthur was thinking the same thing he was.
Arthur didn't seem to want to discuss it, though, because the next thing he said, with another sigh, was, “Indian takeaway for dinner?”
“I was actually thinking of a little Mexican place in the Village. Maybe a little jaunt to Times Square afterward.” Eames slipped a hand into Arthur's and smiled. “Let me show you my New York, Arthur. Please.”
Arthur swept a glance around at the street their work building was on, full of brick apartments and rusting fire escapes and a heavily graffitied garage or two. He looked back at Eames doubtfully.
“Please,” Eames repeated.
Arthur was somebody who appreciated fine arts and cuisine, but even then he only indulged when he was in the mood for it, and never on a job. He wasn't a social being -- a night in was always favoured over a night spent in the company of a crowd -- and he looked as though dining in Greenwich Village at a Mexican place was possibly the worst idea he'd heard in his life.
But he consented. Eames was thrilled. It meant that maybe, he was changing Arthur, too; getting him to open up a little, something Eames had been striving for for a very long time.
He didn't even think Arthur hated it, by the time they got back to the hotel and Eames officially checked out of his own room and moved into Arthur's; but when they got into bed Eames curled up on his own side and didn't initiate a thing, because Times Square just hadn't held its usual glamour for him. There were too many people crowded around and he'd seen JJ in all of them, and neither of them could be expected to change overnight, after all. Arthur just kissed him and gave up without a word.
+
They spent one more day preparing. Cobb, Arthur and Ariadne were under for half an hour while Eames worked on his crossword and JJ made little notes on the whiteboard.
Apropos of nothing, the other man said, “I didn't think they sold The New York Times in England.”
Startled, Eames bit down on the pen he was contemplatively chewing and nearly caught his tongue in his teeth. He withdrew the pen slowly, determined not to look up.
“Hence reading it,” he said, in a very measured tone, “in New York.”
“I mean that you seem to be pretty into it. You've been here, how many days now? And you've spent every day sitting there and reading the newspaper.”
Eames hated him. Hated him so much for even daring to talk to him. Managed to hate him even more, somehow, for this slight.
“I'll worry about doing my job,” he said quietly. “You worry about doing yours.”
JJ walked over. Eames swallowed hard and stared down at the crossword as the man came up to him and circled around him, like a predatory shark. His proximity scalded Eames' back.
“The crossword,” JJ remarked, right behind him. “Are you good at it?”
That bristling, burning itch was sparking through his veins again. The smothered fight-flight instinct, wanting to burst right out of his chest. Eames unstuck his throat.
“I can usually finish Saturday's.”
“'Lovers in Moonlight surrealist',” JJ read over his shoulder. He leaned over. The sharp scent of his cologne made Eames go rigid in his seat as JJ touched the tip of his finger to the blank space on the paper and gently trailed it across, spelling aloud slowly and softly, “C-H-A-G-A-L-L.”
Eames didn't say anything.
JJ straightened up.
“Well,” he said. “I'll let you get back to work.”
He was walking, he was walking away and all Eames could think, faintly, was the same thing he'd told himself after every single torment the man of his nightmares had exacted on him: I survived.
JJ took a seat at his own desk.
“I always thought of Chagall as more of a modernist,” he said, without looking at Eames.
Suddenly, Eames had no desire to continue working on the crossword.
+
He was quiet for the rest of the day.
“Everything alright with you?” Arthur asked, climbing into bed next to him and switching off the lamp nearest him. “You've just been getting quieter since ... the other night.”
“No. It's nothing,” Eames hastened to assure him. “I just--” He let out a slow breath. “I'll be glad when this job is over.”
“Me too. You have no idea.” Arthur shoved his pillow into place with particular violence. “Ariadne is hell-bent on doing this.”
“Mm,” Eames said non-committally.
There was a moment's silence, and they both seemed to anticipate what the other was going to say, because Arthur started, “Eames--”
“I can forge her. Ford's subconscious would never know the difference. She wouldn't even have to be near him.”
“That's not -- I just--” Arthur stopped, his eyes squeezing shut for a minute. “It's just,” he finally continued, “we lost Mal to dreaming. We almost lost Cobb. And I almost lost you.” He took a deep breath. “If something were to happen to Ariadne on a job ...”
“I know,” said Eames. “I know how hard it is to come back from.”
“It's going to be a simple run. I know this. There's just this voice in the back of my head that keeps saying something is going to go wrong. What were we even thinking, bringing her? We're poking around in the head of an accused serial rapist, for God's sake.”
“She's a big girl,” Eames reminded him. “But I know what you mean.”
He heard Arthur swallow. Then the point man rolled over, and even in the dark Eames could see the desperation in his eyes.
“I don't want you to do this,” he said. “I didn't before, and I still don't. But I think maybe you can.”
“I know I can.”
“Just keep her safe, Eames,” said Arthur. “Just -- keep her safe, however you can.”
“I will,” Eames promised him. “I will.”
+
They cleaned out the loft and wiped their fingerprints from every surface, and went under together after night fell.
The architecture was a blend of Cobb and Ariadne's joined efforts. The main setting would be the street Ford lived on and where his gym also happened to be, a block away. The streets looped back on themselves and there were shortcuts and safe rooms. Arthur, as the dreamer, would be keeping out of the way, hopefully where no security would find him, while Cobb and JJ would be doing the extracting. Ariadne and Eames waited at the gym.
Cobb's voice crackled from a tiny earpiece in both their ears: “He just left the building. He's on his way.”
“Cheers,” Eames answered him through the equally tiny, inconspicuous mouthpiece attached to his collar. To Ariadne, he said, “That gives us about two minutes.”
He'd crafted himself a rather buff-looking American, the sort one would expect to find in a gym in New York. Ariadne shivered, hovering in his shadow and stealing glances at all the projections, who would, unsettlingly, steal glances back at her every now and then.
“It's all surprisingly ... normal,” she whispered. “Except for all of them staring at me, I mean. I expected more ... you know ...”
“Texas Chainsaw Massacre?” Eames inquired. “I would think it's standard fare, though. Your typical sociopath isn't like in the movies. Consider our friend Ford. He's an unemployed bum who can't hold down a job and he spends all day shut up in his apartment, probably binge-drinking, except to go to the gym. If he is our man, he wasn't smart enough to hide any of the bodies. He's not exactly Hannibal Lecter, is he?”
“So you're saying it's not necessarily a point in his favour,” said Ariadne.
“No, not necessarily. Killers and rapists come from all walks of life -- and all kinds of minds.” He fell silent, thinking of the relative silence and tranquility of JJ's dreamspace. How peaceful a backdrop it had been to the violence.
“There he is,” Ariadne said suddenly.
Ford had just walked in, wearing track pants and a sleeveless shirt. He headed for the treadmills.
“He's arrived at the gym, get moving,” Eames radioed Cobb. “Let him get settled,” he said to Ariadne. “Give it ten minutes or so.”
He crossed the floor of the gym, winding his way around the bench presses, and claimed the treadmill next to Ford's. Ford was idly thumbing through his iPod. He eventually put his earbuds in and set the treadmill to a jogging speed. Eames did the same.
Ten minutes had nearly passed when Ariadne appeared at Ford's side.
“Hey,” she said, “are you gonna be done in a minute?”
Ford glanced down at the row of occupied treadmills, cast Ariadne half a glance, and shook his head, his breath huffing steadily.
She was undeterred. Raising her voice so that he could hear her over his music, she said, “Do you like your iPod?”
“What?”
“Your iPod. I've been thinking of upgrading mine and I wanted to know what you think of that model. Sorry,” she said, blushing and smiling prettily, playing it coy, “I just couldn't help but notice. I was watching you from over there.”
Ariadne, you minx, Eames thought, impressed.
Now Ford took notice of her. So did half the projections in the vicinity. Ariadne didn't waver, didn't acknowledge them, and in a few seconds they all began to turn away again, except for Ford.
He hit a button on the panel of the treadmill that made it decelerate to a slow halt, and pulled out both earbuds.
“What did you say your name was?”
“I didn't,” said Ariadne. “It's Katy.”
“Katy,” he said, starting to smile. “I'm Joe.”
He reached out and shook her hand. She didn't falter. Eames was proud of her.
“Here.” Ford was handing over the iPod. “Why don't you see how she handles?”
“Thanks.” Ariadne started playing with it, scrolling through playlists. “Oh, I love your taste in music,” she gushed. “These are some of my favourite bands.”
Ford was grinning, obviously enchanted, by the time she handed it back to him. He stuffed the iPod back into his pocket, stepped off the treadmill, and said, “It's all yours. Will I see you here tomorrow? Same time?”
“Sure -- but--”
“See you then,” Ford said, and then he was leaving, and Ariadne was too startled to come up with an argument. Eames hopped off the treadmill and pulled her aside.
“Cobb, you'd better get out of there,” he said into his mouthpiece. “We made contact but he's leaving the gym just now.”
Cobb swore. “Alright. You'd both better get out, then. We'll reconvene up above. Arthur, you sit tight for now.”
They met back in reality -- all except Ford and Arthur, who had to remain in the dreamscape to keep the dream going.
“I don't understand,” Cobb said. “Why did he cut it short?”
“No idea,” said Eames. “We'll just have to give it another whirl after a day's passed.”
Ariadne had held up very well by that point, but she looked a little pale all the same.
“You want to know the weird thing?” she told Eames. “He's almost the kind of guy I'd go for, if I didn't know he's probably a psycho.”
+
It would take almost two hours for a full day to pass by in the dream. Eames hooked himself up before one hour had gone by.
“You shouldn't be here,” Arthur said, startled, when Eames appeared in his safe room.
“Just wanted to see how you're holding up.”
“Well, it's boring, but at least the security hasn't discovered me yet.”
“Do you think they're looking?”
“By now? Probably.”
Arthur was sitting on the floor, back to the wall. Eames walked over and took a seat next to him.
“Do we have a new plan?” Arthur asked.
“Same thing tomorrow.”
“It'd better get done, then,” said Arthur. “I don't know how long his subconscious will tolerate us here. How did Ariadne do?”
“Not terribly. I don't like that he left all of a sudden like that, though. Like he's planning something.”
He wound a hand around Arthur's, and Arthur let him.
“Be careful,” said Arthur, rubbing his thumb over Eames' hand distractedly.
“Darling, I'm always careful,” Eames told him.
They sat, leaning against one another, holding hands, until the timer ran out and Eames woke up.
+
Something went wrong almost immediately.
“The projections are antsy,” Cobb reported. “Ford's just left the apartment. We can't waste any time, we're just going in.”
Both Arthur and Eames were silent on their ends. Ariadne was watching the projections nervously, one of whom shouldered past Eames on his way to the gym's wheat-grass smoothie bar.
In less than a minute they heard Cobb's voice again, now harried and rough:
“Shit. They're on us.”
Eames hastily beckoned Ariadne aside, all the way to one of the back doors they'd added to the layout of the gym. They slipped out into an empty alley.
“Have they caught up to you?”
“No, but we'll have to call it off. We can't access the apartment with them all over us.”
“I have a back-up plan,” said Eames. “Arthur, are you getting this?”
“Loud and clear.”
“Alright. Cobb, how long do you think you can give these projections the run-around?”
Cobb's staticky voice was full of doubt. “How long would you need?”
“Thirty minutes to an hour? I just need you and JJ to distract the security and lead them away from the apartment.”
“They're all over, Eames, I don't think they would miss another break-in attempt.”
“I just need you to do it, Cobb. Can you?”
Cobb's reply didn't come right away. When it finally did, they heard a revving car engine in the background.
“Alright. But don't do anything stupid.”
Ariadne looked back at the gym, toying nervously with the collar of her t-shirt. “Okay, so, what's the new pl--?”
The last word was smothered as Eames struck from behind, wrapping both arms around her and clamping a chemical-soaked cloth over her face.
“I'm so sorry, sweetheart,” he whispered in her ear as she thrashed furiously, clawing at his arm. It only took a couple seconds for her struggles to slacken before she went totally limp in his arms.
Arthur was waiting at the other end of the alley for him.
“How long will it take you to get her underground?” Eames asked, transferring Ariadne to his arms.
“A hundred seconds or so if I take the back alleys you added,” said Arthur. “She'll be safe with me, don't worry.”
Eames nodded quickly. “See you, then.”
“Hey.” He half-turned. Arthur had fixed him in a burning gaze. “Come back to me, okay?”
“Of course I'll come back,” said Eames, mystified.
Arthur started to open his mouth, but then just shook his head and turned away. “See you,” he said, and was gone.
Eames didn't like to think of himself as a misogynist, and that wasn't what this was, not to him. It had nothing to do with Ariadne being a female. The plain truth was that he'd have pulled this same stunt on Arthur, if it were the point man on the line (maybe not Cobb, because Cobb was probably more capable than Eames at taking care of himself in a dream. Not that Arthur wasn't -- because, zero-gravity, and God would Eames have loved to see that -- but it was Arthur). Eames was a man who knew the value of self-preservation, and did not like to stick his neck out unnecessarily. What he said was If you're not back before the kick, I'm leaving with or without you, and he meant it. But there was something about this team, and somewhere along the line, he'd stopped meaning it. Some part of him just couldn't handle the thought of Ariadne doing this.
He pulled together his disguise hastily and went back inside. He did not have to wait long for Ford to spot him.
“I was wondering if you'd show up.” Ford approached from behind, a smile in his voice. “Katy.”
“Hi.” Eames-as-Ariadne turned and smiled brightly at him. He wasted no time. If Ford wouldn't make the first move, Eames would have to. “Listen, I did something really dumb. I forgot to bring any juice with me and my blood sugar's getting low.”
Ford blinked. “You could get a smoothie?”
“No money.” Poor Ariadne. He really was making her look like a bimbo here. He twined a strand of hair around his finger and smiled. Ford liked the colour of their hair. “So I'll have to get going. Unless you've got any snacks? My apartment's, like, twelve subway stops away.”
Ford seemed surprised, but he didn't question the random onset of hypoglycemia, nor why somebody would choose to be a member of a gym that was, like, twelve subway stops away from home, nor how Katy had seemed to anticipate that his apartment would, naturally, be closer. He was dreaming and he was deep: these were all normal-seeming things. Either that, or he was as stupid as Eames was pretending to be.
Do it, you prick, he urged silently. I'm practically handing her over to you.
It didn't take Ford very long at all to decide where he wanted this to go, because he recovered in a snap. “I do at my apartment. It's just down the street from here.”
Eames let Ariadne's face light up. “That would be perfect, thanks so much.”
He was surprised at how calm he felt, walking alongside Ford to the apartment. He'd expected nervousness, even anxiety or some form of regression. Instead, he only felt a cold, calm indifference. Was that bad? He had to wonder at himself. Did his mind feel it was back on familiar territory, leading a mark back to a bedroom in the form of some pretty young thing, tailor-made to their interests?
In the street, car horns blared, brakes screeched, and people shouted. The projections were starting to get riled up. He'd have to be fast.
The apartment, once they'd climbed three flights of stairs to reach it, was no surprise. Immediately inside were empty cans of beer, a TV, and a game console. The whole place smelled almost nauseatingly of weed. It was dark and unclean, the lair of someone who couldn't be bothered to take care of his things. Eames feigned interest.
“Nice place. Do you share it with anyone?” he asked, wandering around freely while Ford watched him. “Mind if I look around?”
“Just me, and no problem,” he said. “I'll see if there's anything in my fridge for you to eat.”
He was sort of nice, in an odd way. If he wasn't a rapist and killer, Eames thought, he was definitely some sad, lonely person who'd never been hit on by anything as attractive as Ariadne since his girlfriend had died. The way his eyes tracked her form, he was either soaking up her attention like a starving weed to sunlight, or imagining what she'd look like tied to his bed.
And still, no fear. Just a small, indignant flutter of protectiveness on Ariadne's body's behalf.
Eames dove into the bedroom as soon as Ford disappeared around a wall. There was only the three squashed rooms -- if they could be called rooms, since they had no actual doors -- kitchen, den between, and bedroom with attached bath. He almost fell flat on his face tripping over the sea of dirty laundry on the bedroom floor. The whole room smelled musty and unpleasant.
Cobb had probably checked the places one would usually hold a secret: the closet, the dresser, the mattress. Since he had a minute or less, Eames immediately ticked those off. Cobb would have been thorough. But Cobb also wasn't a professional thief, and the first thing Eames pounced on was the bedside table. He slid open the top drawer. It was empty. He knocked on the top of the table. Instead of a hollow report, it gave a muffled thump.
Oh, this had to be a record. Even for Eames. He reached inside the top drawer and let his fingernails scrabble against the wood backing before he found a hold and slowly pulled out the secret drawer.
Where would the layperson put a secret if he had only the most basic grasp of subcon security? Not in a safe, nor a bank vault, nor safety deposit box. Eames couldn't believe they hadn't thought of this before.
Inside the hidden drawer were photographs. Not one or two, either. Hundreds had to have been crammed in here. Eames rifled through them swiftly, naming the girls that appeared in each picture. Lacey Thomas. Christie McAvoy. Maria Gilthorpe, who'd been Ford's girlfriend, the first victim. He counted them out. All seven girls, all stripped and posed in obscene ways. These were not all pictures Ford had taken. Most of them, slightly unfocused, Eames recognized to be memories.
He was just raising his hand to his collar to message Cobb that he'd done it when he heard Ford's voice behind him. “What are you looking at?”
Eames slid the drawer shut and turned around slowly. Ford was standing right in front of the door, blocking his exit, holding a knife.
Of course he was holding a fucking knife.
There was something, Eames thought distantly, that he ought to have done right then. Dropped the disguise. Contacted Cobb. Trusted the others to wake him up once they were all out.
But he couldn't think of a single thing to do. Not a one. He was a statue. Without fear, without thoughts, empty. Just a shell.
JJ opened the door and without missing a beat he jammed a taser into Ford's side. He didn't even look as the man gave a strangled scream over the ferocious electric crackling and dropped to his knees with a thud, because his brown eyes were locked on Eames'. Ford hit the floor and was out.
“I've been waiting all week for the chance to talk to you alone,” JJ said, smiling, and he shot Eames in the head.
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