Requiescat, pt. four
Title: Requiescat
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~4900
Rating: R
Warnings: Neil McCormick, basically.
Summary: The death of Neil McCormick was gradual, not sudden, and not permanent by any means. In the end, Arthur goes much more quickly.
Author's Note: This is a Mysterious Skin crossover, though it isn't necessary to have seen the movie (but it would help).
part one, part two, part three, part five, part six, part seven, part eight.
+++
It didn't quite truly, fully hit Eames until he was standing there with Arthur's dog tags in his hand. Arthur's dog tags with Neil's name on them.
Arthur isn't real.
Neil's the one who grew up in this body and made all the decisions that ultimately led to his joining the military and getting into dreaming. Neil, not Arthur. Arthur's not a real person. Arthur doesn't have a past or a childhood.
The point man Eames knows is smoke and mirrors. All of it, right down to his clean American accent and sense of fashion and taste in coffee. He's just a mask Neil pulled on at some point. A goddamn forgery. He's a jumble of traits that happen to fit together well; a jigsaw puzzle that manages to form a picture even while pieces are missing.
Eames is terrified that all those puzzle pieces are just gone now -- that to revive Arthur, Neil would have to formulate the exact same equation under the exact same circumstances.
And nobody could ever manage to create perfection twice.
What the hell am I doing? he asks himself numbly. How is he even right to demand that Neil go along with him, try and force him back into a false persona? Just because he may or may not be in love with Arthur? Neil's real. Neil's real. Arthur is a projection.
How many hundreds of projections has Eames killed in dreams?
He wishes so desperately that he could wake up from this, go back to the start and stop Arthur from ever venturing into limbo. Arthur is a forgery -- but Eames is so much happier with him. So much happier not knowing that Neil exists.
He has to remind himself that Arthur isn't healthy. Borderline genophobic, repressed, emotionally isolated, fixated on details and perfection to an obsessive degree. Eames wonders if Neil was ever happy being Arthur. He wonders what the hell could be so bad that this young man would go into it himself and come out the other side as that.
Eames spends half the night thinking all these things, and by the end, his plan hasn't changed a bit. He is far too selfish to let Arthur go without a fight.
Neil doesn't sleep either. In the middle of the night he leaves his own bed. Eames stiffens when Neil climbs into his. He slides under the covers and presses up against Eames' side. Rests his head on Eames' shoulder.
“What are you doing?”
Neil tilts his face into Eames' chest, brushing him with his lips. Eames can feel every warm breath against his skin, the cool dog tags dangling from Neil's neck.
“It's okay that you liked it,” Neil says.
He sounds hypnotized. Or like he's reading a line from a script. Eames swallows. Neil's soft, unkempt hair is tickling his throat.
“Neil.”
Neil slides a hand over his stomach and spreads out his fingers. Then he melts into Eames, relaxing the way Arthur never, ever can.
“Everything's gonna be okay,” he says.
Eames doesn't know what to do. He wishes he could shut his eyes and pretend that this is Arthur. After a minute, Neil stirs and pushes his face more firmly into Eames' shoulder, wincing.
“My head's killin' me,” he mumbles.
Eames frowns. Wonders if Arthur is fighting back, under the surface.
“You're gonna leave, aren't you,” Neil adds. “If I don't get my memory back.”
“I don't know,” says Eames, even though he doesn't know how he could ever stand to be around Neil if he knows he's going to spend the rest of his entire life waiting to find traces of Arthur in him that don't exist. “I haven't thought about it, to be honest.”
“Maybe I could get good at the mind crime thing. Since I've already done it all before.”
“You can't even enter your own subconscious.”
“But you think that's Arthur's fault,” says Neil, “and he's me, so maybe I can undo it.”
“Look at it this way,” says Eames. “Your mind is a treasure chest. It's got a dozen different locks on it and each lock is bigger and more complicated than the last. Do you follow?”
Neil nods.
“Arthur's the locksmith who built the treasure chest,” says Eames. “And the key to every lock is trapped in the chest inside it. That's why I need Arthur. Not you.”
Neil frowns.
“I don't know why you don't like me better than him,” he says. “You bein' so fuckin' hot for me and all.”
“It's different. You and Arthur.”
“I don't see how.”
“That's because nobody ever wanted you for anything more than just sex before you became him.”
For a fleeting second he worries he's crossed some boundary. But what Neil says, very quietly, is, “One guy did.”
After a minute, Eames says, “Sorry.”
“Forget it.”
They're both quiet for a long time.
“You wanna know something fucked-up?” Neil asks, hushed, at length.
“Sure.”
“I was abducted by aliens when I was eight years old.”
“Wouldn't surprise me,” says Eames.
+
He learns something new about Neil in the morning, before they go into the airport: Neil is a smoker. He bums a cigarette from Eames and he makes smoking look as casual as though he's been doing it all his life. Eames turns away and tries not to think that it's attractive.
Neil is calmer today. He seems to have already gotten over his friend. But he stands too close to Eames, and he never went back to his own bed the night before; Eames woke up with just a foot of space between them and felt, once again, like he'd somehow betrayed Arthur, without even having touched Neil.
“Can I make a long-distance call from your phone?” Neil asks. It's early morning, the sky muted and yellow-grey, and he's shivering in spite of his leather jacket. “To Kansas.”
“You've got your own phone, you know.” Eames pulls it out from his pocket and starts scrolling through it. “Actually, I was looking through it in the cab,” he admits. He was looking for anything revealing about himself, since he'd never get the opportunity otherwise -- but Arthur's phone is fairly bland, obviously used for work only and the occasional game of Tetris. He finds the listing and holds the phone out to Neil. “McCormick E. I don't know if that helps you at all. Same name as yours, anyway, isn't it?”
Neil takes the phone slowly and stares at it.
“Think I should call?”
“Sure,” says Eames, since he doesn't really care.
He has to find the “call” button for Neil and then he retreats a respectful distance, just in case somebody picks up.
After a minute, somebody does.
“Hey Mom,” Neil says abruptly. “It's me.”
Eames takes a deep drag off his cigarette and watches the long procession of yellow taxis past the departure terminals, trying not to listen, unable to help himself.
“I know, no, I'm good, I-- Shit, it's so good to hear your voice. When's the last time I talked to you?”
There's a pause and then Neil laughs, genuinely for the first time, with startled delight.
“Well, I been busy since Christmas! But I'm callin' you now, aren't I? I -- never mind all that, just tell me about you. Tell me everything you've been doing. Just keep talking, okay? ... I just kinda need to hear your voice right now.” He snorts, quietly. “No, I'm not dying, Ma. I promise.”
Impulsively Eames pulls out his own phone and stalks a further distance away, till he can't hear Neil anymore. He flips through his listings till he lands on Dom Cobb (right underneath the affectionate label “Arthur Darling”). He probably should give the retired extractor a heads-up at some point today anyway.
“It's three o'clock in the morning, Eames,” Cobb answers, groggy. Eames flicks away his cigarette and forces a chipper tone. It's like forging: easy.
“Wrong! It's six o'clock New York time, which is where Arthur and I happen to be. And in another hour we'll be on a plane on its way to your doorstep. Isn't that fun?”
“The kids will be happy,” Cobb concedes sleepily. “Why the impromptu visit? Arthur usually gives me more notice than this.”
“Yes, well. Funny story. Arthur accidentally went to limbo and lost his identity and he may or may not have reverted to a teenaged state going by Neil.”
There's a staticky pause.
“You did what?” Cobb says at last.
“It was an accident,” Eames insists. “Anyway, I'll see you later today. Bye.”
He hangs up and turns off the phone before Cobb can reach through it to maim him. Hopefully Cobb will have had plenty of time to process by the time Eames and Neil arrive in California.
Neil's just finishing up his phone conversation, too.
“I'll come visit you soon, okay? Promise. Yeah. I know. Love you too.”
He grips the phone tightly for a few more seconds, then lowers his hand. Eames takes it from him and ends the call, slipping Arthur's phone back into his pocket.
“Happy?”
“She said I called her on Christmas,” Neil says. “She said she ... she got my last cheque and she bought a new patio set with it.”
“How sweet of you,” says Eames.
“Yeah.” Neil looks dazed. “I can't believe I ... she always hated livin' in such a shithole. I guess I've been taking care of her.”
Instantly Eames is furious. He feels like destroying Arthur's phone.
Instead he grabs up his luggage and goes into the terminal. Neil falls into step behind him.
He thought Arthur wouldn't have remembered a life as Neil McCormick. Now, he learns that Arthur has retained this indelible connection to Neil's past. He's kept in touch with his mother. He probably uses Neil's name and accent to talk with her. Eames thinks, at first, that he's furious with Arthur for never telling him -- but by the time they get to baggage check-in, he realizes, he's angry with himself. He can't believe he never guessed. He knows everything about Arthur.
Everything except his whole life, apparently.
Making their way through security, though, he finds that he can't be angry for too long, because Neil just looks so calm and happy. Eames has never seen Arthur look like that. He finds himself wanting to just go quiet and soak it in while it lasts.
One call to Japan gets them bumped up to business class, since Eames is feeling indulgent today. He tucks the PASIV carefully away once on the plane, then reclines in his seat.
“Something I should warn you about,” he tells Neil, who's been uncharacteristically quiet all this time.
“Okay,” says Neil.
“Cobb's got two kids, James and Phillipa.”
“Okay. I like kids.”
“Good, because you've known these two their entire lives and they're mad about you. As far as they're concerned, you're their Uncle Arthur and there's nothing wrong with you. You're going to have to act more normal.”
“More like Arthur, you mean,” says Neil, expression clouding.
“Yes,” says Eames. “At least try to do something about the accent. They're only children. Their mum's gone, their dad's only recently gotten them back, you've been one of the only constants in their lives.”
“Okay,” says Neil doubtfully, and he instantly lapses into Arthur's voice: “But I feel stupid faking it like this.”
Eames stares at him.
“What,” says Neil nervously, Southern twang back in place. “Not good enough?”
“No. Perfect. Neil, I could kiss you.”
Neil smirks at that, arching an eyebrow, and Eames reconsiders his choice of words.
“Keep practising,” he says. “Keep talking.”
“About what?”
“I don't know. Anything. Tell me about where you grew up.”
Neil starts talking about Hutchinson, Kansas, and Eames pretends to be interested in the words he's saying, pretends he's paying any attention at all; instead of wanting to just close his eyes and let Arthur's voice wash over him, cradling it to him like a child with a soft toy.
+
Cobb lives an hour outside of LA. Eames takes the time to fuss over Neil's appearance in the cab, straightening out his clothes, digging out a comb and dragging it through his hair. He's inexplicably nervous.
“Jesus, get off me,” Neil grumbles finally, swatting him away. “I'm on this, okay?”
“And don't swear,” Eames says sharply. “Cobb hates that. Trust me.”
“Okay.”
“Because if I hear you say the word fuck one more time I might shoot you.”
“Okay,” says Neil impatiently. “Jesus.”
It turns out all his fears are groundless.
“Uncle Arthur!”
Both children immediately assail Neil's legs as soon as Cobb opens the door. Eames tenses, but Neil's face lights up.
“Hey, guys,” he says, crouching down to their level. “Wow, look at you! You're a foot taller every time I see you.”
Phillipa beams appreciatively at this; James wriggles his way up against Neil's torso like a puppy and folds himself there, sucking his thumb. Neil wraps an arm around him and presses a kiss to the top of his head: it's casual, familiar and yet un-Arthur at the same time, but only Eames notices. Phillipa tugs his hand impatiently.
“Where did you and Mr. Eames go?” she asks.
“We were in Rome,” says Neil. “Know where that is?”
Phillipa shakes her head.
“It's in Italy. It's an old, old city with lots of statues and fountains.”
Phillipa wrinkles her nose. “It sounds boring.”
“Want to know a secret?” Neil asks, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “It really is.”
Phillipa grins. James pries his thumb out of his mouth, still snuggled against Neil, and asks shyly, “Did you bring us anything?”
“James,” Cobb chides warningly.
“Mr. Eames has candy in his suitcase for you guys,” says Neil.
Two sets of puppy eyes turn on him, and Eames is very glad he thought to make this stop while they were in LAX. He sets his suitcase down quickly and digs out the candy he left on top. Both children say a quick, shy thank-you without being prompted. They're both much more comfortable around Arthur than him.
“Why don't you guys go play outside for a bit so we can catch up?” Cobb says, and they both nod their heads obediently. They scamper off, and Neil gets to his feet. Cobb studies him.
“Hi, Neil,” he says at length.
“Have I met you before?” Neil asks, immediately reverting to his careless Southern drawl.
Cobb raises his eyebrows. “We've met many times before.”
“No, smartass, I mean before. Before I was Arthur.”
Eames groans inwardly. So much for easing Cobb into this.
But Cobb just looks at him, eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and says, “Yes, we met once.”
“You weren't one of my johns, though.”
“No, I don't think so.”
Silence. It's possibly the weirdest re-introduction Eames has ever witnessed.
Cobb turns away. “Come on inside.”
He leads them to the living room, where he and Eames take a seat on opposite sofas. Neil wanders the room, instead, touching things, studying photographs. Cobb watches him like he's an interesting specimen, and Eames just watches Cobb watching Neil.
Neil turns, holding up a photograph. “Who's this?”
“That's Mal,” says Eames.
“She's gone?”
“Yes,” says Cobb.
“Did I meet her?”
“Yes,” says Cobb again.
“Thought she looked familiar.” Neil sets the picture back down and faces Cobb. “So do you know what happened to my memory, or what?”
Cobb shakes his head. Eames' heart sinks.
“I'm going to help you if I can, though,” he says. “I need to talk to Eames first.”
Neil's gaze flicks between them. “About me, right?”
Cobb nods.
Surprisingly, Neil just shrugs and says, “Fine. You got someplace where I can take a nap?”
“I made up the guest bedroom for you. It's the first door on your left upstairs.”
“Thanks.”
Neil leaves. Cobb watches him go, then beckons to Eames. They leave the house quietly, and sit down on the porch. James and Phillipa are playing together on the lawn, safely out of earshot.
Leaning forward in his wicker seat, Eames hisses, “You knew Arthur was a prostitute?”
“Arthur was a what?”
“Oh.” Eames leans back and scratches his neck self-consciously, momentarily wrong-footed. “Well -- in there -- you made it sound like you knew him, when he was--”
“I didn't know what he was talking about,” Cobb says defensively. “I met him once, I didn't know his name back then. And I didn't know -- I mean, are you joking?”
“No, I'm not joking. Not unless he is, anyway, and why would he lie about something like that?”
Cobb looks tortured for a few moments. Eames almost feels guilty for bringing this to his doorstep.
But then Cobb says quietly, “Arthur doesn't even have sex,” and suddenly Eames doesn't feel guilty at all, because it is just so good to be sitting here with someone who knows Arthur and misses Arthur and understands how confusing and painful this whole situation must be.
“I know,” Eames says. “But Neil's different. He's ... he's sexual, let's leave it at that.”
“Was he abused?”
“I don't know. He doesn't act like it.”
“Do you think Arthur is an entirely distinct identity?”
“I don't know that either,” says Eames. “I thought he could be. But now it turns out Arthur's still in touch with his mother -- Neil's mum, obviously -- so what does that tell us?”
Cobb frowns, watching his children at play. “Go back to the start and tell me how this happened.”
Eames does. He tells him about Yusuf's compound, the experimental run three layers down, how Arthur had slipped into limbo and just ... not come out again. He tells Cobb how he tried to recreate it and how Neil's subconscious had soundly slammed itself shut on him.
For awhile afterward Cobb just seems to be processing.
Eventually, just to break the silence, Eames says, “I don't know that I believe in multiple personalities and such, but you've got to admit that this memory loss goes a bit beyond normal amnesia, surely.”
“No. You're right. And I agree with you that Arthur probably had little memory of Neil, or at least of the things Neil did. I have a theory -- although it could be way off ...”
“Tell me,” says Eames.
“Well, you and I both know how good Arthur is at navigating the unconscious mind,” says Cobb, spreading his hands. “What if he hand-crafted his own dissociative identity?”
Eames stares. “But that's ...”
“It's not impossible to alter your conscious self when you can tap directly into your subconscious. Fischer proved that. It would be almost like self-inception. All he'd have needed would be a strong enough sedative and the ability to go deeper into his dreams -- or limbo.”
“But think of the extent you're talking. All we did with Fischer was tinker with his perceived relationship with his father. Neil would have turned himself into an entirely different person.”
“Which is why I asked if you think he's been abused,” says Cobb. His eyebrows draw together. “Are you familiar with the theory of reaction formation?”
“A defense mechanism wherein someone subconsciously buries unwanted emotions by developing an attitude of the extreme opposite tendency, yes, I'm familiar,” says Eames. “So you think Neil-the-hustler turned himself into Arthur-the-genophobe.”
“I'm just saying it's not completely impossible. If you're good enough at dreaming. There should have been a trigger, if he did it voluntarily, but who knows.”
Somewhat heartened that they at least have a working theory, Eames claps his hands together and says bracingly, “Right. So the million-dollar question, how do we get Arthur back?”
“The memories are still there,” Cobb says confidently. “Whether we can access them or not -- they're there. Memories don't just go away. The only problem is that those memories won't necessarily form the identity we want.”
“What are you saying?” Eames demands.
“That we can't just kill Neil. We don't even know how Arthur managed it. Maybe we can get those memories back and show Neil what he's been up to for the past decade or so, but we can't make him be Arthur -- probably ever again.”
Eames immediately wants to scream at him to stop talking. He wants to hit Cobb and demand to know why he doesn't want Arthur back as badly as Eames does because if he did, he wouldn't be saying these things.
“The problem is confronting Neil with whatever turned his sexuality into something anxiety-inducing,” says Cobb, frowning again thoughtfully. “He seems comfortable enough with it right now. There's still something he's suppressing.”
“It's not a clean break,” says Eames, forcing a level tone. “Else he'd remember joining the military and everything. He went into it as Neil and came out as Arthur.”
“So we find out what the last thing he remembers is and work from there.”
“Right,” says Eames.
And then we kill Neil anyway, he adds silently.
Cobb calls the children and they go back inside.
“I thought you were napping,” Eames says, when he and Cobb go back into the living room and find Neil standing there. He's gazing at the picture of Mal. The hand he raises to brush the frame of the photograph is trembling, reverent.
“She just looks so familiar,” he whispers.
Eames' stomach gives a funny little twist. He moves closer.
“Neil, you're crying.”
Neil's hand flies up to his face. He seems shocked to find tears there.
Then his eyes roll up and his legs fold, and he crumbles, landing in Eames' arms the second before he hits the ground.
+++
When Eames opens his eyes, a blast of hot, humid air hits him in the face.
He has no idea what to expect. His hand is already jammed deep in his pocket, clutching the false totem. He expects it to be disorienting, terrifying in its vastness, ready to swallow him up and never let him leave.
Instead, limbo is a scrubby little park with some trees and a children's playground.
He turns slowly on the spot, taking in the landscape. The emptiness of the world is unsettling. When he's facing the playground again, he notices Arthur's slim figure sitting on one of the swings, fingers curled loosely around the chain.
“Arthur.” Eames walks up to him, relieved and apprehensive. “Thank God I've found you.”
“You followed me,” says Arthur, looking at him incredulously.
Eames huffs a self-conscious laugh. They're in limbo; there's no time for skipping around the point. “I'd follow you to hell and back, you know.”
Arthur looks dazed, lost. Wide-eyed and young. Eames touches his shoulder and gives him a little shake, just a little one, trying to snap him out of it.
“Look, Arthur. We're in limbo. We've got to leave now, alright?”
“I think I've been here before.”
“In limbo?” Eames looks around again. “You never told me. I know I didn't leave this dream here, though, so I suppose it must be yours.”
“This park,” says Arthur. Digging the toes of his shoes into the sand, he rocks back and forth a little on the swing. “I think I spent a lot of time here.”
“That's lovely. We'd better get going now, darling.”
Arthur gets up and starts walking. Eames follows him, has to follow him, helpless.
“Arthur, we've got to leave.”
“I know I've been here,” Arthur says softly, and it starts to rain.
Except it isn't rain. Eames flinches at the first projectile to strike him, and catches the next in his hand. It's cereal. It's raining cereal. He stares, completely stymied, as the cereal falls all around them and Arthur keeps walking. Bright sugary loops catch in his hair.
Eames catches him up, pleading. “You know it's a dream, don't you? Arthur? You know we've got to wake up?”
The air is stiflingly hot. There's a strange current, almost electric, all around them. It's pure energy and it lifts the hair on the nape of Eames' neck, makes him prickle and flush uncomfortably all over. He doesn't want to shoot Arthur out of this dream until he knows Arthur's conscious of where they are. This far down, who knows what could influence either of them?
“I had to come here,” Arthur's saying. “I had to. I had to see what was here.” His voice breaks, just a fraction. “Something's wrong with me. Inside.”
“No, darling, no,” Eames hastens to soothe him, his heart pounding. This is the first time Arthur's acknowledged that anything might be wrong with him when he isn't in the middle of an episode.
“I can feel it. It's in here. He's in here.”
The cereal stops pelting them. Now it's rain. Fat drops that cling together and seem to fall in straight lines from the sky. On the ground they swirl together and form puddles tinged with blood.
Eames realizes: Arthur has lost control over this dream.
“Turn back.” He grabs Arthur by the upper arm and tugs him. “Come on. Let's turn back. Let's go back up, Arthur, together, yeah?”
Arthur stops walking. They're standing in front of a blue house.
The current of energy in the air thrums against them like static off an old TV screen. It feels like lust, that low, warm coil, unfurling, creeping down Eames' spine and making him break into an uncomfortable sweat, made all the more uncomfortable by the fact that he knows this energy is Arthur's. The hot air smells like musk, overpowering.
“Here we go,” Arthur mutters, staring at the house, and suddenly, Eames really doesn't want to be near it.
“Let's go.” He grabs Arthur again, pulls him physically. “Now.”
Arthur shakes him off. “I should go in there.”
“No, you really shouldn't.” He knows it's limbo, knows they're all alone down here, but the house seems to breathe like it's alive and watching them. A curtain twitches in a window like someone is lurking just out of sight in there, some ghost. All the blood-tinged rain on the ground is swirling in a big, lazy spiral, as though circling an invisible drain.
Arthur makes a sound like a sob. “I think -- I think I like it in there.”
“Your nose is bleeding,” Eames says, transfixed and horrified.
“But it's okay to like it--”
“We're leaving,” says Eames. “Now.”
He reaches for his gun, but Arthur's moving again, closer to the house. Eames follows, begging.
“Arthur, please, we've got to go. You're dreaming. This isn't real. It's time to go.”
The air vibrates against him, makes his blood itch and his skin tingle with impossible arousal. The house fills him with terror, and he doesn't know why. He grips Arthur's hand.
“Don't go in there, Arthur. I'm begging you.”
“I have to,” Arthur says, strangled, equally terrified. Blood drips over his lip and spatters the ground, falling faster and more thickly.
“I'll go in,” Eames blurts out, shouldering in front of him, “alright? I'll go, just you stay back, stay there, please don't--”
The smell, the heat, the wild tingling in the air like soft tendrils wrapping around his body and reaching for all the most sensitive places--
Arthur pushes him away.
“It's okay,” he says, quietly. “Everything's going to be okay.”
He walks up to the blue house and Eames can't move--
The door opens.
Arthur collapses on the threshold. Eames' bullet finds him just before he hits the ground. It's not fast enough.
+
The night Eames checks them into a hotel in Rome, Yusuf's new compound tucked safely in his bag, Arthur is so jetlagged he's half delirious.
“Go to sleep, darling,” Eames tells him.
Arthur has to check the room first, leave a gun in their safe, make sure everything is secure. Then he slumps onto one of the beds and kneads his face with his palms.
“You ever get this feeling,” he asks, “where you just ... just want to fuck someone or get in a fight or something?”
Eames heaves a big mock sigh of long-suffering. “No, but I suppose if it would make you feel better, you could fuck me. I guess I could do that for you.”
It's a mark of just how exhausted Arthur is that he doesn't tense up or fire back some waspish retort. He smiles.
Eames sits next to him.
For a minute they just sit.
Eames starts, “So--”
Arthur turns his head to face him and for a second Eames swears, swears they're going to kiss, and he's so stupidly, amazingly happy about it--
“Tomorrow we can try out the compound for Yusuf,” Arthur says, getting up and walking over to his suitcase. “I'll build two of the dreams, you cover the third and remember it has to be something we could easily work a kick into, just in case. I'll be very angry if I get trapped in the second layer with you for months because you've half-assed a desert or something.”
“Of course,” says Eames.
“And you're sitting on my bed, so if you could please move.”
Eames does.
He sees the way Arthur's hands quiver as he pulls his sleepwear out of his suitcase, but he doesn't think anything of it then; and by the time he does, it's too late.
next part
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~4900
Rating: R
Warnings: Neil McCormick, basically.
Summary: The death of Neil McCormick was gradual, not sudden, and not permanent by any means. In the end, Arthur goes much more quickly.
Author's Note: This is a Mysterious Skin crossover, though it isn't necessary to have seen the movie (but it would help).
part one, part two, part three, part five, part six, part seven, part eight.
+++
It didn't quite truly, fully hit Eames until he was standing there with Arthur's dog tags in his hand. Arthur's dog tags with Neil's name on them.
Arthur isn't real.
Neil's the one who grew up in this body and made all the decisions that ultimately led to his joining the military and getting into dreaming. Neil, not Arthur. Arthur's not a real person. Arthur doesn't have a past or a childhood.
The point man Eames knows is smoke and mirrors. All of it, right down to his clean American accent and sense of fashion and taste in coffee. He's just a mask Neil pulled on at some point. A goddamn forgery. He's a jumble of traits that happen to fit together well; a jigsaw puzzle that manages to form a picture even while pieces are missing.
Eames is terrified that all those puzzle pieces are just gone now -- that to revive Arthur, Neil would have to formulate the exact same equation under the exact same circumstances.
And nobody could ever manage to create perfection twice.
What the hell am I doing? he asks himself numbly. How is he even right to demand that Neil go along with him, try and force him back into a false persona? Just because he may or may not be in love with Arthur? Neil's real. Neil's real. Arthur is a projection.
How many hundreds of projections has Eames killed in dreams?
He wishes so desperately that he could wake up from this, go back to the start and stop Arthur from ever venturing into limbo. Arthur is a forgery -- but Eames is so much happier with him. So much happier not knowing that Neil exists.
He has to remind himself that Arthur isn't healthy. Borderline genophobic, repressed, emotionally isolated, fixated on details and perfection to an obsessive degree. Eames wonders if Neil was ever happy being Arthur. He wonders what the hell could be so bad that this young man would go into it himself and come out the other side as that.
Eames spends half the night thinking all these things, and by the end, his plan hasn't changed a bit. He is far too selfish to let Arthur go without a fight.
Neil doesn't sleep either. In the middle of the night he leaves his own bed. Eames stiffens when Neil climbs into his. He slides under the covers and presses up against Eames' side. Rests his head on Eames' shoulder.
“What are you doing?”
Neil tilts his face into Eames' chest, brushing him with his lips. Eames can feel every warm breath against his skin, the cool dog tags dangling from Neil's neck.
“It's okay that you liked it,” Neil says.
He sounds hypnotized. Or like he's reading a line from a script. Eames swallows. Neil's soft, unkempt hair is tickling his throat.
“Neil.”
Neil slides a hand over his stomach and spreads out his fingers. Then he melts into Eames, relaxing the way Arthur never, ever can.
“Everything's gonna be okay,” he says.
Eames doesn't know what to do. He wishes he could shut his eyes and pretend that this is Arthur. After a minute, Neil stirs and pushes his face more firmly into Eames' shoulder, wincing.
“My head's killin' me,” he mumbles.
Eames frowns. Wonders if Arthur is fighting back, under the surface.
“You're gonna leave, aren't you,” Neil adds. “If I don't get my memory back.”
“I don't know,” says Eames, even though he doesn't know how he could ever stand to be around Neil if he knows he's going to spend the rest of his entire life waiting to find traces of Arthur in him that don't exist. “I haven't thought about it, to be honest.”
“Maybe I could get good at the mind crime thing. Since I've already done it all before.”
“You can't even enter your own subconscious.”
“But you think that's Arthur's fault,” says Neil, “and he's me, so maybe I can undo it.”
“Look at it this way,” says Eames. “Your mind is a treasure chest. It's got a dozen different locks on it and each lock is bigger and more complicated than the last. Do you follow?”
Neil nods.
“Arthur's the locksmith who built the treasure chest,” says Eames. “And the key to every lock is trapped in the chest inside it. That's why I need Arthur. Not you.”
Neil frowns.
“I don't know why you don't like me better than him,” he says. “You bein' so fuckin' hot for me and all.”
“It's different. You and Arthur.”
“I don't see how.”
“That's because nobody ever wanted you for anything more than just sex before you became him.”
For a fleeting second he worries he's crossed some boundary. But what Neil says, very quietly, is, “One guy did.”
After a minute, Eames says, “Sorry.”
“Forget it.”
They're both quiet for a long time.
“You wanna know something fucked-up?” Neil asks, hushed, at length.
“Sure.”
“I was abducted by aliens when I was eight years old.”
“Wouldn't surprise me,” says Eames.
+
He learns something new about Neil in the morning, before they go into the airport: Neil is a smoker. He bums a cigarette from Eames and he makes smoking look as casual as though he's been doing it all his life. Eames turns away and tries not to think that it's attractive.
Neil is calmer today. He seems to have already gotten over his friend. But he stands too close to Eames, and he never went back to his own bed the night before; Eames woke up with just a foot of space between them and felt, once again, like he'd somehow betrayed Arthur, without even having touched Neil.
“Can I make a long-distance call from your phone?” Neil asks. It's early morning, the sky muted and yellow-grey, and he's shivering in spite of his leather jacket. “To Kansas.”
“You've got your own phone, you know.” Eames pulls it out from his pocket and starts scrolling through it. “Actually, I was looking through it in the cab,” he admits. He was looking for anything revealing about himself, since he'd never get the opportunity otherwise -- but Arthur's phone is fairly bland, obviously used for work only and the occasional game of Tetris. He finds the listing and holds the phone out to Neil. “McCormick E. I don't know if that helps you at all. Same name as yours, anyway, isn't it?”
Neil takes the phone slowly and stares at it.
“Think I should call?”
“Sure,” says Eames, since he doesn't really care.
He has to find the “call” button for Neil and then he retreats a respectful distance, just in case somebody picks up.
After a minute, somebody does.
“Hey Mom,” Neil says abruptly. “It's me.”
Eames takes a deep drag off his cigarette and watches the long procession of yellow taxis past the departure terminals, trying not to listen, unable to help himself.
“I know, no, I'm good, I-- Shit, it's so good to hear your voice. When's the last time I talked to you?”
There's a pause and then Neil laughs, genuinely for the first time, with startled delight.
“Well, I been busy since Christmas! But I'm callin' you now, aren't I? I -- never mind all that, just tell me about you. Tell me everything you've been doing. Just keep talking, okay? ... I just kinda need to hear your voice right now.” He snorts, quietly. “No, I'm not dying, Ma. I promise.”
Impulsively Eames pulls out his own phone and stalks a further distance away, till he can't hear Neil anymore. He flips through his listings till he lands on Dom Cobb (right underneath the affectionate label “Arthur Darling”). He probably should give the retired extractor a heads-up at some point today anyway.
“It's three o'clock in the morning, Eames,” Cobb answers, groggy. Eames flicks away his cigarette and forces a chipper tone. It's like forging: easy.
“Wrong! It's six o'clock New York time, which is where Arthur and I happen to be. And in another hour we'll be on a plane on its way to your doorstep. Isn't that fun?”
“The kids will be happy,” Cobb concedes sleepily. “Why the impromptu visit? Arthur usually gives me more notice than this.”
“Yes, well. Funny story. Arthur accidentally went to limbo and lost his identity and he may or may not have reverted to a teenaged state going by Neil.”
There's a staticky pause.
“You did what?” Cobb says at last.
“It was an accident,” Eames insists. “Anyway, I'll see you later today. Bye.”
He hangs up and turns off the phone before Cobb can reach through it to maim him. Hopefully Cobb will have had plenty of time to process by the time Eames and Neil arrive in California.
Neil's just finishing up his phone conversation, too.
“I'll come visit you soon, okay? Promise. Yeah. I know. Love you too.”
He grips the phone tightly for a few more seconds, then lowers his hand. Eames takes it from him and ends the call, slipping Arthur's phone back into his pocket.
“Happy?”
“She said I called her on Christmas,” Neil says. “She said she ... she got my last cheque and she bought a new patio set with it.”
“How sweet of you,” says Eames.
“Yeah.” Neil looks dazed. “I can't believe I ... she always hated livin' in such a shithole. I guess I've been taking care of her.”
Instantly Eames is furious. He feels like destroying Arthur's phone.
Instead he grabs up his luggage and goes into the terminal. Neil falls into step behind him.
He thought Arthur wouldn't have remembered a life as Neil McCormick. Now, he learns that Arthur has retained this indelible connection to Neil's past. He's kept in touch with his mother. He probably uses Neil's name and accent to talk with her. Eames thinks, at first, that he's furious with Arthur for never telling him -- but by the time they get to baggage check-in, he realizes, he's angry with himself. He can't believe he never guessed. He knows everything about Arthur.
Everything except his whole life, apparently.
Making their way through security, though, he finds that he can't be angry for too long, because Neil just looks so calm and happy. Eames has never seen Arthur look like that. He finds himself wanting to just go quiet and soak it in while it lasts.
One call to Japan gets them bumped up to business class, since Eames is feeling indulgent today. He tucks the PASIV carefully away once on the plane, then reclines in his seat.
“Something I should warn you about,” he tells Neil, who's been uncharacteristically quiet all this time.
“Okay,” says Neil.
“Cobb's got two kids, James and Phillipa.”
“Okay. I like kids.”
“Good, because you've known these two their entire lives and they're mad about you. As far as they're concerned, you're their Uncle Arthur and there's nothing wrong with you. You're going to have to act more normal.”
“More like Arthur, you mean,” says Neil, expression clouding.
“Yes,” says Eames. “At least try to do something about the accent. They're only children. Their mum's gone, their dad's only recently gotten them back, you've been one of the only constants in their lives.”
“Okay,” says Neil doubtfully, and he instantly lapses into Arthur's voice: “But I feel stupid faking it like this.”
Eames stares at him.
“What,” says Neil nervously, Southern twang back in place. “Not good enough?”
“No. Perfect. Neil, I could kiss you.”
Neil smirks at that, arching an eyebrow, and Eames reconsiders his choice of words.
“Keep practising,” he says. “Keep talking.”
“About what?”
“I don't know. Anything. Tell me about where you grew up.”
Neil starts talking about Hutchinson, Kansas, and Eames pretends to be interested in the words he's saying, pretends he's paying any attention at all; instead of wanting to just close his eyes and let Arthur's voice wash over him, cradling it to him like a child with a soft toy.
+
Cobb lives an hour outside of LA. Eames takes the time to fuss over Neil's appearance in the cab, straightening out his clothes, digging out a comb and dragging it through his hair. He's inexplicably nervous.
“Jesus, get off me,” Neil grumbles finally, swatting him away. “I'm on this, okay?”
“And don't swear,” Eames says sharply. “Cobb hates that. Trust me.”
“Okay.”
“Because if I hear you say the word fuck one more time I might shoot you.”
“Okay,” says Neil impatiently. “Jesus.”
It turns out all his fears are groundless.
“Uncle Arthur!”
Both children immediately assail Neil's legs as soon as Cobb opens the door. Eames tenses, but Neil's face lights up.
“Hey, guys,” he says, crouching down to their level. “Wow, look at you! You're a foot taller every time I see you.”
Phillipa beams appreciatively at this; James wriggles his way up against Neil's torso like a puppy and folds himself there, sucking his thumb. Neil wraps an arm around him and presses a kiss to the top of his head: it's casual, familiar and yet un-Arthur at the same time, but only Eames notices. Phillipa tugs his hand impatiently.
“Where did you and Mr. Eames go?” she asks.
“We were in Rome,” says Neil. “Know where that is?”
Phillipa shakes her head.
“It's in Italy. It's an old, old city with lots of statues and fountains.”
Phillipa wrinkles her nose. “It sounds boring.”
“Want to know a secret?” Neil asks, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “It really is.”
Phillipa grins. James pries his thumb out of his mouth, still snuggled against Neil, and asks shyly, “Did you bring us anything?”
“James,” Cobb chides warningly.
“Mr. Eames has candy in his suitcase for you guys,” says Neil.
Two sets of puppy eyes turn on him, and Eames is very glad he thought to make this stop while they were in LAX. He sets his suitcase down quickly and digs out the candy he left on top. Both children say a quick, shy thank-you without being prompted. They're both much more comfortable around Arthur than him.
“Why don't you guys go play outside for a bit so we can catch up?” Cobb says, and they both nod their heads obediently. They scamper off, and Neil gets to his feet. Cobb studies him.
“Hi, Neil,” he says at length.
“Have I met you before?” Neil asks, immediately reverting to his careless Southern drawl.
Cobb raises his eyebrows. “We've met many times before.”
“No, smartass, I mean before. Before I was Arthur.”
Eames groans inwardly. So much for easing Cobb into this.
But Cobb just looks at him, eyes narrowed thoughtfully, and says, “Yes, we met once.”
“You weren't one of my johns, though.”
“No, I don't think so.”
Silence. It's possibly the weirdest re-introduction Eames has ever witnessed.
Cobb turns away. “Come on inside.”
He leads them to the living room, where he and Eames take a seat on opposite sofas. Neil wanders the room, instead, touching things, studying photographs. Cobb watches him like he's an interesting specimen, and Eames just watches Cobb watching Neil.
Neil turns, holding up a photograph. “Who's this?”
“That's Mal,” says Eames.
“She's gone?”
“Yes,” says Cobb.
“Did I meet her?”
“Yes,” says Cobb again.
“Thought she looked familiar.” Neil sets the picture back down and faces Cobb. “So do you know what happened to my memory, or what?”
Cobb shakes his head. Eames' heart sinks.
“I'm going to help you if I can, though,” he says. “I need to talk to Eames first.”
Neil's gaze flicks between them. “About me, right?”
Cobb nods.
Surprisingly, Neil just shrugs and says, “Fine. You got someplace where I can take a nap?”
“I made up the guest bedroom for you. It's the first door on your left upstairs.”
“Thanks.”
Neil leaves. Cobb watches him go, then beckons to Eames. They leave the house quietly, and sit down on the porch. James and Phillipa are playing together on the lawn, safely out of earshot.
Leaning forward in his wicker seat, Eames hisses, “You knew Arthur was a prostitute?”
“Arthur was a what?”
“Oh.” Eames leans back and scratches his neck self-consciously, momentarily wrong-footed. “Well -- in there -- you made it sound like you knew him, when he was--”
“I didn't know what he was talking about,” Cobb says defensively. “I met him once, I didn't know his name back then. And I didn't know -- I mean, are you joking?”
“No, I'm not joking. Not unless he is, anyway, and why would he lie about something like that?”
Cobb looks tortured for a few moments. Eames almost feels guilty for bringing this to his doorstep.
But then Cobb says quietly, “Arthur doesn't even have sex,” and suddenly Eames doesn't feel guilty at all, because it is just so good to be sitting here with someone who knows Arthur and misses Arthur and understands how confusing and painful this whole situation must be.
“I know,” Eames says. “But Neil's different. He's ... he's sexual, let's leave it at that.”
“Was he abused?”
“I don't know. He doesn't act like it.”
“Do you think Arthur is an entirely distinct identity?”
“I don't know that either,” says Eames. “I thought he could be. But now it turns out Arthur's still in touch with his mother -- Neil's mum, obviously -- so what does that tell us?”
Cobb frowns, watching his children at play. “Go back to the start and tell me how this happened.”
Eames does. He tells him about Yusuf's compound, the experimental run three layers down, how Arthur had slipped into limbo and just ... not come out again. He tells Cobb how he tried to recreate it and how Neil's subconscious had soundly slammed itself shut on him.
For awhile afterward Cobb just seems to be processing.
Eventually, just to break the silence, Eames says, “I don't know that I believe in multiple personalities and such, but you've got to admit that this memory loss goes a bit beyond normal amnesia, surely.”
“No. You're right. And I agree with you that Arthur probably had little memory of Neil, or at least of the things Neil did. I have a theory -- although it could be way off ...”
“Tell me,” says Eames.
“Well, you and I both know how good Arthur is at navigating the unconscious mind,” says Cobb, spreading his hands. “What if he hand-crafted his own dissociative identity?”
Eames stares. “But that's ...”
“It's not impossible to alter your conscious self when you can tap directly into your subconscious. Fischer proved that. It would be almost like self-inception. All he'd have needed would be a strong enough sedative and the ability to go deeper into his dreams -- or limbo.”
“But think of the extent you're talking. All we did with Fischer was tinker with his perceived relationship with his father. Neil would have turned himself into an entirely different person.”
“Which is why I asked if you think he's been abused,” says Cobb. His eyebrows draw together. “Are you familiar with the theory of reaction formation?”
“A defense mechanism wherein someone subconsciously buries unwanted emotions by developing an attitude of the extreme opposite tendency, yes, I'm familiar,” says Eames. “So you think Neil-the-hustler turned himself into Arthur-the-genophobe.”
“I'm just saying it's not completely impossible. If you're good enough at dreaming. There should have been a trigger, if he did it voluntarily, but who knows.”
Somewhat heartened that they at least have a working theory, Eames claps his hands together and says bracingly, “Right. So the million-dollar question, how do we get Arthur back?”
“The memories are still there,” Cobb says confidently. “Whether we can access them or not -- they're there. Memories don't just go away. The only problem is that those memories won't necessarily form the identity we want.”
“What are you saying?” Eames demands.
“That we can't just kill Neil. We don't even know how Arthur managed it. Maybe we can get those memories back and show Neil what he's been up to for the past decade or so, but we can't make him be Arthur -- probably ever again.”
Eames immediately wants to scream at him to stop talking. He wants to hit Cobb and demand to know why he doesn't want Arthur back as badly as Eames does because if he did, he wouldn't be saying these things.
“The problem is confronting Neil with whatever turned his sexuality into something anxiety-inducing,” says Cobb, frowning again thoughtfully. “He seems comfortable enough with it right now. There's still something he's suppressing.”
“It's not a clean break,” says Eames, forcing a level tone. “Else he'd remember joining the military and everything. He went into it as Neil and came out as Arthur.”
“So we find out what the last thing he remembers is and work from there.”
“Right,” says Eames.
And then we kill Neil anyway, he adds silently.
Cobb calls the children and they go back inside.
“I thought you were napping,” Eames says, when he and Cobb go back into the living room and find Neil standing there. He's gazing at the picture of Mal. The hand he raises to brush the frame of the photograph is trembling, reverent.
“She just looks so familiar,” he whispers.
Eames' stomach gives a funny little twist. He moves closer.
“Neil, you're crying.”
Neil's hand flies up to his face. He seems shocked to find tears there.
Then his eyes roll up and his legs fold, and he crumbles, landing in Eames' arms the second before he hits the ground.
+++
When Eames opens his eyes, a blast of hot, humid air hits him in the face.
He has no idea what to expect. His hand is already jammed deep in his pocket, clutching the false totem. He expects it to be disorienting, terrifying in its vastness, ready to swallow him up and never let him leave.
Instead, limbo is a scrubby little park with some trees and a children's playground.
He turns slowly on the spot, taking in the landscape. The emptiness of the world is unsettling. When he's facing the playground again, he notices Arthur's slim figure sitting on one of the swings, fingers curled loosely around the chain.
“Arthur.” Eames walks up to him, relieved and apprehensive. “Thank God I've found you.”
“You followed me,” says Arthur, looking at him incredulously.
Eames huffs a self-conscious laugh. They're in limbo; there's no time for skipping around the point. “I'd follow you to hell and back, you know.”
Arthur looks dazed, lost. Wide-eyed and young. Eames touches his shoulder and gives him a little shake, just a little one, trying to snap him out of it.
“Look, Arthur. We're in limbo. We've got to leave now, alright?”
“I think I've been here before.”
“In limbo?” Eames looks around again. “You never told me. I know I didn't leave this dream here, though, so I suppose it must be yours.”
“This park,” says Arthur. Digging the toes of his shoes into the sand, he rocks back and forth a little on the swing. “I think I spent a lot of time here.”
“That's lovely. We'd better get going now, darling.”
Arthur gets up and starts walking. Eames follows him, has to follow him, helpless.
“Arthur, we've got to leave.”
“I know I've been here,” Arthur says softly, and it starts to rain.
Except it isn't rain. Eames flinches at the first projectile to strike him, and catches the next in his hand. It's cereal. It's raining cereal. He stares, completely stymied, as the cereal falls all around them and Arthur keeps walking. Bright sugary loops catch in his hair.
Eames catches him up, pleading. “You know it's a dream, don't you? Arthur? You know we've got to wake up?”
The air is stiflingly hot. There's a strange current, almost electric, all around them. It's pure energy and it lifts the hair on the nape of Eames' neck, makes him prickle and flush uncomfortably all over. He doesn't want to shoot Arthur out of this dream until he knows Arthur's conscious of where they are. This far down, who knows what could influence either of them?
“I had to come here,” Arthur's saying. “I had to. I had to see what was here.” His voice breaks, just a fraction. “Something's wrong with me. Inside.”
“No, darling, no,” Eames hastens to soothe him, his heart pounding. This is the first time Arthur's acknowledged that anything might be wrong with him when he isn't in the middle of an episode.
“I can feel it. It's in here. He's in here.”
The cereal stops pelting them. Now it's rain. Fat drops that cling together and seem to fall in straight lines from the sky. On the ground they swirl together and form puddles tinged with blood.
Eames realizes: Arthur has lost control over this dream.
“Turn back.” He grabs Arthur by the upper arm and tugs him. “Come on. Let's turn back. Let's go back up, Arthur, together, yeah?”
Arthur stops walking. They're standing in front of a blue house.
The current of energy in the air thrums against them like static off an old TV screen. It feels like lust, that low, warm coil, unfurling, creeping down Eames' spine and making him break into an uncomfortable sweat, made all the more uncomfortable by the fact that he knows this energy is Arthur's. The hot air smells like musk, overpowering.
“Here we go,” Arthur mutters, staring at the house, and suddenly, Eames really doesn't want to be near it.
“Let's go.” He grabs Arthur again, pulls him physically. “Now.”
Arthur shakes him off. “I should go in there.”
“No, you really shouldn't.” He knows it's limbo, knows they're all alone down here, but the house seems to breathe like it's alive and watching them. A curtain twitches in a window like someone is lurking just out of sight in there, some ghost. All the blood-tinged rain on the ground is swirling in a big, lazy spiral, as though circling an invisible drain.
Arthur makes a sound like a sob. “I think -- I think I like it in there.”
“Your nose is bleeding,” Eames says, transfixed and horrified.
“But it's okay to like it--”
“We're leaving,” says Eames. “Now.”
He reaches for his gun, but Arthur's moving again, closer to the house. Eames follows, begging.
“Arthur, please, we've got to go. You're dreaming. This isn't real. It's time to go.”
The air vibrates against him, makes his blood itch and his skin tingle with impossible arousal. The house fills him with terror, and he doesn't know why. He grips Arthur's hand.
“Don't go in there, Arthur. I'm begging you.”
“I have to,” Arthur says, strangled, equally terrified. Blood drips over his lip and spatters the ground, falling faster and more thickly.
“I'll go in,” Eames blurts out, shouldering in front of him, “alright? I'll go, just you stay back, stay there, please don't--”
The smell, the heat, the wild tingling in the air like soft tendrils wrapping around his body and reaching for all the most sensitive places--
Arthur pushes him away.
“It's okay,” he says, quietly. “Everything's going to be okay.”
He walks up to the blue house and Eames can't move--
The door opens.
Arthur collapses on the threshold. Eames' bullet finds him just before he hits the ground. It's not fast enough.
+
The night Eames checks them into a hotel in Rome, Yusuf's new compound tucked safely in his bag, Arthur is so jetlagged he's half delirious.
“Go to sleep, darling,” Eames tells him.
Arthur has to check the room first, leave a gun in their safe, make sure everything is secure. Then he slumps onto one of the beds and kneads his face with his palms.
“You ever get this feeling,” he asks, “where you just ... just want to fuck someone or get in a fight or something?”
Eames heaves a big mock sigh of long-suffering. “No, but I suppose if it would make you feel better, you could fuck me. I guess I could do that for you.”
It's a mark of just how exhausted Arthur is that he doesn't tense up or fire back some waspish retort. He smiles.
Eames sits next to him.
For a minute they just sit.
Eames starts, “So--”
Arthur turns his head to face him and for a second Eames swears, swears they're going to kiss, and he's so stupidly, amazingly happy about it--
“Tomorrow we can try out the compound for Yusuf,” Arthur says, getting up and walking over to his suitcase. “I'll build two of the dreams, you cover the third and remember it has to be something we could easily work a kick into, just in case. I'll be very angry if I get trapped in the second layer with you for months because you've half-assed a desert or something.”
“Of course,” says Eames.
“And you're sitting on my bed, so if you could please move.”
Eames does.
He sees the way Arthur's hands quiver as he pulls his sleepwear out of his suitcase, but he doesn't think anything of it then; and by the time he does, it's too late.
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