A Bad Dream, pt. nine
Title: A Bad Dream
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~6500
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, references to abuse/noncon, some sexing
Author's Note: ~57,000 words overall. HOLY CRAP.
part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six, part seven, part eight.
+++
Three Months Later
“Hello, Eames.”
Eames heaved a big sigh, and regarded Cobb over the rim of his sunglasses.
“You only come visit me when you want something.”
Cobb gave him a wan smile. He was dressed all wrong for Mombasa, in one of those heavy coats of his, heedless of the sun that beat down on them. He'd appeared from the crowd out of nowhere, suddenly standing next to Eames' table with his hands in his pockets.
“I wanted to talk with you.”
“Once again,” said Eames, tossing back the last of his drink, “Arthur doesn't deign to show his face, I see.”
“Arthur doesn't know I'm here.”
Cobb took a seat in the chair opposite Eames, not waiting for an invitation. Eames pulled a wry face but lowered the book he'd been reading.
“And how is young Master Arthur?”
“He's been better,” said Cobb. “He thinks he did something wrong. He's still trying to figure out how to fix it -- or if you'd even let him.”
Eames waited. But Cobb simply raised his eyebrows, as though he expected Eames to say something. Eames felt a needle of frustration.
“If you're here to beg me to return to his arms ...”
“I told you, Eames. I want to talk.”
Eames didn't trust talks and he had good reason to. He dog-eared the page of his book and said in a tone that brooked no arguments, “Speak your peace and leave, or I'll spare you the trouble and just go myself.”
“I'm not happy about how you handled what went on in New York,” said Cobb.
“I'm very sorry. I'm sure you'd have handled it in a much more manly and forthright fashion, Cobb. I applaud your hypothetical aplomb. You didn't have to come all the way to Kenya to judge me, though. You could have done that from the States.”
“If this is really how you handle things best, then fine, I'll go.” Cobb's gaze was very steady and prying. Like he was extracting without even getting up from his seat. “But if this has been about you trying to hide from Arthur, and deciding what's best for your relationship without even asking him, then I can't say I'm too impressed.”
Out of habit, Eames found himself putting a cigarette between his lips and lighting up, giving his hands something to do for the time being. “Our relationship is none of your business.”
“You hurt him and that makes it my business.”
Eames grimaced. “Is this a protective, big brotherly talk? Are you going to hit me?”
“You're his first relationship with a man, Eames,” said Cobb, his gaze sharpening intently. “Did you know that?”
The cigarette almost fell out of Eames' mouth. All he could do for a minute was gape.
“Hang on,” he said at last, and his voice was even rougher and huskier from the smoke. “You're saying ... that when I ... Christ, Cobb, was Arthur a virgin?”
That night had been such a good, warm memory in his mind, one he revisited every night when he was trying to fall asleep and missing the heat of Arthur's body laid close to his; and now, it seemed like something awkward and messy and imperfect. Not what anybody should have to put up with for their first time. Eames actually winced, thinking, if he hadn't felt humiliated around Arthur before...
But that train of thought crumbled silently away when he became aware of the way Cobb's eyes were still fixed on him. Not angry, not accusing or sad, just clear and focused, and Eames felt his innards slowly grind to a halt and go cold, settling like so much heavy weight inside him.
“I said it was his first relationship with a man,” said Cobb. “Not his first time having sex with one.”
Eames just kept staring down at the table, not knowing how to react to that. He had so many different impulses, confusion, rage, pain, he couldn't even calm his brain long enough to have one clear thought.
Finally, knowing that he had to respond, he flicked his cigarette to the ground, dropped some coins on the table, and cleared his throat. “We'd better go,” he mumbled. Cobb followed him.
+
“Nice place,” said Cobb, glancing around the flat when Eames threw on the lights. He had the courtesy not to comment on the four locks Eames had installed on the door.
Eames grunted. “No need to be polite, I know it's a tip. I'm in the middle of moving.”
“You're moving again?”
“Well, yes,” said Eames. “Can never seem to set down roots anywhere, that's my problem. Drink?”
Cobb declined and looked around the somewhat cluttered flat for a place to sit. He located the kitchen table and sat down there. Eames joined him, taking up the other chair.
“Not as nice as Arthur's place in Paris, either, I know.”
“It's not bad,” said Cobb. “You could do with air conditioning, though.”
Eames got up and switched on the nearby oscillating fan.
“There,” he said, returning. The fan ruffled his hair pleasantly, and he smiled, looking around the place. It was small and simple -- an Eames-ish place, which didn't look like much but was cosy and more than suited his scant needs anyway. “Arthur would hate it.”
“Probably,” Cobb agreed.
There was an awkward silence. The fan creaked and made another rotation.
“He's been staying with me and the kids,” said Cobb at length.
“I bet the little ones are loving that.”
Cobb nodded, smiling. “They like having their Uncle Arthur around. He's gone every weekend, though. He goes back to Paris, to see if you've been there.”
Eames' eyes narrowed. “Cobb, if you want to guilt me ...”
“That's the last thing I want to do.”
“Talk, then,” said Eames flatly.
Cobb sighed and looked down at his hands on the table. “How much has Arthur told you about himself?”
“Next to nothing.”
“I wouldn't be talking to you if I thought it was really important to him. I just don't think he knows how to open up to people anymore. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn't know what to tell you, because he's kept everything boxed up for so long.” Eames nodded slowly. Cobb went on: “He was just a kid when we met. I was a student of Miles'. He was interested in the dreamshare technology. This was before he joined the military.”
“Arthur was in the military?” Eames said, but, hearing it aloud, was not surprised at all. “Of course Arthur was in the military. Go on.”
Cobb's lip twitched. “He was interested in different avenues of dreaming than Mal and I were. We were infatuated with the creation. I think what Arthur was always after was a way to control his subconscious -- not that it was ever out of control, not by the time I met him, anyway. He's never had the problems you and I have had. More like it was just one more thing for him to conquer. He likes to feel in control of each aspect of his life, starting with his appearance, down to the plans he lays for his job.”
Eames nodded, knowing this already.
“When we met I was Miles' best student. I started training him. Despite what you may think, Arthur was never a natural at dreaming. He didn't take to it half as quickly as Ariadne did. He just worked three times harder at it than anybody else.”
“Naturally,” said Eames.
“And he had no one,” said Cobb. “No real name and no family.”
“He told me you took him under your wing.”
Cobb nodded. “Me and Mal. But like I said, once he mastered it, he started wanting to explore different avenues. He wasn't satisfied with creating. He turned to the military and became their star pupil, instead. He never forgot us, and he came home whenever he could, and I thought he might have found a way to be happy. But one day he came to me and he asked me to perform an extraction on him. He wanted me to take away some memories.”
“Not possible,” said Eames bluntly. “Else I'd have asked you myself.”
“I know,” said Cobb. “Miles told us as much, and that, of course, it's illegal, too. But we were still learning our limits, after all, and eventually I told him I'd try. Arthur was my first extraction job.”
“And what happened?” Eames asked.
Cobb laughed cheerlessly and dragged a hand through his hair. “He had to show me the memories he wanted extracted. It was hell just trying to get to them, and when we did-- And the whole time, he was so calm. Didn't even flinch.”
Cobb fell silent, and for a time, Eames didn't know what to say.
“I tried to do it,” said Cobb, eventually. “But of course it can't be done. He just thanked me for trying, and never talked about it again. Shortly after that he deserted the military and moved on to crime.”
“How old was he?” Eames asked quietly.
“Old enough that the memories were pretty clear. Hard to tell, I didn't ask.”
“You never tried to talk to him about it?”
“I tried,” said Cobb. “He'd just look right through me.” He paused, exhaled slowly. “There's a reason I'm telling you this, Eames. And it's not to make you feel guilty, or sorry for him, or make you go back to him, or try to fix him. To him, there's nothing left to resolve. I think he honestly copes best by not talking about it or thinking about it. He'd already dealt with it and moved on by the time he met me. I never saw any trace of abuse in his mind, the whole time I was training him and all the years I've worked alongside him -- and I've seen abused minds.”
“Mine,” said Eames.
“No two people handle trauma the same way, Eames. It's why there's no cut-and-dry, step-by-step process for healing. You know that.”
Eames nodded. His throat felt dry. He wondered, how had he never been able to see? All the signs had been right there. Arthur was so repressed, it took Eames' breath away. Even if he had moved past it a very long time ago, it was still imprinted on so many facets of his character; the very reason why extracting memories so frequently failed. The way he felt most comfortable wrapped up in three layers of suit (even his sleepwear, a shirt and pyjama pants, was conservative compared to Eames' boxer shorts). How he'd been so wary of physical contact that for two months he'd stiffened every time Eames put an arm around him. Why his subconscious was so particularly cold and aggressive towards perceived threats. Why he never, ever cried, not even after Mal died. Why he'd said that sex didn't matter to him. Christ. Why he didn't want to give head. Eames had asked Cobb what would have happened if it had been Arthur who'd been taken, and Cobb had said he'd have lost his mind.
Arthur would never let another man bully or brutalize him--
Because Arthur never made the same mistake twice.
“It doesn't give him any deeper understanding of you,” said Cobb. “Just to be clear on that. I'm not trying to tell you he knows what you're going through. He's still Arthur, and he's still bad at handling emotions. He didn't react the same way you did, he just ... went cold. I don't even think he'd relate the two things, because that's just the way he is.”
“Why tell me, then?” Eames muttered, wishing already that Cobb could just dip into his head and take back the knowledge, pretend this conversation had never happened.
“Because if I didn't, I don't think you'd believe what I'm about to tell you,” said Cobb. “I know what you're afraid of, Eames. You're scared that he's blaming you for all the things that are beyond your control. But however Arthur feels or thinks about what happened to himself, there's still something he shares in common with you. You've been worried all this time, but Arthur is actually the last person on Earth who would blame you for being victimized.”
Eames let his head droop like an abashed dog. He didn't know what to say.
“You want to know why Arthur is so loyal to me?” Cobb pressed on. “It's because I saw the face of his nightmares, and didn't turn away. How could you think he'd do anything less for you?”
+
Being with Arthur was definitely the hardest thing Eames had ever done in his life. Being a captive had been simple compared to this. At least the misery was constant, none of this jerking-around, up-and-down, high-low bullshit that kept him breathless and scared and on his toes. At least he knew what to expect.
Deciding to be with Arthur was the hardest thing Eames had ever done or would ever do in his entire life, but deciding to go back to Arthur was a very close second.
He went on a weekend, when Cobb had assured him Arthur would be there. Flying into Paris, the Eiffel Towel had never looked so dark and foreboding. The sky was grey and cold, and he hoped it wasn't an omen. He knocked on the door of Arthur's flat.
Arthur's face registered nothing when he laid eyes on Eames. No anger. No betrayal. No happiness. No giddy, joyous relief (Eames may have been stretching optimism to the point of foolishness with that one).
“Hello,” he said, with what he hoped was a winning smile, but felt quite feeble.
“You didn't call,” said Arthur bluntly. “You didn't even leave me a note. I've had Yusuf checking every week for me that you're still alive.”
Eames let his smile fade. “You could have come in person, darling.”
“Could I?” said Arthur, scrutinizing him. “You left me. I thought you didn't want to see me.”
“I just needed some time to sort my head out,” said Eames, which was, after all, true. “I'm back now and you don't have to let me in -- but I wanted to show you some things. And tell you some things. And you don't have to listen, either, but if you'd let me ... well, I'd like that.”
Arthur's eyes narrowed, and Eames nearly winced. Yes, he'd heard how lame it sounded, too.
When, after a minute, Arthur had made no move to stop blocking the doorway, Eames said hopefully, “So ... can I come in?”
Arthur sighed. “Yes,” he muttered, and moved away. “You can always come in, Eames.”
+
He hadn't gotten rid of Eames' stuff. Eames had been thinking of it as “Arthur's flat” all this time, but over the months, enough of his belongings had infiltrated that it could no longer be recognizably called Arthur's alone.
“There's something I wanted from you, first,” Eames said, once they were inside and Arthur was clearing away his laptop from the couch.
“Tell me,” said Arthur.
Eames waited until he had all of Arthur's attention. “I'm going to ask you a question. This is quite probably the only time I'll ever ask you to reply to me with an entirely open, honest answer. I don't mind if your answer is 'I'm not comfortable answering that,' because at least that's still being open with me, just ... please, don't stonewall me.”
“Okay,” said Arthur warily.
Eames asked: “Why don't you like elevators?”
Arthur's reactions were so miniscule that it would have been difficult for anybody but a practised forger like Eames to follow them. For a moment, Arthur looked perplexed. Then his confusion turned inwards, as though he was trying to pinpoint when and where this phobia had actually originated. Then he looked mildly stumped.
And then: clarity snapped over his face.
He squared his shoulders and shifted his weight from foot to foot, and Eames knew he wasn't stalling, just thinking, trying to put all his words in the right order before he said them out loud.
“When I was growing up,” Arthur said carefully, “I lived on the fifteenth floor of an old apartment building. Once a week my dad would pick me up from Little League practise. The building was old and the elevator was small and slow. Once we got inside, he used to touch me. It was old,” he said, like he was trying to explain, and up until this point every word had been methodical and precise, but Eames heard the slightest break in his even tone, the tiniest of chinks in his armour, “and usually he waited till we were home, but sometimes the elevator jammed, and you can't leave an elevator when it's jammed ...”
Eames stopped him, pressing light fingers to his lips.
“Okay,” he said softly.
Arthur's eyes betrayed a hint of relief. Then he frowned.
“This doesn't change anything.”
“I know,” said Eames.
“I'm not a different person.”
“I know.”
“And it doesn't mean I know how you feel, or anything. When I found out you'd been taken, and what for, I thought I'd be the least able to help you deal with your issues. It's not like -- like we're in some kind of club, and I must be able to relate to you because they give it the same term. What happened to you was far worse.”
“Don't trivialize these things, Arthur,” Eames interrupted him. “Don't.”
“I'm only saying.” Arthur looked down, uncharacteristically unsure of himself. “I'm not with you because I -- feel sorry for you or want to fix you or something -- I mean, yes, I want to help you and be there for you, but not because of that. And I don't want you to start worrying about me and how I'm going to react to you, because nothing's changed. When we slept together -- I would've kept my hands behind my back and let you do anything, because I trust you. I've had a long time to square this away.”
Eames nodded.
“Thank you,” he said. “For being open.”
“Okay,” said Arthur. The tension slowly began to dissolve from his frame. He let the corner of his lip quirk up, trying to bring them back to familiar ground. “Your turn.”
He didn't comment when Eames pulled the PASIV out of the closet. Just watched and complied as Eames set the timer, and put him to sleep.
+
They were walking down a cobblestone street flanked tightly by sleek, tall buildings. Above, a church steeple reared up past the buildings to puncture the sky. People filed past them, speaking a garbled version of German that would have made no recognizable sense to Arthur. There were street musicians and performing artists on the corners. It was the middle of the day, and everything looked bright and colourful and decorative.
“I was in Zürich between jobs last year,” said Eames, his shoulder brushing Arthur's and leading him down the narrow street. “I stopped in Niederdorf for a drink and a falafel at lunchtime -- here.”
He stopped next to a table outside a little restaurant, its sign decorated with blue and white bars.
“That's when I ran into an old friend of mine. We hadn't seen each other for a few years. I invited him to sit. We talked over a few drinks, he asked if I was still in the dreaming business. I said, well, gambling debts won't pay themselves. He said, 'And how is the forging working out for you?' I told him I was still the best. Joking with him.
“He slipped something in my drink. I didn't see him do it. The next time I was truly awake, you had your arm around me.”
Arthur glanced over at him, his brow creased slightly.
“I'm sure he had his reasons,” said Eames quietly, staring down at the cobblestones. The dream dissolved.
+
“The casino,” said Arthur.
Eames nodded, looking around slowly, forcing himself to take it all in. Arthur walked forward, examining the place. He watched the projections.
“It seems so jarringly cheerful,” he murmured at last, and this was so far from what Eames expected that he laughed.
“It does, doesn't it?” he said.
Arthur explored. Probably studying the architecture and structure, of all things, Eames thought with a sigh. He looked at the projections and dealers sitting at tables and playing poker and blackjack and craps, ran his hands over the slot machines.
“They play themselves,” he said.
Eames walked over to join him, hands in his pockets because he didn't want to touch anything here. As they watched, without anybody there to push the button, the mechanical reels of one of the slot machines began to spin, the brightly-coloured symbols becoming a flashing blur. The jangling music it made as the reels spun made Eames grimace and then wince, three times in succession, when it landed on three symbols with a cheery plink! plink! plink!
“But nobody's playing it,” said Arthur, glancing down the row of slot machines.
“I never noticed,” said Eames.
“Didn't you ever play?”
Eames hunched his shoulders and shook his head.
“But what was the point?” Arthur asked, eyebrows pulling together. “Why a casino?”
“Because I wanted something familiar,” said Eames. Slowly, falteringly, he pulled one hand out of his pocket and laid it on the side of the slot machine. The light on top of it flashed happily in response. “I wanted something noisy and loud to be a voice for me. Casinos made me happy so this was what my mind dreamed up. The architect couldn't get rid of it. Neither could I, after a time, for that matter.”
“Is it a maze?” Arthur asked, as Arthur naturally would. Eames chuckled again.
“No. I was never good at mazes. The point wasn't to hide. This was just a limbo -- sort of a waiting room, an in-between place.”
He was still touching the slot machine. He thought it would make him feel soiled, somehow, to come here and touch anything, but it didn't. Arthur tilted his head.
“D'you know it's stupid and weird, but in some ways, I actually miss this place,” said Eames with a rueful, lopsided smile, and Arthur didn't give him a weird look. He didn't say anything or turn away. He smiled back, and took Eames' hand.
+
Arthur shied from nothing Eames had to show him. It wasn't meant to be graphic or in-depth or anything, it was little more than a brief tour of Eames' mind. Their problem, Eames had come to realize, was that neither of them could read minds. So he laid himself bare to Arthur: an Eames-to-rationality dictionary. He translated along the way.
It started from the mundane, atop Tower Bridge (This is why I don't like walking on big bridges) to deeper and deeper memories (This is the room where it was pitch black and they gangbanged me here, and that's why I was scared of the dark for all those months and you had to buy nightlights).
His encounter with JJ had given him something of a revelation: Arthur might cope with things that happened to him by tucking it out of sight, but that wasn't enough for Eames. He needed to explore it, open the wound back up, take a look, talk about it. He wanted to confront his demons. Having Arthur at his side fortified him, made him feel like he could take on his memories, and win, because he wanted it. For three months he'd been idling, but now he felt ready to take back control.
And Arthur did the best thing he could have done for Eames: He listened.
He smiled slightly when they came upon his bedroom.
“Not perfect, I know,” said Eames, grinning. “I'd only been in here the once -- when you were testing all those compounds for Yusuf and I had to take you home, you remember? You could barely walk straight.”
“I remember,” said Arthur, pulling a face. “You put your hand on my ass when you were walking me home.”
Eames grinned wider. “Tell you the truth, I only volunteered 'cause, well, I may have been hoping to take advantage of you. But by the time we got here you were just about unconscious, and even I'm not totally amoral. You could probably shoot me from the deepest throes of a coma, anyway.”
“Not an unlikely possibility,” said Arthur.
“I stayed and watched you for awhile. I hope you don't mind. I've always liked watching you sleep. It was the one time you looked sort of calm and peaceful and like you didn't want to knife me in the throat.”
Arthur shook his head with long-suffering patience. “You're a trying man, Mr. Eames.”
“Anyway, I watched you and I thought, this is where Arthur sleeps every night. And I suppose that thought stuck with me because sometimes, when I hid myself away up here, I'd fall asleep on the bed and I'd imagine you were sort of -- there -- not there with me, but just a couple of dreams away, lying in the same spot. Like I could reach out and touch you if I could just make our dreams line up.”
“Jesus, Eames,” said Arthur, shaking his head again. “That's sad.”
“I know.” Eames laughed. “It's pathetic how much faith I put in you, when in reality I didn't even think you liked me.”
“Well,” said Arthur, smiling lazily. “Maybe it wasn't love at first sight. But you do have a way of getting under a man's skin, I'll grant you that.”
“You were the only thing I had to hold onto in the end,” said Eames, serious now. “I forgot myself, I forgot what you looked like, but I never stopped thinking how important it was to remember you.” He felt a pang of regret. “We should have had more time, before.”
Arthur's expression became subdued. “I didn't think I was ready ...”
“Leaving me to do all the legwork and the flirting, like a true gentleman.”
“I didn't think you were serious,” said Arthur helplessly.
“Darling,” said Eames, smiling sadly. “I've been serious about you since the moment I met you. Didn't you know?”
+
For the last time in Eames' life, he reshaped himself to Charlie's form.
“This is Charlie,” he said, in Charlie's voice. “You'd like him. He likes Rembrandt.”
Arthur seemed momentarily taken aback. He took Charlie in slowly.
“Charlie's young,” he said finally, expression twisting with something a little like grief.
Eames nodded. The sleeves of Charlie's grey hoodie were too long for him, falling past his hands. Eames was aware of how he looked: like a stray dog, neglected for too long before being allowed to come out in the light. He knew Charlie hadn't looked like that originally. That had happened gradually. It was in Charlie's step and the defeated slope of his shoulders and the guarded way he held himself.
Eames had had to be many, many different people, but none of them bore the marks of his suffering except Charlie. Charlie seemed to carry all of it on his shoulders; not just what JJ had done but everything else, too.
“I used to hate Charlie,” he said, sitting down on Arthur's bed and looking at the floor. “I hated how weak he is. I used to tell myself that Charlie had done something wrong, somewhere, committed some evil against the universe, and he deserved whatever he got. But now -- all I can think of is how sorry I feel for him.”
“You had to be Charlie a lot?”
Something gripped Eames' throat painfully tight and made his eyes sting and burn. He just nodded and gulped a breath.
“He was -- JJ's toy. He used to stay for -- months. Months.”
From the corner of his eye he saw Arthur's hand move compulsively. The point man didn't say anything. Eames forced in a deep breath.
“He made me--”
“Eames,” Arthur cut him off gently. “You don't have to.”
Eames shook his head and fought for control of himself.
“He made me ask him for it. If I did good he took care of me and wouldn't let it hurt so much. If I made a mistake, he'd ... dream up some punishment. He made me feel guilty for trying to keep him happy. I still can't ...”
“Eames,” Arthur said again.
His voice was perfectly, unexpectedly calm. He knelt down next to the bed, forcing Eames to make eye contact with him.
“Don't,” he said softly, “feel guilty. Don't ever feel guilty for what happened to you, or Charlie. That's -- it's fucking Stockholm Syndrome, Eames, it's not normal. You didn't have any control over it. It would happen to anyone.”
Eames was horrified when a tear slipped down his cheek. He reached up to brush it away before Arthur might notice, but the point man beat him to it. Eames stilled when Arthur's hand came up to his face, wiping the tear away with his thumb.
He didn't know how to react. Being in Charlie's skin had always made him feel dirty, shamefully and contemptibly unclean. That Arthur was touching him without flinching or faltering made him feel--
Well. Better.
“I love you,” said Arthur. “I love Charlie, too. All of you. You've shown me all of it, and I still want you, Eames. Do you believe me, now?”
Eames nodded, too tired to speak. With one hand, he reached under Arthur's pillow and pulled out the gun that was always kept there.
Arthur took it from him. Pressed the muzzle to his chest, where his heart was.
“We're going to be okay,” he told Eames, with tender, absolute certainty.
He pulled the trigger.
Just like that, Charlie was gone forever.
The catharsis was profound.
+
That night Eames got the first full night's sleep he'd had since first waking up in reality.
+++
The routine they settled into was sickeningly domestic and Eames loved it. Mornings were lazy affairs comprising crossword puzzles and breakfasts of eggs Benedict or French toast or crepes or whatever struck Eames' fancy; at night, they curled up on the couch and watched TV -- or one would watch while the other sprawled across their lap and read -- and retired to bed, where cuddling would commence. The days were filled with whatever they pleased, though as winter settled over Paris, cosy afternoons spent in the warmth of the flat looked more and more appealing. A couple of times they had sex, in the dark, under the covers, slow and careful and immensely intimate trysts that left Eames feeling flushed with triumph each time.
It was only a couple months of this charming lifestyle before Eames was hunched over a crossword and Arthur suddenly lowered his own paper and said, “Would you like to take a leap of faith with me?”
His smile was full of daring and affection and Eames found it impossible to say no to him.
+
Eames propped himself up on his elbows as Arthur settled himself on his thighs.
“How are you feeling?” he asked conversationally.
“No need to sound so excessively cavalier about it,” said Eames, wetting his lips. “It's like this is a really big deal and you're trying to make me feel as though it isn't -- like you're a doctor about to spring a prostate exam on me or something.”
“We can talk prostate exams later,” said Arthur, unbuttoning Eames' shirt methodically. On a whim, Eames gripped his hips and pushed up with his own, bringing their clothed groins into contact with a growl.
“You'd probably love that, wouldn't you? So sterile.”
“By all means, keep getting yourself all hot and bothered,” said Arthur blithely. “Less work for me.”
Eames took this as invitation to rock his hips into Arthur's a few more times, until a flush was creeping into Arthur's cheeks and he made as though to push Eames more firmly onto the bed, but stopped himself in time. That was not the sort of thing that would be met too well. Eames noticed, though, and stopped of his own accord.
His shirt fully unbuttoned, Arthur let it fall to either side of his ribcage and trailed a hand over his tattoos. Then he started to scoot back, between Eames' legs. Eames obligingly spread his knees to accommodate him, though he couldn't say he was entirely comfortable about this position.
“Everything okay?” Arthur stopped to ask, his hand resting on the zip of Eames' trousers.
“Sort of a green-amber, here,” said Eames thoughtfully. They had no safeword, because it seemed like overkill -- they weren't BDSM here -- but the traffic light system worked well for them both. “Mostly green, though. Keep going.”
Arthur unzipped his fly and Eames dropped flat back onto the bed, staring at the water stains on the ceiling. He felt exposed, but not yet uncomfortably so. Just wary. He bit his lip and closed his eyes as Arthur pulled his boxers down, just a bit, just enough to free his cock.
“Oh,” he heard Arthur breathe. “It's--”
“Magnificent, I know,” Eames joked nervously, not opening his eyes.
“No,” said Arthur, “well, yes. I mean. I knew you weren't circumcised, I just never ... huh.”
Eames raised his head, anxious. “Is that a problem for you?”
“No,” Arthur repeated. Eames could hear a breathy ... almost fascination in his voice. “It's ... interesting. Can I touch you?”
Eames let his head flop back onto the pillow, swallowed and nodded.
Arthur started with one hand, cautious and slow. Eames clamped his eyes shut and just breathed as he felt Arthur's fingers trailing up the shaft of his cock. His touch was curious, exploring, especially around the head of Eames' cock as he pushed the foreskin back a bit. The stimulation made Eames twitch.
“Okay? Are we still green?”
“Uh-huh.”
He'd felt the first inklings of an erection while he'd been grinding himself against Arthur, but had lost it as soon as Arthur had pulled down his boxers. Now he felt a stirring of renewed interest from his cock. He relaxed and breathed. This was okay, he told himself, it was okay, and it was okay to feel good about this.
And Arthur's hand felt good. He closed his hand around the shaft and slid it up, slowly, and the sweet glide of flesh nearly made Eames make an embarrassing whining sound. He was definitely on his way to hard, now, and it was still okay.
He felt Arthur shift around on the bed, settling himself comfortably between Eames' knees, when he felt a slow drag of tongue up the underside of his cock. That time he couldn't stop himself from making a little sound. Encouraged, Arthur tried again, teasing, swirling strokes of the tongue. He felt displaced, for a moment, strangely so, because to his mind nobody had done this sort of thing to him in over six years, and his confused brain didn't know how to feel about this. So he stopped thinking and let his body decide how to feel, instead.
Arthur's confidence was growing. He wrapped a hand around the base of Eames' cock and kept going, licking, working his way up to the head, and when he finally wrapped his lips just over the tip, Eames felt himself give a juddering sigh all the way through his bones. Arthur slid his mouth down, over him, in centimetres, keeping up his slow and cautious pace and giving Eames plenty of time to adjust to the sensation; giving himself time, too. Eames felt a rueful pang -- he knew Arthur could not enjoy doing this, but there was no stopping the point man when he was determined, and their new policy of communication had been working out for them so far -- he was pretty sure Arthur would call it off if he was uncomfortable.
“Sure you're alright?” Arthur stopped to ask, after a minute.
“What?” Eames asked hazily.
“Just that you're breathing pretty hard and not talking.”
Eames quaked with silent laughter. “That's called arousal, darling. It's the state of being you've got me in, as it happens.”
“Oh?” Arthur paused for another couple of seconds. Then: “Really,” he mused, and (to Eames' relief) brought his mouth back to Eames' cock.
It may have been Eames' imagination, but Arthur suddenly seemed to be more into this. He was losing his reservations by degrees and setting up a slightly quicker pace. He couldn't take too much of Eames into his mouth at once, but he worked his hand in the same rhythm. After awhile Eames could no longer take it; he had to prop himself up to watch, and the sight of Arthur inexpertly sucking his cock made him burn down to his fingers and toes with lust. Arthur was focused intently, the way he was when he was at work, not making a sound but for the soft, wet sucking sounds that escaped the seal of his lips and the click of his throat when he swallowed around Eames.
Eames no longer had to convince himself that this was allowed to feel good. It just did.
He lasted only a few minutes and didn't know why -- maybe his nerves could only take so much of Arthur touching him so intimately, or perhaps plain overstimulation when his cock had been sorely lacking any one-on-one attention for a long time now. He grunted a warning, smoothing his hand through Arthur's hair, and Arthur tried to keep going, but when Eames came he managed only one swallow and then twisted aside swiftly, coughing and gagging a little. Eames slumped back into the pillows, his eyes fluttering shut briefly; then he rolled over to join Arthur and found that he couldn't stop chuckling.
“Terrible, I know,” Arthur rasped weakly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyelashes were wet, his cheeks flushed.
“No,” Eames said, and couldn't resist kissing him hard. The taste of himself was bitter on Arthur's tongue and he didn't care at all. He was grinning. “Perfect.”
Arthur smiled crookedly, and let Eames roll him over and pull him into a tight embrace on the bed. He was tingling with energy. He wanted to be close, feel the heat of Arthur's body cradled against him, so that he could feel Arthur's heartbeat thudding steadily in his chest, because he couldn't believe that they had done this -- overcome this milestone together. He buried his face in Arthur's neck and dragged in the scent of him slowly. He would never stop being the best smell in the world, better than any wine.
“Are you quite done mauling me?” Arthur asked, voice muffled in Eames' chest.
Eames pulled back, just far enough to see his flushed face, and smiled. He couldn't remember the last time he'd ever felt so fucking right with the world, because Arthur was so good for him; but more importantly, in moments like this, sometimes he felt certain that he was good for Arthur, too.
“We really are going to be okay, aren't we?” he said.
“I'm usually right about these things,” said Arthur, laying a kiss on his collarbone. Eames ducked his head to kiss him properly.
“Yes,” he agreed, humming softly with pleasure. “You usually are.”
A/N: The end! Hooray!
Thank you all so, so much for the comments and encouragement with this story. It means a whole lot to me. I said at the start that I was going for "real" more than I was anything else, so I hope I've managed to deliver, and that the ending is to everyone's satisfaction. THANK YOU GUYS, and I hope you've enjoyed. <3
ETA: Here is a coda! o:
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~6500
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, references to abuse/noncon, some sexing
Author's Note: ~57,000 words overall. HOLY CRAP.
part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six, part seven, part eight.
+++
Three Months Later
“Hello, Eames.”
Eames heaved a big sigh, and regarded Cobb over the rim of his sunglasses.
“You only come visit me when you want something.”
Cobb gave him a wan smile. He was dressed all wrong for Mombasa, in one of those heavy coats of his, heedless of the sun that beat down on them. He'd appeared from the crowd out of nowhere, suddenly standing next to Eames' table with his hands in his pockets.
“I wanted to talk with you.”
“Once again,” said Eames, tossing back the last of his drink, “Arthur doesn't deign to show his face, I see.”
“Arthur doesn't know I'm here.”
Cobb took a seat in the chair opposite Eames, not waiting for an invitation. Eames pulled a wry face but lowered the book he'd been reading.
“And how is young Master Arthur?”
“He's been better,” said Cobb. “He thinks he did something wrong. He's still trying to figure out how to fix it -- or if you'd even let him.”
Eames waited. But Cobb simply raised his eyebrows, as though he expected Eames to say something. Eames felt a needle of frustration.
“If you're here to beg me to return to his arms ...”
“I told you, Eames. I want to talk.”
Eames didn't trust talks and he had good reason to. He dog-eared the page of his book and said in a tone that brooked no arguments, “Speak your peace and leave, or I'll spare you the trouble and just go myself.”
“I'm not happy about how you handled what went on in New York,” said Cobb.
“I'm very sorry. I'm sure you'd have handled it in a much more manly and forthright fashion, Cobb. I applaud your hypothetical aplomb. You didn't have to come all the way to Kenya to judge me, though. You could have done that from the States.”
“If this is really how you handle things best, then fine, I'll go.” Cobb's gaze was very steady and prying. Like he was extracting without even getting up from his seat. “But if this has been about you trying to hide from Arthur, and deciding what's best for your relationship without even asking him, then I can't say I'm too impressed.”
Out of habit, Eames found himself putting a cigarette between his lips and lighting up, giving his hands something to do for the time being. “Our relationship is none of your business.”
“You hurt him and that makes it my business.”
Eames grimaced. “Is this a protective, big brotherly talk? Are you going to hit me?”
“You're his first relationship with a man, Eames,” said Cobb, his gaze sharpening intently. “Did you know that?”
The cigarette almost fell out of Eames' mouth. All he could do for a minute was gape.
“Hang on,” he said at last, and his voice was even rougher and huskier from the smoke. “You're saying ... that when I ... Christ, Cobb, was Arthur a virgin?”
That night had been such a good, warm memory in his mind, one he revisited every night when he was trying to fall asleep and missing the heat of Arthur's body laid close to his; and now, it seemed like something awkward and messy and imperfect. Not what anybody should have to put up with for their first time. Eames actually winced, thinking, if he hadn't felt humiliated around Arthur before...
But that train of thought crumbled silently away when he became aware of the way Cobb's eyes were still fixed on him. Not angry, not accusing or sad, just clear and focused, and Eames felt his innards slowly grind to a halt and go cold, settling like so much heavy weight inside him.
“I said it was his first relationship with a man,” said Cobb. “Not his first time having sex with one.”
Eames just kept staring down at the table, not knowing how to react to that. He had so many different impulses, confusion, rage, pain, he couldn't even calm his brain long enough to have one clear thought.
Finally, knowing that he had to respond, he flicked his cigarette to the ground, dropped some coins on the table, and cleared his throat. “We'd better go,” he mumbled. Cobb followed him.
+
“Nice place,” said Cobb, glancing around the flat when Eames threw on the lights. He had the courtesy not to comment on the four locks Eames had installed on the door.
Eames grunted. “No need to be polite, I know it's a tip. I'm in the middle of moving.”
“You're moving again?”
“Well, yes,” said Eames. “Can never seem to set down roots anywhere, that's my problem. Drink?”
Cobb declined and looked around the somewhat cluttered flat for a place to sit. He located the kitchen table and sat down there. Eames joined him, taking up the other chair.
“Not as nice as Arthur's place in Paris, either, I know.”
“It's not bad,” said Cobb. “You could do with air conditioning, though.”
Eames got up and switched on the nearby oscillating fan.
“There,” he said, returning. The fan ruffled his hair pleasantly, and he smiled, looking around the place. It was small and simple -- an Eames-ish place, which didn't look like much but was cosy and more than suited his scant needs anyway. “Arthur would hate it.”
“Probably,” Cobb agreed.
There was an awkward silence. The fan creaked and made another rotation.
“He's been staying with me and the kids,” said Cobb at length.
“I bet the little ones are loving that.”
Cobb nodded, smiling. “They like having their Uncle Arthur around. He's gone every weekend, though. He goes back to Paris, to see if you've been there.”
Eames' eyes narrowed. “Cobb, if you want to guilt me ...”
“That's the last thing I want to do.”
“Talk, then,” said Eames flatly.
Cobb sighed and looked down at his hands on the table. “How much has Arthur told you about himself?”
“Next to nothing.”
“I wouldn't be talking to you if I thought it was really important to him. I just don't think he knows how to open up to people anymore. Even if he wanted to, he wouldn't know what to tell you, because he's kept everything boxed up for so long.” Eames nodded slowly. Cobb went on: “He was just a kid when we met. I was a student of Miles'. He was interested in the dreamshare technology. This was before he joined the military.”
“Arthur was in the military?” Eames said, but, hearing it aloud, was not surprised at all. “Of course Arthur was in the military. Go on.”
Cobb's lip twitched. “He was interested in different avenues of dreaming than Mal and I were. We were infatuated with the creation. I think what Arthur was always after was a way to control his subconscious -- not that it was ever out of control, not by the time I met him, anyway. He's never had the problems you and I have had. More like it was just one more thing for him to conquer. He likes to feel in control of each aspect of his life, starting with his appearance, down to the plans he lays for his job.”
Eames nodded, knowing this already.
“When we met I was Miles' best student. I started training him. Despite what you may think, Arthur was never a natural at dreaming. He didn't take to it half as quickly as Ariadne did. He just worked three times harder at it than anybody else.”
“Naturally,” said Eames.
“And he had no one,” said Cobb. “No real name and no family.”
“He told me you took him under your wing.”
Cobb nodded. “Me and Mal. But like I said, once he mastered it, he started wanting to explore different avenues. He wasn't satisfied with creating. He turned to the military and became their star pupil, instead. He never forgot us, and he came home whenever he could, and I thought he might have found a way to be happy. But one day he came to me and he asked me to perform an extraction on him. He wanted me to take away some memories.”
“Not possible,” said Eames bluntly. “Else I'd have asked you myself.”
“I know,” said Cobb. “Miles told us as much, and that, of course, it's illegal, too. But we were still learning our limits, after all, and eventually I told him I'd try. Arthur was my first extraction job.”
“And what happened?” Eames asked.
Cobb laughed cheerlessly and dragged a hand through his hair. “He had to show me the memories he wanted extracted. It was hell just trying to get to them, and when we did-- And the whole time, he was so calm. Didn't even flinch.”
Cobb fell silent, and for a time, Eames didn't know what to say.
“I tried to do it,” said Cobb, eventually. “But of course it can't be done. He just thanked me for trying, and never talked about it again. Shortly after that he deserted the military and moved on to crime.”
“How old was he?” Eames asked quietly.
“Old enough that the memories were pretty clear. Hard to tell, I didn't ask.”
“You never tried to talk to him about it?”
“I tried,” said Cobb. “He'd just look right through me.” He paused, exhaled slowly. “There's a reason I'm telling you this, Eames. And it's not to make you feel guilty, or sorry for him, or make you go back to him, or try to fix him. To him, there's nothing left to resolve. I think he honestly copes best by not talking about it or thinking about it. He'd already dealt with it and moved on by the time he met me. I never saw any trace of abuse in his mind, the whole time I was training him and all the years I've worked alongside him -- and I've seen abused minds.”
“Mine,” said Eames.
“No two people handle trauma the same way, Eames. It's why there's no cut-and-dry, step-by-step process for healing. You know that.”
Eames nodded. His throat felt dry. He wondered, how had he never been able to see? All the signs had been right there. Arthur was so repressed, it took Eames' breath away. Even if he had moved past it a very long time ago, it was still imprinted on so many facets of his character; the very reason why extracting memories so frequently failed. The way he felt most comfortable wrapped up in three layers of suit (even his sleepwear, a shirt and pyjama pants, was conservative compared to Eames' boxer shorts). How he'd been so wary of physical contact that for two months he'd stiffened every time Eames put an arm around him. Why his subconscious was so particularly cold and aggressive towards perceived threats. Why he never, ever cried, not even after Mal died. Why he'd said that sex didn't matter to him. Christ. Why he didn't want to give head. Eames had asked Cobb what would have happened if it had been Arthur who'd been taken, and Cobb had said he'd have lost his mind.
Arthur would never let another man bully or brutalize him--
Because Arthur never made the same mistake twice.
“It doesn't give him any deeper understanding of you,” said Cobb. “Just to be clear on that. I'm not trying to tell you he knows what you're going through. He's still Arthur, and he's still bad at handling emotions. He didn't react the same way you did, he just ... went cold. I don't even think he'd relate the two things, because that's just the way he is.”
“Why tell me, then?” Eames muttered, wishing already that Cobb could just dip into his head and take back the knowledge, pretend this conversation had never happened.
“Because if I didn't, I don't think you'd believe what I'm about to tell you,” said Cobb. “I know what you're afraid of, Eames. You're scared that he's blaming you for all the things that are beyond your control. But however Arthur feels or thinks about what happened to himself, there's still something he shares in common with you. You've been worried all this time, but Arthur is actually the last person on Earth who would blame you for being victimized.”
Eames let his head droop like an abashed dog. He didn't know what to say.
“You want to know why Arthur is so loyal to me?” Cobb pressed on. “It's because I saw the face of his nightmares, and didn't turn away. How could you think he'd do anything less for you?”
+
Being with Arthur was definitely the hardest thing Eames had ever done in his life. Being a captive had been simple compared to this. At least the misery was constant, none of this jerking-around, up-and-down, high-low bullshit that kept him breathless and scared and on his toes. At least he knew what to expect.
Deciding to be with Arthur was the hardest thing Eames had ever done or would ever do in his entire life, but deciding to go back to Arthur was a very close second.
He went on a weekend, when Cobb had assured him Arthur would be there. Flying into Paris, the Eiffel Towel had never looked so dark and foreboding. The sky was grey and cold, and he hoped it wasn't an omen. He knocked on the door of Arthur's flat.
Arthur's face registered nothing when he laid eyes on Eames. No anger. No betrayal. No happiness. No giddy, joyous relief (Eames may have been stretching optimism to the point of foolishness with that one).
“Hello,” he said, with what he hoped was a winning smile, but felt quite feeble.
“You didn't call,” said Arthur bluntly. “You didn't even leave me a note. I've had Yusuf checking every week for me that you're still alive.”
Eames let his smile fade. “You could have come in person, darling.”
“Could I?” said Arthur, scrutinizing him. “You left me. I thought you didn't want to see me.”
“I just needed some time to sort my head out,” said Eames, which was, after all, true. “I'm back now and you don't have to let me in -- but I wanted to show you some things. And tell you some things. And you don't have to listen, either, but if you'd let me ... well, I'd like that.”
Arthur's eyes narrowed, and Eames nearly winced. Yes, he'd heard how lame it sounded, too.
When, after a minute, Arthur had made no move to stop blocking the doorway, Eames said hopefully, “So ... can I come in?”
Arthur sighed. “Yes,” he muttered, and moved away. “You can always come in, Eames.”
+
He hadn't gotten rid of Eames' stuff. Eames had been thinking of it as “Arthur's flat” all this time, but over the months, enough of his belongings had infiltrated that it could no longer be recognizably called Arthur's alone.
“There's something I wanted from you, first,” Eames said, once they were inside and Arthur was clearing away his laptop from the couch.
“Tell me,” said Arthur.
Eames waited until he had all of Arthur's attention. “I'm going to ask you a question. This is quite probably the only time I'll ever ask you to reply to me with an entirely open, honest answer. I don't mind if your answer is 'I'm not comfortable answering that,' because at least that's still being open with me, just ... please, don't stonewall me.”
“Okay,” said Arthur warily.
Eames asked: “Why don't you like elevators?”
Arthur's reactions were so miniscule that it would have been difficult for anybody but a practised forger like Eames to follow them. For a moment, Arthur looked perplexed. Then his confusion turned inwards, as though he was trying to pinpoint when and where this phobia had actually originated. Then he looked mildly stumped.
And then: clarity snapped over his face.
He squared his shoulders and shifted his weight from foot to foot, and Eames knew he wasn't stalling, just thinking, trying to put all his words in the right order before he said them out loud.
“When I was growing up,” Arthur said carefully, “I lived on the fifteenth floor of an old apartment building. Once a week my dad would pick me up from Little League practise. The building was old and the elevator was small and slow. Once we got inside, he used to touch me. It was old,” he said, like he was trying to explain, and up until this point every word had been methodical and precise, but Eames heard the slightest break in his even tone, the tiniest of chinks in his armour, “and usually he waited till we were home, but sometimes the elevator jammed, and you can't leave an elevator when it's jammed ...”
Eames stopped him, pressing light fingers to his lips.
“Okay,” he said softly.
Arthur's eyes betrayed a hint of relief. Then he frowned.
“This doesn't change anything.”
“I know,” said Eames.
“I'm not a different person.”
“I know.”
“And it doesn't mean I know how you feel, or anything. When I found out you'd been taken, and what for, I thought I'd be the least able to help you deal with your issues. It's not like -- like we're in some kind of club, and I must be able to relate to you because they give it the same term. What happened to you was far worse.”
“Don't trivialize these things, Arthur,” Eames interrupted him. “Don't.”
“I'm only saying.” Arthur looked down, uncharacteristically unsure of himself. “I'm not with you because I -- feel sorry for you or want to fix you or something -- I mean, yes, I want to help you and be there for you, but not because of that. And I don't want you to start worrying about me and how I'm going to react to you, because nothing's changed. When we slept together -- I would've kept my hands behind my back and let you do anything, because I trust you. I've had a long time to square this away.”
Eames nodded.
“Thank you,” he said. “For being open.”
“Okay,” said Arthur. The tension slowly began to dissolve from his frame. He let the corner of his lip quirk up, trying to bring them back to familiar ground. “Your turn.”
He didn't comment when Eames pulled the PASIV out of the closet. Just watched and complied as Eames set the timer, and put him to sleep.
+
They were walking down a cobblestone street flanked tightly by sleek, tall buildings. Above, a church steeple reared up past the buildings to puncture the sky. People filed past them, speaking a garbled version of German that would have made no recognizable sense to Arthur. There were street musicians and performing artists on the corners. It was the middle of the day, and everything looked bright and colourful and decorative.
“I was in Zürich between jobs last year,” said Eames, his shoulder brushing Arthur's and leading him down the narrow street. “I stopped in Niederdorf for a drink and a falafel at lunchtime -- here.”
He stopped next to a table outside a little restaurant, its sign decorated with blue and white bars.
“That's when I ran into an old friend of mine. We hadn't seen each other for a few years. I invited him to sit. We talked over a few drinks, he asked if I was still in the dreaming business. I said, well, gambling debts won't pay themselves. He said, 'And how is the forging working out for you?' I told him I was still the best. Joking with him.
“He slipped something in my drink. I didn't see him do it. The next time I was truly awake, you had your arm around me.”
Arthur glanced over at him, his brow creased slightly.
“I'm sure he had his reasons,” said Eames quietly, staring down at the cobblestones. The dream dissolved.
+
“The casino,” said Arthur.
Eames nodded, looking around slowly, forcing himself to take it all in. Arthur walked forward, examining the place. He watched the projections.
“It seems so jarringly cheerful,” he murmured at last, and this was so far from what Eames expected that he laughed.
“It does, doesn't it?” he said.
Arthur explored. Probably studying the architecture and structure, of all things, Eames thought with a sigh. He looked at the projections and dealers sitting at tables and playing poker and blackjack and craps, ran his hands over the slot machines.
“They play themselves,” he said.
Eames walked over to join him, hands in his pockets because he didn't want to touch anything here. As they watched, without anybody there to push the button, the mechanical reels of one of the slot machines began to spin, the brightly-coloured symbols becoming a flashing blur. The jangling music it made as the reels spun made Eames grimace and then wince, three times in succession, when it landed on three symbols with a cheery plink! plink! plink!
“But nobody's playing it,” said Arthur, glancing down the row of slot machines.
“I never noticed,” said Eames.
“Didn't you ever play?”
Eames hunched his shoulders and shook his head.
“But what was the point?” Arthur asked, eyebrows pulling together. “Why a casino?”
“Because I wanted something familiar,” said Eames. Slowly, falteringly, he pulled one hand out of his pocket and laid it on the side of the slot machine. The light on top of it flashed happily in response. “I wanted something noisy and loud to be a voice for me. Casinos made me happy so this was what my mind dreamed up. The architect couldn't get rid of it. Neither could I, after a time, for that matter.”
“Is it a maze?” Arthur asked, as Arthur naturally would. Eames chuckled again.
“No. I was never good at mazes. The point wasn't to hide. This was just a limbo -- sort of a waiting room, an in-between place.”
He was still touching the slot machine. He thought it would make him feel soiled, somehow, to come here and touch anything, but it didn't. Arthur tilted his head.
“D'you know it's stupid and weird, but in some ways, I actually miss this place,” said Eames with a rueful, lopsided smile, and Arthur didn't give him a weird look. He didn't say anything or turn away. He smiled back, and took Eames' hand.
+
Arthur shied from nothing Eames had to show him. It wasn't meant to be graphic or in-depth or anything, it was little more than a brief tour of Eames' mind. Their problem, Eames had come to realize, was that neither of them could read minds. So he laid himself bare to Arthur: an Eames-to-rationality dictionary. He translated along the way.
It started from the mundane, atop Tower Bridge (This is why I don't like walking on big bridges) to deeper and deeper memories (This is the room where it was pitch black and they gangbanged me here, and that's why I was scared of the dark for all those months and you had to buy nightlights).
His encounter with JJ had given him something of a revelation: Arthur might cope with things that happened to him by tucking it out of sight, but that wasn't enough for Eames. He needed to explore it, open the wound back up, take a look, talk about it. He wanted to confront his demons. Having Arthur at his side fortified him, made him feel like he could take on his memories, and win, because he wanted it. For three months he'd been idling, but now he felt ready to take back control.
And Arthur did the best thing he could have done for Eames: He listened.
He smiled slightly when they came upon his bedroom.
“Not perfect, I know,” said Eames, grinning. “I'd only been in here the once -- when you were testing all those compounds for Yusuf and I had to take you home, you remember? You could barely walk straight.”
“I remember,” said Arthur, pulling a face. “You put your hand on my ass when you were walking me home.”
Eames grinned wider. “Tell you the truth, I only volunteered 'cause, well, I may have been hoping to take advantage of you. But by the time we got here you were just about unconscious, and even I'm not totally amoral. You could probably shoot me from the deepest throes of a coma, anyway.”
“Not an unlikely possibility,” said Arthur.
“I stayed and watched you for awhile. I hope you don't mind. I've always liked watching you sleep. It was the one time you looked sort of calm and peaceful and like you didn't want to knife me in the throat.”
Arthur shook his head with long-suffering patience. “You're a trying man, Mr. Eames.”
“Anyway, I watched you and I thought, this is where Arthur sleeps every night. And I suppose that thought stuck with me because sometimes, when I hid myself away up here, I'd fall asleep on the bed and I'd imagine you were sort of -- there -- not there with me, but just a couple of dreams away, lying in the same spot. Like I could reach out and touch you if I could just make our dreams line up.”
“Jesus, Eames,” said Arthur, shaking his head again. “That's sad.”
“I know.” Eames laughed. “It's pathetic how much faith I put in you, when in reality I didn't even think you liked me.”
“Well,” said Arthur, smiling lazily. “Maybe it wasn't love at first sight. But you do have a way of getting under a man's skin, I'll grant you that.”
“You were the only thing I had to hold onto in the end,” said Eames, serious now. “I forgot myself, I forgot what you looked like, but I never stopped thinking how important it was to remember you.” He felt a pang of regret. “We should have had more time, before.”
Arthur's expression became subdued. “I didn't think I was ready ...”
“Leaving me to do all the legwork and the flirting, like a true gentleman.”
“I didn't think you were serious,” said Arthur helplessly.
“Darling,” said Eames, smiling sadly. “I've been serious about you since the moment I met you. Didn't you know?”
+
For the last time in Eames' life, he reshaped himself to Charlie's form.
“This is Charlie,” he said, in Charlie's voice. “You'd like him. He likes Rembrandt.”
Arthur seemed momentarily taken aback. He took Charlie in slowly.
“Charlie's young,” he said finally, expression twisting with something a little like grief.
Eames nodded. The sleeves of Charlie's grey hoodie were too long for him, falling past his hands. Eames was aware of how he looked: like a stray dog, neglected for too long before being allowed to come out in the light. He knew Charlie hadn't looked like that originally. That had happened gradually. It was in Charlie's step and the defeated slope of his shoulders and the guarded way he held himself.
Eames had had to be many, many different people, but none of them bore the marks of his suffering except Charlie. Charlie seemed to carry all of it on his shoulders; not just what JJ had done but everything else, too.
“I used to hate Charlie,” he said, sitting down on Arthur's bed and looking at the floor. “I hated how weak he is. I used to tell myself that Charlie had done something wrong, somewhere, committed some evil against the universe, and he deserved whatever he got. But now -- all I can think of is how sorry I feel for him.”
“You had to be Charlie a lot?”
Something gripped Eames' throat painfully tight and made his eyes sting and burn. He just nodded and gulped a breath.
“He was -- JJ's toy. He used to stay for -- months. Months.”
From the corner of his eye he saw Arthur's hand move compulsively. The point man didn't say anything. Eames forced in a deep breath.
“He made me--”
“Eames,” Arthur cut him off gently. “You don't have to.”
Eames shook his head and fought for control of himself.
“He made me ask him for it. If I did good he took care of me and wouldn't let it hurt so much. If I made a mistake, he'd ... dream up some punishment. He made me feel guilty for trying to keep him happy. I still can't ...”
“Eames,” Arthur said again.
His voice was perfectly, unexpectedly calm. He knelt down next to the bed, forcing Eames to make eye contact with him.
“Don't,” he said softly, “feel guilty. Don't ever feel guilty for what happened to you, or Charlie. That's -- it's fucking Stockholm Syndrome, Eames, it's not normal. You didn't have any control over it. It would happen to anyone.”
Eames was horrified when a tear slipped down his cheek. He reached up to brush it away before Arthur might notice, but the point man beat him to it. Eames stilled when Arthur's hand came up to his face, wiping the tear away with his thumb.
He didn't know how to react. Being in Charlie's skin had always made him feel dirty, shamefully and contemptibly unclean. That Arthur was touching him without flinching or faltering made him feel--
Well. Better.
“I love you,” said Arthur. “I love Charlie, too. All of you. You've shown me all of it, and I still want you, Eames. Do you believe me, now?”
Eames nodded, too tired to speak. With one hand, he reached under Arthur's pillow and pulled out the gun that was always kept there.
Arthur took it from him. Pressed the muzzle to his chest, where his heart was.
“We're going to be okay,” he told Eames, with tender, absolute certainty.
He pulled the trigger.
Just like that, Charlie was gone forever.
The catharsis was profound.
+
That night Eames got the first full night's sleep he'd had since first waking up in reality.
+++
The routine they settled into was sickeningly domestic and Eames loved it. Mornings were lazy affairs comprising crossword puzzles and breakfasts of eggs Benedict or French toast or crepes or whatever struck Eames' fancy; at night, they curled up on the couch and watched TV -- or one would watch while the other sprawled across their lap and read -- and retired to bed, where cuddling would commence. The days were filled with whatever they pleased, though as winter settled over Paris, cosy afternoons spent in the warmth of the flat looked more and more appealing. A couple of times they had sex, in the dark, under the covers, slow and careful and immensely intimate trysts that left Eames feeling flushed with triumph each time.
It was only a couple months of this charming lifestyle before Eames was hunched over a crossword and Arthur suddenly lowered his own paper and said, “Would you like to take a leap of faith with me?”
His smile was full of daring and affection and Eames found it impossible to say no to him.
+
Eames propped himself up on his elbows as Arthur settled himself on his thighs.
“How are you feeling?” he asked conversationally.
“No need to sound so excessively cavalier about it,” said Eames, wetting his lips. “It's like this is a really big deal and you're trying to make me feel as though it isn't -- like you're a doctor about to spring a prostate exam on me or something.”
“We can talk prostate exams later,” said Arthur, unbuttoning Eames' shirt methodically. On a whim, Eames gripped his hips and pushed up with his own, bringing their clothed groins into contact with a growl.
“You'd probably love that, wouldn't you? So sterile.”
“By all means, keep getting yourself all hot and bothered,” said Arthur blithely. “Less work for me.”
Eames took this as invitation to rock his hips into Arthur's a few more times, until a flush was creeping into Arthur's cheeks and he made as though to push Eames more firmly onto the bed, but stopped himself in time. That was not the sort of thing that would be met too well. Eames noticed, though, and stopped of his own accord.
His shirt fully unbuttoned, Arthur let it fall to either side of his ribcage and trailed a hand over his tattoos. Then he started to scoot back, between Eames' legs. Eames obligingly spread his knees to accommodate him, though he couldn't say he was entirely comfortable about this position.
“Everything okay?” Arthur stopped to ask, his hand resting on the zip of Eames' trousers.
“Sort of a green-amber, here,” said Eames thoughtfully. They had no safeword, because it seemed like overkill -- they weren't BDSM here -- but the traffic light system worked well for them both. “Mostly green, though. Keep going.”
Arthur unzipped his fly and Eames dropped flat back onto the bed, staring at the water stains on the ceiling. He felt exposed, but not yet uncomfortably so. Just wary. He bit his lip and closed his eyes as Arthur pulled his boxers down, just a bit, just enough to free his cock.
“Oh,” he heard Arthur breathe. “It's--”
“Magnificent, I know,” Eames joked nervously, not opening his eyes.
“No,” said Arthur, “well, yes. I mean. I knew you weren't circumcised, I just never ... huh.”
Eames raised his head, anxious. “Is that a problem for you?”
“No,” Arthur repeated. Eames could hear a breathy ... almost fascination in his voice. “It's ... interesting. Can I touch you?”
Eames let his head flop back onto the pillow, swallowed and nodded.
Arthur started with one hand, cautious and slow. Eames clamped his eyes shut and just breathed as he felt Arthur's fingers trailing up the shaft of his cock. His touch was curious, exploring, especially around the head of Eames' cock as he pushed the foreskin back a bit. The stimulation made Eames twitch.
“Okay? Are we still green?”
“Uh-huh.”
He'd felt the first inklings of an erection while he'd been grinding himself against Arthur, but had lost it as soon as Arthur had pulled down his boxers. Now he felt a stirring of renewed interest from his cock. He relaxed and breathed. This was okay, he told himself, it was okay, and it was okay to feel good about this.
And Arthur's hand felt good. He closed his hand around the shaft and slid it up, slowly, and the sweet glide of flesh nearly made Eames make an embarrassing whining sound. He was definitely on his way to hard, now, and it was still okay.
He felt Arthur shift around on the bed, settling himself comfortably between Eames' knees, when he felt a slow drag of tongue up the underside of his cock. That time he couldn't stop himself from making a little sound. Encouraged, Arthur tried again, teasing, swirling strokes of the tongue. He felt displaced, for a moment, strangely so, because to his mind nobody had done this sort of thing to him in over six years, and his confused brain didn't know how to feel about this. So he stopped thinking and let his body decide how to feel, instead.
Arthur's confidence was growing. He wrapped a hand around the base of Eames' cock and kept going, licking, working his way up to the head, and when he finally wrapped his lips just over the tip, Eames felt himself give a juddering sigh all the way through his bones. Arthur slid his mouth down, over him, in centimetres, keeping up his slow and cautious pace and giving Eames plenty of time to adjust to the sensation; giving himself time, too. Eames felt a rueful pang -- he knew Arthur could not enjoy doing this, but there was no stopping the point man when he was determined, and their new policy of communication had been working out for them so far -- he was pretty sure Arthur would call it off if he was uncomfortable.
“Sure you're alright?” Arthur stopped to ask, after a minute.
“What?” Eames asked hazily.
“Just that you're breathing pretty hard and not talking.”
Eames quaked with silent laughter. “That's called arousal, darling. It's the state of being you've got me in, as it happens.”
“Oh?” Arthur paused for another couple of seconds. Then: “Really,” he mused, and (to Eames' relief) brought his mouth back to Eames' cock.
It may have been Eames' imagination, but Arthur suddenly seemed to be more into this. He was losing his reservations by degrees and setting up a slightly quicker pace. He couldn't take too much of Eames into his mouth at once, but he worked his hand in the same rhythm. After awhile Eames could no longer take it; he had to prop himself up to watch, and the sight of Arthur inexpertly sucking his cock made him burn down to his fingers and toes with lust. Arthur was focused intently, the way he was when he was at work, not making a sound but for the soft, wet sucking sounds that escaped the seal of his lips and the click of his throat when he swallowed around Eames.
Eames no longer had to convince himself that this was allowed to feel good. It just did.
He lasted only a few minutes and didn't know why -- maybe his nerves could only take so much of Arthur touching him so intimately, or perhaps plain overstimulation when his cock had been sorely lacking any one-on-one attention for a long time now. He grunted a warning, smoothing his hand through Arthur's hair, and Arthur tried to keep going, but when Eames came he managed only one swallow and then twisted aside swiftly, coughing and gagging a little. Eames slumped back into the pillows, his eyes fluttering shut briefly; then he rolled over to join Arthur and found that he couldn't stop chuckling.
“Terrible, I know,” Arthur rasped weakly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyelashes were wet, his cheeks flushed.
“No,” Eames said, and couldn't resist kissing him hard. The taste of himself was bitter on Arthur's tongue and he didn't care at all. He was grinning. “Perfect.”
Arthur smiled crookedly, and let Eames roll him over and pull him into a tight embrace on the bed. He was tingling with energy. He wanted to be close, feel the heat of Arthur's body cradled against him, so that he could feel Arthur's heartbeat thudding steadily in his chest, because he couldn't believe that they had done this -- overcome this milestone together. He buried his face in Arthur's neck and dragged in the scent of him slowly. He would never stop being the best smell in the world, better than any wine.
“Are you quite done mauling me?” Arthur asked, voice muffled in Eames' chest.
Eames pulled back, just far enough to see his flushed face, and smiled. He couldn't remember the last time he'd ever felt so fucking right with the world, because Arthur was so good for him; but more importantly, in moments like this, sometimes he felt certain that he was good for Arthur, too.
“We really are going to be okay, aren't we?” he said.
“I'm usually right about these things,” said Arthur, laying a kiss on his collarbone. Eames ducked his head to kiss him properly.
“Yes,” he agreed, humming softly with pleasure. “You usually are.”
A/N: The end! Hooray!
Thank you all so, so much for the comments and encouragement with this story. It means a whole lot to me. I said at the start that I was going for "real" more than I was anything else, so I hope I've managed to deliver, and that the ending is to everyone's satisfaction. THANK YOU GUYS, and I hope you've enjoyed. <3
ETA: Here is a coda! o: