Requiescat, pt. eight
Title: Requiescat
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~7600
Rating: R
Warnings: References to noncon, child abuse, self-harm; brief sex.
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: It's done! It's done! Hallelujah!
Mysterious Skin crossover! Spoilers! etc!
part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six, part seven.
+++
Arthur's typing on his laptop, a long email to Miles about paradoxical architecture, when Mal enters the room and takes a seat behind him. The rest of the classroom is empty. He's scarcely even aware of her presence until she speaks.
“Who is Neil McCormick?”
“That's one of my aliases,” Arthur says without looking up from his laptop screen or looking round. “I deserted the military; I needed a couple other identities. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering,” Mal says behind him. She pauses. “I was reading a military report today.”
Arthur keeps typing, too intent to slow down or give much thought to what she's saying.
“Who taught you dreaming, Arthur?”
“The military did.”
“Who else?”
“Dom and Miles,” says Arthur. “You know this, Mal.”
“Remind me of when you and I first met.”
Arthur stops typing and sighs, short and bitter. “I don't appreciate you asking me questions you already know the answers to. What do you expect me to say?”
“Just answer me,” Mal says, and he can't see her face but she sounds so sad that he has to. He's never been able to refuse Mal.
“It was a year and two months ago, while you were pregnant with Phillipa, in your father's classroom in Paris. I came looking for a job. You gave me one.”
He hears her get up. He feels inexplicably nervous when she takes a seat in front of him, searching his face.
“You really don't remember,” she says, studying him.
“Mal,” Arthur says, because he doesn't understand.
“What happened to your accent? You used to speak with a different one.”
“What acc--? You mean, from Kansas? I moved away from there when I was eight, I haven't spoken with that accent in years. Mal, what are you--?”
“You don't remember everything,” she says. “Are there holes in your memory? Gaps?”
“That's normal,” Arthur says. “They told us in the military when we started dreamsharing that we would probably experience some memory loss. You probably have gaps, too. They said it's a side effect of the Somnacin.”
“Did they, Arthur?” Mal says, sad again.
“Mal,” Arthur repeats, not sure if he's getting more impatient or more anxious. “Is there a point to this, or--?”
“You poor thing,” she says softly.
He jerks back, chair legs scraping on the floor, when she reaches over the table between them to touch his face. His heart gallops and he doesn't know why.
“Don't touch me, please,” he says sharply.
Mal looks startled. Now Arthur feels even worse.
“Sorry,” he says. “I just don't like to be touched. It makes me uncomfortable.” You know that, he doesn't add.
She still looks so sad that he considers just letting her touch him anyway, if it means that much to her, even though he doesn't like it. But she moves back after a moment and stands up.
“Of course, Arthur,” she says. “Sorry to have disturbed you.”
He's relieved when she leaves the room, leaving him alone. He shakes his head and starts typing again.
“Fuck,” he mumbles, when he sees what he's typed instead of the word steps. He hits the backspace button irritably until the word slut has vanished from his monitor.
+
Curled up in a tight ball on the bed in his rented apartment, he doesn't even know Mal is there until she sits on the edge of the mattress next to him.
“Oh, Arthur,” she says softly. She murmurs a few things in French, under her breath, then: “Mon chéri, again?”
“Again?” he croaks, not understanding. His head is splitting, so bad he can't even see out of one eye; he's panting hard because he can't breathe through his nose. He thinks there are tears on his face -- he's so in pain, it wouldn't surprise him. He's surprised he can force words out without screaming. Or throwing up.
“I've seen you like this once before. Don't you remember?”
He shuts his eyes and shakes his head jerkily.
Mal sighs and gets up. Over the next hour she tends to him, lovingly, the way a mother would; tucking him into bed, checking for fever, turning off all the lights and closing the blinds, laying a cold wet cloth over his forehead and giving him extra-strength acetaminophen from her handbag. She takes away the plastic bag in the trash can he's been vomiting into and brings him a new one, just in case, setting it at his bedside.
He's embarrassed, but she takes care of him like it's nothing. Even with a second baby on the way, Mal will always have love to spare for Arthur.
It's a couple of hours before he can finally sit up a little, the pain a little less blinding.
“Sorry, Mal,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair to try and make himself look somewhat more presentable. “You shouldn't have to see me like this.”
She swats him lightly. “Nonsense. Tell me what's wrong, silly boy.”
“I -- I don't know.” He grinds the heel of his palm into one eye, trying to work out the blurriness. He asks himself: How did I get here? When he's sure he remembers, that this is real, he tries to go on. “I was ... Eames was here ... we were talking about the job. Something ... there was something, and he left, and I ...”
He's perfectly aware of how stupid and pathetic he sounds, and that's even more embarrassing. But it's easier to be this way in front of her than Cobb or Eames.
“Try to remember what you talked about,” Mal says. She's holding his hand and it doesn't feel as bad as it should. Arthur stares down at her smooth, pale, perfect hand resting on his as he talks.
“He said how good it is to be working with me again and how nice my suit looks. And he asked me if I wanted to go out for drinks with him when the job is over. I -- I told him to go to hell. And then we got back to the job, but ... right before he left, he stopped and he -- touched me and--” he swallows, guilt sliding like oil down his throat at the memory of Eames' hand resting hot on his shoulder “--and he said he was serious about the drinks and -- God -- he said my suit would look even better on his hotel room floor. I threw him out and that's all I remember.”
He swallows again, dizzy. That's not all he remembers -- what he also remembers is leaning against the door, touching a hand numbly to the spot where Eames' hand had rested, and finding himself sobbing. But he can't say that.
“Oh, Arthur,” Mal says again, gentle. “He's teasing you. You know he's teasing you. You're so much more professional than he is, he just likes to make his little jokes at your expense.”
“He means it,” says Arthur bleakly. “Every time, he does this.” He feels ill, skin prickling. “Why'd he have to touch me? He probably gave me a virus or something--”
“I don't think you're sick,” Mal says.
“Something's obviously wrong with me. It's a bug, or something--”
“I think something's hurting you in here, more than you know.”
She touches his chest lightly. Arthur shrinks back.
“Like -- like what?” he stammers.
“Arthur,” she says. “Don't let what I'm about to say offend you. I've known Eames for a number of years now. I know he can be a bit ... overwhelming, and he might seem disrespectful sometimes. But I don't think he would ever hurt you on purpose.”
“What?” Arthur says, at once lost. “Hurt me? Mal, do you think -- do you think I'm afraid of him?” He starts to laugh, weakly. “I'm not afraid of Eames. Trust me. I think he'd be afraid of me if he ever tried something. That isn't what's ...”
He trails off.
“What, then?” says Mal.
“It's ... I ... I can't say this to anyone else.”
“You can tell me anything, Arthur. Always.”
He exhales shakily. “It's just that ... sometimes. I -- I think I could be attracted to him.” He has to choke out the word. He can feel his eyes watering, prickling at the corners, and fights it back as he gasps out, “I think I like it when he touches me.”
The shame is suffocating. He regrets the words immediately. They taste worse than the bile on his tongue. He feels dirty when Mal pulls him into a hug, cradles his head firmly against her shoulder, and he lets himself get lost in the embrace.
“Arthur.” She holds him tight. “There is nothing wrong with having feelings.”
“It's sick. I know that it's sick.”
“Is that what you tell yourself?” she asks, pulling back, holding him at arm's length to study him. “That it's sick, what you feel?”
“You don't understand,” he chokes, breath coming out hard and fast. “I can't. I can't be attracted to men.”
“Why not?”
He can't possibly explain to her how it feels, to want to throw up every time Eames brushes him amiably, to feel attraction as a low physical pain in his gut, to feel so fucking wrong in his own mind, like it belongs to somebody else. He gets along just fine and then Eames shows up, twists him up in a snarl of confusion and desire. He supposes it was bound to build to this point eventually, where he can't even physically function for thoughts of Eames' hand on him and Eames' easy come-ons.
“Have you talked to him?” Mal asks, when it becomes apparent that no explanation is forthcoming.
“I can't,” Arthur says, exhausted. “That's the last thing I can do.”
“Eames is one of the best in our field.” Mal touches her stomach meaningfully, where a bump is only just beginning to show. “It's going to be awhile before I can dream again and you and Dom will need the help on some jobs. You can't keep going like this.”
“Yeah. I can.” Arthur takes a deep breath. “This is just a ... a little setback. I can get better. I'll learn to control it.”
“Aren't you listening to me? This has happened to you before, Arthur. Don't you realize how much you're suppressing? You can't just suppress even more. You aren't happy like this.”
“It's the only way I'll ever be able to work with him,” Arthur says stubbornly. Mal shakes her head.
“He likes you. What's the worst that could happen if you talk to him?”
That thought sends a bolt of raw terror through Arthur.
He fucking hates Eames. There's no way the other extractor wouldn't use Arthur's attraction against him if he knew about it. And Arthur will end up hurt -- not emotionally; Arthur doesn't have the right emotions for hurting -- but physically, he can feel it clear as day, the pain washing over him like a bad memory. He's hurt and bleeding and humiliated and it's too much for one person to handle. It spills out of him in harsh, gagging retches, and Mal grabs the trash can next to the bed for him just in time.
He leans half out of the bed while he throws up, wanting to escape, begging pitifully between coughs, please go, please, because he can't stand Mal seeing him like this, but she stays, sitting next to him, stroking his back, until he gives a final, feeble gag and nothing comes up.
He pants, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, while Mal sets the trash can down. When she turns to him there's no laughter in her bright eyes, nothing wry about the downward curve of her lips.
“Something is killing you inside,” she says.
He's exhausted. Utterly wrung out. He believes her, and doesn't know why.
“Can I,” he starts weakly, and changes his request. “Can you ... stay? Here? Just for awhile ... or until I fall asleep ...”
“Of course, my darling,” she says gently.
She stays perched on the bed next to him, rubs slow circles over his back and hums some little tune. He's too tired to tell her to stop and besides, he kind of likes the contact.
Before the migraine drowns him once more, he's glad that Mal didn't wrest his worst secret out of him, which is that sometimes, he thinks Eames could make him happy. If Arthur were ever to let him.
“I'm going to make you better someday, Neil,” he thinks he hears Mal say, when he's scrunched up on the bed again, half-blind, sick, reeling, his head throbbing mercilessly, and she's squeezing his shoulder. “I'm going to find out what you did to yourself and fix you.”
But he doesn't remember in the morning, which is a small relief. Mal watches him all the next day, but he doesn't notice; he's only ever conscious of Eames' gaze on him, and the frantic clash of terror and longing that he feels whenever the forger stands close to him.
+++
Christmas comes around, and when Eames realizes what the date is, he spares a moment to wonder distantly if Neil will phone his mother before remembering he's got Arthur's phone with the number in it. He spends the holiday alone, in London, with his whisky and his paintings; same as he spends New Year's, and the rest of January, and February, and the months following that.
At first he sent Cobb emails, just asking for little updates about how Neil was doing; but Cobb's replies were infrequent and not wholly informative and so Eames stopped, because it frustrates him too much that Cobb is allowed to get so close to Neil and Eames isn't. Because Eames makes him hurt.
He makes an effort not to be quite so pathetic, this time. But it's trying, because he still can't bring himself to take any jobs -- he's gotten too accustomed to working alongside Arthur, sharing hotel rooms and taking meals together. So all he really does is paint and all he leaves the flat for is food, and it's a relatively miserable existence but at least, he thinks, Neil will be a little happier with a continent and the Atlantic Ocean between them.
He hopes Neil is happier.
It's been six months when he goes grocery shopping one day, and it's grey and drizzly and miserable outside, and when he gets back to his flat, he promptly drops his bags of groceries and hears something shatter through the distant rush of blood in his ears because Arthur's perched on his kitchenette counter. And he has to say Arthur, because his hair has been casually styled back to its former neatness, and he's wearing a crisp button-down shirt under his leather jacket, and expensive-looking trousers, and there's that sharp, knowing gleam in his eye.
He rolls a red die around between his fingers.
“I came for my totem,” he says, raising his eyebrows, as though this is the most obvious explanation in the world.
Eames just stares dumbly at him. He might possibly be gaping.
The apparition slides adroitly to the floor and closes the distance between them. Eames unconsciously presses his back to the door, uncertain, but Arthur just smiles, a wry little twist of lips.
Then he hits Eames across the face as hard as he can.
Eames reels, tasting blood at once. His vision actually goes funny for a second. Then he feels a smooth hand at his face, cupping his cheek, and hears Arthur's soft voice in his ear: “That's for leaving.”
Before Eames can form an argument, Arthur's kissing him, fervent and insistent. He kisses like a lover, confidently, prising into Eames' mouth and tasting out each corner, until Eames is dizzy; and finally Arthur slides away and pats his cheek.
“That's for coming back.”
Eames makes a faint choked sound that could possibly be a sob. Arthur smiles again and it's a little gentler this time. He wipes away a smudge of blood on Eames' lip with his thumb.
“Come on,” he says, taking Eames by the hand, and Eames couldn't possibly do anything but follow him, like a lost lamb.
+
He's wearing the leather jacket Neil bought with Eames' money in Rome, dark brown Italian leather and looking as soft to the touch as butter, and Eames wonders how he didn't notice before that Neil, apparently, has tastes as expensive as Arthur's, or at least knows what will flatter him.
He can only think in disjointed observations, because his brain has no higher functioning power than that. Arthur seats him on the bed and fetches an ice pack from the freezer, which he presses to Eames' bleeding lip.
He still has a vicious right hook. It's as comforting as it is devastating.
“So I hear you're in love with me,” Arthur tells him, a smile playing round the corners of his lips.
Eames just looks at him faintly. He can't think, not with Arthur's fingers brushing his face and Arthur's eyes fixed on him so unwaveringly. He thinks he's being mocked, but can't be sure.
“You'll live,” Arthur says, taking the ice pack away. “You can say something now.”
The only thing Eames can think of is: “What do I even call you?”
“You can call me Arthur if you want.” When Eames glances at him uncertainly, he raises an eyebrow. “I've been the same person for years now. That doesn't just go away.”
“Well, it did go away.” Eames sounds like he's got a cold or something. It's embarrassing and he can't seem to control it. “You scared the hell out of me. All the years I've known you I go on thinking you're one way, and then overnight you turn into everything I thought you hated, and tie me up in knots till I don't know what to think--”
He breaks off and rubs a hand over his face, fighting to control his breathing.
“Sorry for scaring you,” says Arthur, after a moment.
“I fucking grieved for you. I thought I'd never have you back. And when I thought I might, you told me to leave. You're fucking everything to me, Arthur, d'you know that? And I don't even ...” He has to trail off again, shaking his head uselessly, drawing deep breaths. “I don't understand.”
“Do you want me to start at the beginning?” Arthur asks.
“Start with you telling me to leave back at Cobb's.”
Arthur looks down at the bedspread. He's sitting across from Eames, cross-legged on the bed, slightly hunched over. He picks at a stray thread in the coverlet for a moment. Then he starts to peel off his leather jacket, shrugging it off and putting it down at his side.
He holds out his arm for Eames, palm up. His shirt sleeve rides up so Eames can see his wrist. He leans over and he can make out a thick scar there, a horizontal gash, pink against Arthur's pale skin.
Eames jerks away involuntarily. Arthur lifts his other sleeve to reveal an identical scar, then shakes his cuffs back down.
“Arthur,” says Eames, strangled.
“That happened the day after you left, when I was home alone. But I panicked. I called an ambulance.”
“How could you?” Eames breathes. The thought of Arthur hurting himself is overwhelming. He can't stand it. “How could you do that?”
Arthur laughs wetly, humourlessly. “It wasn't the first time.”
Eames grabs his wrist and turns his arm over, yanking up his sleeve to search the pale underside of Arthur's forearm. Arthur squirms.
“Eames, no, don't--”
It's almost invisible but unmistakeable when Eames finds it: a long, thin scar that runs from Arthur's pulse point almost to the crease of his elbow. Eames drops his wrist. He feels sick.
“Arthur.”
Arthur straightens out his sleeve, self-conscious. “That was a long time ago.”
“What about six months ago? What the hell were you thinking?”
“I don't know,” says Arthur. “I was ... I don't know. I really don't. It just seemed to make sense. But then I saw all the blood and I ... changed my mind.”
“That's it?” Eames demands. “That's what changed your mind? Seeing the blood?”
“Well, I thought that was it,” Arthur says. “But afterward, when I'd been stitched up, Cobb came to get me, and on the drive home, all he said was, 'What if you'd actually done it? What would I say to Eames?'”
“He said that?”
Arthur nods, looking rueful and pained and young again. Eames blinks. Cobb is more perceptive than he's given him credit for.
“So that's what changed my mind, since you asked,” Arthur finished. “And then I decided to get better, and I started therapy.”
Eames laughs. It just slips out, at the casual way Arthur mentions therapy, before he can think. Arthur looks down at the bedspread again.
“No, sorry,” Eames says, mortified, when he catches Arthur's expression. “It's not funny. I'm sorry. I'm just having a hard time picturing it. I mean, how do you even begin to explain--?”
“With a lot of amending,” says Arthur.
“Did it help?” Eames asks. “The therapy?”
At this Arthur smiles and reaches over to touch him, sweeping his thumb over the back of Eames' hand.
“You tell me,” he says.
+
Eames makes tea while Arthur wanders the flat, lingering in his little studio.
“This is good,” he says, when Eames joins him and presses a cup of tea into his hand. He's looking at a Manet forgery. “Probably your best work to date.”
“I've had ample opportunity to perfect my forging skills over the past year. Along with my brooding shut-in skills.”
Arthur's lip quirks. “They're good, but I like your originals best.”
“I don't,” says Eames. “They're too honest for me.”
Arthur smiles at him. It reminds him of the look Mal gave him in limbo, a little sad, a little longing.
“Can I be honest with you?”
Eames nods. But Arthur just stands there, chewing his lip, till Eames jerks his head and leads him to the squashed little table at the kitchenette, the one he never eats at because tables are for people who have someone to share meals with. They take a seat on opposite sides, and Arthur's cup is half drained by the time he gives a quiet, shaky little sigh and sets it down.
“Here we go,” he says softly.
+
When Arthur talks about his childhood, the barest hint of his old drawl creeps into some of his words -- so faint that only somebody paying attention could pick up on it. Eames is surprised that he kind of likes it, now, Neil's faded accent set to Arthur's precise words.
That doesn't make it any easier to hear.
He stays at the table, but Arthur moves restlessly while he talks, jogging one leg under the table, getting up and pacing back and forth like an animal in a cage. Eames can tell he isn't saying everything, and some of it sounds like his therapist's words, as he gropes to justify some of the things he's done; but Eames doesn't call him on it. He can tell there's more to the story, though, especially when Arthur gets a pained, twisted expression on his face as he talks about the other boy -- Brian.
“He was so fucked-up,” he says bleakly, and Eames doesn't respond, More than you?
“I saw him again one more time in Kansas when I was eighteen. I talked to him about what had happened. I couldn't believe how broken-up inside he was. It made me wonder if that could've been me. I wanted so badly to be somebody else, right then.”
He stops pacing, and sinks, slowly, back into his chair across from Eames. He knots his hands together on the table and stares down at them.
“That was the day after I was raped in New York.”
The breath he sucks in is shaky. Eames shakes his head slowly.
“And that's what made you change?”
“It had a big hand,” Arthur affirms reluctantly. “Before ... I always believed in just doing what felt good. And sex felt good. Making men stupid over me, getting paid just to fuck ... God, I loved that.”
His eyes half close familiarly, and that marked inflection in his voice is familiar too. His eyes flicker suddenly back up to Eames, and he sounds slightly rueful when he goes on.
“Then I moved to New York. A trick went bad, and I never did it again. The end.”
“Back up,” says Eames gently. “There was more than that.”
Arthur frowns and glares down at the table.
“All you need to know is that I was raped. He called me a slut and afterward I cried and threw up and I had a headache, and that's what I started associating with sex and physical attraction. Because that's what I felt like. A slut. I thought I'd been in control all along, but that's how all those johns saw me. I felt like they'd all used me like that in some way, starting with my -- coach. Just fucking used, my whole life. And I -- had this notion that he'd cared about me, somehow, but then I met Brian and thought I could have ended up like that, and I thought, he couldn't have cared about me, or he wouldn't have done all the things to me that he did. Well -- that I let him do. I let it all happen.”
Eames can tell, once Arthur trails off, that he hadn't meant to say quite so much. He's still frowning, and he's not candid about it the way Neil would be, but he's not shutting down the way Arthur would, either.
“You were a kid,” Eames reminds him softly.
“But I did the same thing in New York. Let it happen. I didn't even try to fight. Who does that, Eames?”
Eames thinks of how ineffectively Neil had tried to fight him off, and feels guilty. He can understand now why it must have been so important for Arthur to become so proficient at hand-to-hand combat, even if he didn't fully understand why himself.
He feels quite useless. He doesn't know how to make Arthur stop blaming himself. Arthur grabs his tea and takes a quick gulp and pulls a face, finding that it's gone cold.
“Anyway. I couldn't really do it anymore after that, hook up with men.” He smiles sadly. “My therapist said I never learned to see sex as anything but a tool to control people and get what I wanted from them. I didn't like it used against me.”
“And what about now?”
“I don't know.” Arthur's smile turns a little bitter. “That was the last time I ever had sex. Well -- I mean, until ... you know.”
“Oh,” says Eames, comprehending. “Oh. God. Arthur--”
“Don't,” Arthur warns, waving a hand, “don't start apologizing--”
“Fuck, I'm sorry,” Eames says anyway, burying his face in his hands, “really I am, I just wanted you so bloody bad, I always have, and I couldn't think--”
“Eames,” Arthur says sharply. “Stop it. Stop doing that. Acting like I'm two different people. I'm not. You didn't apologize to me before, so why start now?”
“I just don't understand,” Eames says helplessly. “How you can be a certain way one moment, and the next--”
“You don't like Neil, do you?” Arthur interrupts.
“He's just,” Eames starts feebly, and corrects himself: “Well, you were just--”
“This is Neil,” says Arthur, waving a hand over himself. “That's me. I used to traffic sex. Can you handle that?”
“Can you?” Eames asks, unable to resist. Arthur smiles wanly.
“I can learn to live with that,” he says. “But what I'm really getting at is -- well, I don't expect you to like Neil as you knew him. I'm fairly sure I wouldn't like you at eighteen, either. But that's still a huge part of who I am, and if you detest the person I used to be that much, then how can you say you really love me? How will I know?”
“It's not that I detested you,” Eames mutters, suddenly sullen. “It's just that you ... weren't you, anymore.”
“I'm not who Neil might have been, or could have been, if things were different,” says Arthur. “I'm just what was left when he struck out the parts he didn't like about himself. I'm still him.”
“But now you've got your memories back.”
“Yes.” Something dark flickers over Arthur's expression and it makes Eames automatically want to hold him. Then he blinks, and it's gone. “I'm still coming to terms with things. I mean ... Christ, I used to be terrified to let you touch me. But I think you could help me. If you still really want me, that is.”
“I do. I always do,” says Eames. He swallows with an effort. “Always.”
Arthur smiles a little, raising his gaze up to Eames' face. He slides a hand across the surface of the table and Eames takes it without thinking.
“I think I could love you,” Arthur says.
“You think?”
“I don't know. I've never been in love. I'd like to be. And I think I could fall in love with you.”
Eames wants to be stung or hurt or something, but Arthur raises Eames' hand to his lips and presses a kiss to his knuckles, and anything he might have said dies immediately in his throat, because Arthur is looking at him with such open trust on his face that Eames falls in love all over again, and commits in that moment to making Arthur feel the same way. Any way he can.
“Arthur,” he says, impulsively. “Can I take you on a date?”
Arthur's dark eyes flicker back up to him, wary now. “A date?”
“Yes. You know. Take you out to dinner. Haven't you been on a date before?”
“No, actually, I haven't.”
“Well, I want to take you out.” Eames sits back decisively in his chair. “And I hope that's alright with you, because I'll feel pretty pathetic going on my own.”
“You're ridiculous,” Arthur says, but the corner of his lip is twitching. “I should warn you. I'm kind of done with the whole sex with men thing.”
“Oh,” says Eames, trying not to feel a pang of disappointment.
“Yeah. See, if there's going to be sex, I'd rather it be with one man from now on.”
“Oh,” says Eames again, starting to grin.
“This will sound stupid,” Arthur says, and there's something very Neil about the wry tilt of his lips-- “Just-- I've had sex with a lot of men. But I've never had a lover.”
“I think I can help you with that,” says Eames.
“Alright, then. I suppose I'll have to go on a date with you, Mr. Eames.”
Eames leans over and kisses him, just because he can, and he feels every part of his body coming back to life when Arthur kisses him back without a trace of hesitation.
+
The funny thing about Arthur now is that it's like he wants to be insecure, but can't fully manage it. He acts nervous, when Eames takes him out to dinner, but there's confidence in his motions. For Eames, this feels wonderfully, comfortingly familiar; but there's an added element of attraction that makes this unknown and exciting.
“This isn't weird?” Arthur asks him, at least twice.
“No. We've been out for dinner before, you know.”
“I know that, but not like ... this.” Arthur gestures around the restaurant, and it is admittedly a bit more formal than the places they usually frequent. Eames was determined to do this thing right. “And I thought things would be different, now that ...”
“That what?” Eames asks curiously, halfway through buttering a roll.
“Now I've shattered all your illusions, I suppose. I mean,” Arthur smiles crookedly, “you probably imagined I was making straight A's and getting beat up in high school. Not seducing forty-year-old men for money.”
That's another example of his backward behaviour. He acts coy, but has no problem dropping lines like this into the conversation.
Eames finds he doesn't mind it at all. He maybe even likes Arthur's brash little quips, or at least appreciates that Arthur doesn't censor himself for Eames' sake. He's been finding over the past few days that, the more Arthur comes to terms with himself, the easier Eames finds it to come to terms with everything. Much easier, actually.
“Can I ask you something?” Eames asks, watching him eat.
“Sure.”
“What's your coach's name?”
“He's dead. I already looked him up.” Arthur doesn't even glance up from his salad. The reply is so instantaneous and dismissive that Eames almost has to wonder if he isn't saying everything.
“What about ... that john, in New York. Did you know his name?”
“No. I don't even really remember what he looks like.” When he looks up and sees Eames' doubtful expression, Arthur lets the corner of his lip twitch upward. His tone softens. “And that isn't just something I've suppressed. These things fade with time, that's all. Everything does. I just didn't realize it at the time.”
“Fair enough,” Eames says.
He takes care of the bill at the end of the night. Arthur raises an eyebrow.
“Mr. Eames, I hope you don't expect me to put out on the first date just because you paid for dinner.”
“I'm a gentleman,” Eames assures him. “My intentions are nothing but pure.”
Arthur just smirks at him.
But he does put out. They fuck in Eames' bed, on top of the covers, rocking into each other with unspoken mutual need. Eames thinks it's like and unlike that night a year ago; Arthur wants lube and a condom this time and he's missing the urgency he'd had before, and when Eames moves over him, they press together blindly, kissing, mapping every inch of each other's body with their hands and lips. But he's got Neil's confidence; every movement is calculated and sure, every flick of his tongue, every clench of his muscles around Eames and every languid roll of his hips designed to wring another groan out of the forger.
And Eames brushes his fingers over Arthur's dog tags, the dog tags Arthur is still wearing even when he's wearing nothing else, and suddenly he's gasping out, “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I left you in that coma--”
“Eames, shut up,” Arthur orders, and if that isn't Arthur, Eames doesn't know what is.
+++
“What do you think?” Arthur asks. He's running his hands through his hair repeatedly, so that it hangs around his face handsomely, soft and floppy. Eames reaches up, captures one of his hands and kisses him, letting his other hand drag through Arthur's hair.
“You know, I quite like it like this.”
Arthur wrinkles his nose when his hair dangles in his eyes, letting Eames brush it away. “Let's just get this over with,” he says.
He hasn't seen his mother or been back to Hutchinson since before he enlisted. Eames always imagined that Arthur was from some clean, pretty town in a northeastern state like Vermont, or possibly someplace as manic and high-energy as Arthur himself, like New York. Hutchinson is frankly boring. Bland-looking and ... well, as attractive as one can expect Kansas to be.
The cab has pulled away from the curb and they're standing outside the house. The only thing left to do is walk up to it. Arthur seems reluctant.
“Is this where you grew up?” Eames asks.
Arthur glances dismissively at the house and shakes his head. “She's moved. I'm glad. I got sick of the old place after awhile.”
They're still standing there. Eames has a funny thought, and he laughs a little.
“Arthur, are you self-conscious?”
Arthur looks across at him, sheepish. “Do you think you can handle the unfiltered Kansas accent for a few more days?”
“I think I'll survive.” Eames smooths his palm over Arthur's cheek, a comforting gesture. He loves this -- touching Arthur whenever he feels like it, and not being met with a scowl or a curse or a shove. “Don't be embarrassed. It's a cute accent.”
“You don't really think that.”
“I can learn to think that.”
Arthur just snorts softly, smiles and shakes his head. “Let's go, then.”
He takes another second on the doorstep to take stock of himself -- jeans, plain shirt, leather jacket; both Neil-ish and yet distinctly not-Neil -- and then rings the doorbell.
His mother answers shortly, opening the door and then the screen. Instantly, she drops the washcloth she's wiping her hands on and grabs Arthur in a tight hug, breathing out, “Neil.”
“When's the last time you saw your mum?” Eames had asked Arthur, on the way over to the house, and Arthur had cast him a shrewd, narrow glance and replied, “Right after I was raped.” So Eames senses that this hug is long overdue.
And Arthur just melts into it. Ten years of tension seems to visibly flood right out of his frame right then. He's deprived himself of touch for so long; Eames wonders how something as simple as a mother's hug must feel to him. For a minute they just hold each other, like survivors of a shipwreck.
Then his mother's pulling away, wiping her eyes briskly and saying, “Here, let me get a look at you.” She holds him at arm's length and studies him, while he stands patiently, and Eames hovers off to the side, feeling like an intruder here. Arthur's mother makes a soft, wondering sound. “You grew up so handsome.”
“Mom,” says Arthur quietly, chiding.
“Look how you filled out. I swear, I think the army's done you good, and I never thought I'd say that.”
“Mom,” Arthur repeats, closing a hand over one of hers. “This is Eames.”
“Oh, God, I'm sorry.” She gives a watery laugh and turns to Eames, extending a hand. “I don't know where my manners are. I'm Ellen.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” he says, taking her hand.
Her eyes light up as she says, “Oh, he's British, too,” and Eames knows she's charmed.
They move inside the house, and Eames doesn't fool himself that he's anything other than a third wheel here. Mostly he's the moral support -- because he can physically see how much Arthur hates being here, back in Hutchinson, reminded of everything -- but now that they're with his mother, he's utterly relaxed. And Ellen, though she wants to be polite, has eyes only for him. Eames doesn't blame her. As far as she knows, Arthur has spent the past better part of a decade as a deep-cover operative for the military.
(“That is ridiculous,” Eames had stated flatly when Arthur was on the phone to his mum, telling her he was finally allowed to explain why he could never visit her, and why he always wrote from foreign countries; and Arthur had shoved him on the bed and brained him with a pillow while asking in the same steady voice how soon he could come home.)
So he takes the opportunity to explore a little, because he's nosy; not that the house is big enough to contain very much. It's a little lonely, really. The only interesting thing he finds is in the laundry room, of all places, and it's actually several things, scattered amidst a pile of clutter: a few taped-up cardboard boxes with the word Neil scrawled on them in permanent marker.
Ellen orders take-out for dinner and Eames wishes he could always see Arthur like this, relaxed and happy. Coupled with the accent, it's like having Neil back again, except that it doesn't feel all wrong to Eames. Arthur lets their thighs brush comfortably under the kitchen table and it feels natural and nice.
“I've never seen him so happy,” his mother confesses to Eames, when Arthur is clearing the table.
“I think he's glad to be home.”
“I think it's you, actually.” She smiles at him, warm, and Eames likes her, because she hasn't for a second stopped to dwell on the fact that her son has shown up with a boyfriend, like so many mothers would. “I'm just so glad he's found someone nice,” she says, with a self-conscious little laugh. “I thought he'd be playing the field forever, just like his mama.”
She really has no idea. Eames is glad for that. If she did, she'd have been struck from Arthur's memory just like everything else.
At the end of the night, when she's gone to bed, and Eames and Arthur have retired to the guest bedroom, Eames drops onto his back and lets Arthur screw him into the mattress. They kiss away each other's breath hungrily in an effort to stay quiet, though it's hard, when Arthur fucks Eames so vigorously and he angles his hips just so. He's so contented, so right with the world that Eames can almost believe he really is enough to make Arthur happy.
He waits until Arthur has been asleep for an hour or so before slipping out of bed, pulling on some clothes and making his way quietly back to the laundry room. Once he's turned on the light, he takes out his penknife and slits open the nearest Neil box.
He's not deliberately trying to pry. It's not his intention to dig up any more than he needs to. Eames figures he knows enough about Arthur's life now. There's only one thing he wants to know, and he just needs to find out if the answer is in one of these boxes.
Most of it looks like it belonged to a teenaged Neil: some DVDs, a couple shabby old paperback novels. Some porn, Eames notes with a snort. What looks suspiciously like a bong. He opens the next box and finds clothing. Moves on to the next one. He's kneeling in the laundry room for at least an hour before he finds anything: a framed photograph. He wipes off some of the dust from the glass and his pulse quickens. It's definitely a photo of a Little League team.
Just as he angles it toward the light, Arthur is on him. He yanks the frame so viciously out of Eames' grasp that his fingers sting. The frame hits the wall and cracks and Arthur bowls him over, furious.
“Don't touch him,” he snarls, leaning down over Eames.
Looking at him, Eames feels a sharp ache that has nothing to do with Arthur's fingers digging tight into his arm and everything to do with the panic in his eyes. For all his pretending, all the progress he's made, he can never shake off the ghost of Neil, never, because it's been twenty years and it still comes back to his fucking baseball coach after all--
“Touch who?” Eames spits, wanting to hear him say it.
“Brian!”
As soon as he says it, Arthur looks startled at himself. Eames is startled, too. They both falter.
“Fuck,” Arthur says quietly after a moment, looking over at the cracked frame. “That's the only picture I had of him.”
He slides away from Eames and picks up the frame, careful with it. He inspects it for a few seconds and Eames comes to realize, he overlooked the other boy in the story; but Brian just might have everything to do with Arthur. When Arthur gently lays the frame on a soft pile of his old clothes, face-down, Eames helps him tape the box back up.
“I just wanted to know the bastard's name,” he says. “I'm sorry.”
Arthur looks at him bleakly. “He's dead. I told you he's dead.”
Eames can't say that maybe he doesn't trust Arthur where it concerns this man, but this time, he thinks he can hear what Arthur isn't saying: I don't know, I don't care, he's dead to me, isn't that enough?
So he just says, “What about Brian?”
“He's dead too.” Arthur adds, “It's my fault,” and makes a sound like a dry sob.
Eames pulls him into a tight hug. He can feel Arthur quaking against his chest and hear his breath hitching. For a few minutes they sit like that on the floor, amidst the remnants of Arthur's old life, Neil's remains; until Arthur tenses in his arms and says, “Hey.”
“What?”
Arthur pulls away and Eames realizes, he isn't actually crying.
“No nausea,” he says. He touches a hand to his temple. “No migraine.”
“When was the last time you had one?”
“Six months ago. I'd remember it now. I know I would.”
Eames doesn't say anything because he knows what they're both thinking -- both scarcely daring to hope that Arthur might just never have another migraine again.
“Hey,” Arthur says again. “Let's start again, okay?”
He sits back and pushes a strand of hair out of his face. Takes a deep breath. Then he offers Eames his hand, and he looks as collected as he always is.
“Hi,” he says. “I'm Neil.”
“Eames,” says Eames, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you, Neil.”
“You can call me Arthur.”
Eames smiles. “Hello, Arthur.”
Arthur leans over and kisses him, and Eames thinks he might finally be able to leave that shower in New York. This is the first night of the rest of their lives together.
A/N: Thank you guys so much for your comments and your patience! Have I told you how you are wonderful readers? Anyway, I hope the ending is to your liking. Disgusting sap and all :D
♥♥♥!
ETA: Coda to this fic can be found here.
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Words: ~7600
Rating: R
Warnings: References to noncon, child abuse, self-harm; brief sex.
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: It's done! It's done! Hallelujah!
Mysterious Skin crossover! Spoilers! etc!
part one, part two, part three, part four, part five, part six, part seven.
+++
Arthur's typing on his laptop, a long email to Miles about paradoxical architecture, when Mal enters the room and takes a seat behind him. The rest of the classroom is empty. He's scarcely even aware of her presence until she speaks.
“Who is Neil McCormick?”
“That's one of my aliases,” Arthur says without looking up from his laptop screen or looking round. “I deserted the military; I needed a couple other identities. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering,” Mal says behind him. She pauses. “I was reading a military report today.”
Arthur keeps typing, too intent to slow down or give much thought to what she's saying.
“Who taught you dreaming, Arthur?”
“The military did.”
“Who else?”
“Dom and Miles,” says Arthur. “You know this, Mal.”
“Remind me of when you and I first met.”
Arthur stops typing and sighs, short and bitter. “I don't appreciate you asking me questions you already know the answers to. What do you expect me to say?”
“Just answer me,” Mal says, and he can't see her face but she sounds so sad that he has to. He's never been able to refuse Mal.
“It was a year and two months ago, while you were pregnant with Phillipa, in your father's classroom in Paris. I came looking for a job. You gave me one.”
He hears her get up. He feels inexplicably nervous when she takes a seat in front of him, searching his face.
“You really don't remember,” she says, studying him.
“Mal,” Arthur says, because he doesn't understand.
“What happened to your accent? You used to speak with a different one.”
“What acc--? You mean, from Kansas? I moved away from there when I was eight, I haven't spoken with that accent in years. Mal, what are you--?”
“You don't remember everything,” she says. “Are there holes in your memory? Gaps?”
“That's normal,” Arthur says. “They told us in the military when we started dreamsharing that we would probably experience some memory loss. You probably have gaps, too. They said it's a side effect of the Somnacin.”
“Did they, Arthur?” Mal says, sad again.
“Mal,” Arthur repeats, not sure if he's getting more impatient or more anxious. “Is there a point to this, or--?”
“You poor thing,” she says softly.
He jerks back, chair legs scraping on the floor, when she reaches over the table between them to touch his face. His heart gallops and he doesn't know why.
“Don't touch me, please,” he says sharply.
Mal looks startled. Now Arthur feels even worse.
“Sorry,” he says. “I just don't like to be touched. It makes me uncomfortable.” You know that, he doesn't add.
She still looks so sad that he considers just letting her touch him anyway, if it means that much to her, even though he doesn't like it. But she moves back after a moment and stands up.
“Of course, Arthur,” she says. “Sorry to have disturbed you.”
He's relieved when she leaves the room, leaving him alone. He shakes his head and starts typing again.
“Fuck,” he mumbles, when he sees what he's typed instead of the word steps. He hits the backspace button irritably until the word slut has vanished from his monitor.
+
Curled up in a tight ball on the bed in his rented apartment, he doesn't even know Mal is there until she sits on the edge of the mattress next to him.
“Oh, Arthur,” she says softly. She murmurs a few things in French, under her breath, then: “Mon chéri, again?”
“Again?” he croaks, not understanding. His head is splitting, so bad he can't even see out of one eye; he's panting hard because he can't breathe through his nose. He thinks there are tears on his face -- he's so in pain, it wouldn't surprise him. He's surprised he can force words out without screaming. Or throwing up.
“I've seen you like this once before. Don't you remember?”
He shuts his eyes and shakes his head jerkily.
Mal sighs and gets up. Over the next hour she tends to him, lovingly, the way a mother would; tucking him into bed, checking for fever, turning off all the lights and closing the blinds, laying a cold wet cloth over his forehead and giving him extra-strength acetaminophen from her handbag. She takes away the plastic bag in the trash can he's been vomiting into and brings him a new one, just in case, setting it at his bedside.
He's embarrassed, but she takes care of him like it's nothing. Even with a second baby on the way, Mal will always have love to spare for Arthur.
It's a couple of hours before he can finally sit up a little, the pain a little less blinding.
“Sorry, Mal,” he says, dragging a hand through his hair to try and make himself look somewhat more presentable. “You shouldn't have to see me like this.”
She swats him lightly. “Nonsense. Tell me what's wrong, silly boy.”
“I -- I don't know.” He grinds the heel of his palm into one eye, trying to work out the blurriness. He asks himself: How did I get here? When he's sure he remembers, that this is real, he tries to go on. “I was ... Eames was here ... we were talking about the job. Something ... there was something, and he left, and I ...”
He's perfectly aware of how stupid and pathetic he sounds, and that's even more embarrassing. But it's easier to be this way in front of her than Cobb or Eames.
“Try to remember what you talked about,” Mal says. She's holding his hand and it doesn't feel as bad as it should. Arthur stares down at her smooth, pale, perfect hand resting on his as he talks.
“He said how good it is to be working with me again and how nice my suit looks. And he asked me if I wanted to go out for drinks with him when the job is over. I -- I told him to go to hell. And then we got back to the job, but ... right before he left, he stopped and he -- touched me and--” he swallows, guilt sliding like oil down his throat at the memory of Eames' hand resting hot on his shoulder “--and he said he was serious about the drinks and -- God -- he said my suit would look even better on his hotel room floor. I threw him out and that's all I remember.”
He swallows again, dizzy. That's not all he remembers -- what he also remembers is leaning against the door, touching a hand numbly to the spot where Eames' hand had rested, and finding himself sobbing. But he can't say that.
“Oh, Arthur,” Mal says again, gentle. “He's teasing you. You know he's teasing you. You're so much more professional than he is, he just likes to make his little jokes at your expense.”
“He means it,” says Arthur bleakly. “Every time, he does this.” He feels ill, skin prickling. “Why'd he have to touch me? He probably gave me a virus or something--”
“I don't think you're sick,” Mal says.
“Something's obviously wrong with me. It's a bug, or something--”
“I think something's hurting you in here, more than you know.”
She touches his chest lightly. Arthur shrinks back.
“Like -- like what?” he stammers.
“Arthur,” she says. “Don't let what I'm about to say offend you. I've known Eames for a number of years now. I know he can be a bit ... overwhelming, and he might seem disrespectful sometimes. But I don't think he would ever hurt you on purpose.”
“What?” Arthur says, at once lost. “Hurt me? Mal, do you think -- do you think I'm afraid of him?” He starts to laugh, weakly. “I'm not afraid of Eames. Trust me. I think he'd be afraid of me if he ever tried something. That isn't what's ...”
He trails off.
“What, then?” says Mal.
“It's ... I ... I can't say this to anyone else.”
“You can tell me anything, Arthur. Always.”
He exhales shakily. “It's just that ... sometimes. I -- I think I could be attracted to him.” He has to choke out the word. He can feel his eyes watering, prickling at the corners, and fights it back as he gasps out, “I think I like it when he touches me.”
The shame is suffocating. He regrets the words immediately. They taste worse than the bile on his tongue. He feels dirty when Mal pulls him into a hug, cradles his head firmly against her shoulder, and he lets himself get lost in the embrace.
“Arthur.” She holds him tight. “There is nothing wrong with having feelings.”
“It's sick. I know that it's sick.”
“Is that what you tell yourself?” she asks, pulling back, holding him at arm's length to study him. “That it's sick, what you feel?”
“You don't understand,” he chokes, breath coming out hard and fast. “I can't. I can't be attracted to men.”
“Why not?”
He can't possibly explain to her how it feels, to want to throw up every time Eames brushes him amiably, to feel attraction as a low physical pain in his gut, to feel so fucking wrong in his own mind, like it belongs to somebody else. He gets along just fine and then Eames shows up, twists him up in a snarl of confusion and desire. He supposes it was bound to build to this point eventually, where he can't even physically function for thoughts of Eames' hand on him and Eames' easy come-ons.
“Have you talked to him?” Mal asks, when it becomes apparent that no explanation is forthcoming.
“I can't,” Arthur says, exhausted. “That's the last thing I can do.”
“Eames is one of the best in our field.” Mal touches her stomach meaningfully, where a bump is only just beginning to show. “It's going to be awhile before I can dream again and you and Dom will need the help on some jobs. You can't keep going like this.”
“Yeah. I can.” Arthur takes a deep breath. “This is just a ... a little setback. I can get better. I'll learn to control it.”
“Aren't you listening to me? This has happened to you before, Arthur. Don't you realize how much you're suppressing? You can't just suppress even more. You aren't happy like this.”
“It's the only way I'll ever be able to work with him,” Arthur says stubbornly. Mal shakes her head.
“He likes you. What's the worst that could happen if you talk to him?”
That thought sends a bolt of raw terror through Arthur.
He fucking hates Eames. There's no way the other extractor wouldn't use Arthur's attraction against him if he knew about it. And Arthur will end up hurt -- not emotionally; Arthur doesn't have the right emotions for hurting -- but physically, he can feel it clear as day, the pain washing over him like a bad memory. He's hurt and bleeding and humiliated and it's too much for one person to handle. It spills out of him in harsh, gagging retches, and Mal grabs the trash can next to the bed for him just in time.
He leans half out of the bed while he throws up, wanting to escape, begging pitifully between coughs, please go, please, because he can't stand Mal seeing him like this, but she stays, sitting next to him, stroking his back, until he gives a final, feeble gag and nothing comes up.
He pants, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, while Mal sets the trash can down. When she turns to him there's no laughter in her bright eyes, nothing wry about the downward curve of her lips.
“Something is killing you inside,” she says.
He's exhausted. Utterly wrung out. He believes her, and doesn't know why.
“Can I,” he starts weakly, and changes his request. “Can you ... stay? Here? Just for awhile ... or until I fall asleep ...”
“Of course, my darling,” she says gently.
She stays perched on the bed next to him, rubs slow circles over his back and hums some little tune. He's too tired to tell her to stop and besides, he kind of likes the contact.
Before the migraine drowns him once more, he's glad that Mal didn't wrest his worst secret out of him, which is that sometimes, he thinks Eames could make him happy. If Arthur were ever to let him.
“I'm going to make you better someday, Neil,” he thinks he hears Mal say, when he's scrunched up on the bed again, half-blind, sick, reeling, his head throbbing mercilessly, and she's squeezing his shoulder. “I'm going to find out what you did to yourself and fix you.”
But he doesn't remember in the morning, which is a small relief. Mal watches him all the next day, but he doesn't notice; he's only ever conscious of Eames' gaze on him, and the frantic clash of terror and longing that he feels whenever the forger stands close to him.
+++
Christmas comes around, and when Eames realizes what the date is, he spares a moment to wonder distantly if Neil will phone his mother before remembering he's got Arthur's phone with the number in it. He spends the holiday alone, in London, with his whisky and his paintings; same as he spends New Year's, and the rest of January, and February, and the months following that.
At first he sent Cobb emails, just asking for little updates about how Neil was doing; but Cobb's replies were infrequent and not wholly informative and so Eames stopped, because it frustrates him too much that Cobb is allowed to get so close to Neil and Eames isn't. Because Eames makes him hurt.
He makes an effort not to be quite so pathetic, this time. But it's trying, because he still can't bring himself to take any jobs -- he's gotten too accustomed to working alongside Arthur, sharing hotel rooms and taking meals together. So all he really does is paint and all he leaves the flat for is food, and it's a relatively miserable existence but at least, he thinks, Neil will be a little happier with a continent and the Atlantic Ocean between them.
He hopes Neil is happier.
It's been six months when he goes grocery shopping one day, and it's grey and drizzly and miserable outside, and when he gets back to his flat, he promptly drops his bags of groceries and hears something shatter through the distant rush of blood in his ears because Arthur's perched on his kitchenette counter. And he has to say Arthur, because his hair has been casually styled back to its former neatness, and he's wearing a crisp button-down shirt under his leather jacket, and expensive-looking trousers, and there's that sharp, knowing gleam in his eye.
He rolls a red die around between his fingers.
“I came for my totem,” he says, raising his eyebrows, as though this is the most obvious explanation in the world.
Eames just stares dumbly at him. He might possibly be gaping.
The apparition slides adroitly to the floor and closes the distance between them. Eames unconsciously presses his back to the door, uncertain, but Arthur just smiles, a wry little twist of lips.
Then he hits Eames across the face as hard as he can.
Eames reels, tasting blood at once. His vision actually goes funny for a second. Then he feels a smooth hand at his face, cupping his cheek, and hears Arthur's soft voice in his ear: “That's for leaving.”
Before Eames can form an argument, Arthur's kissing him, fervent and insistent. He kisses like a lover, confidently, prising into Eames' mouth and tasting out each corner, until Eames is dizzy; and finally Arthur slides away and pats his cheek.
“That's for coming back.”
Eames makes a faint choked sound that could possibly be a sob. Arthur smiles again and it's a little gentler this time. He wipes away a smudge of blood on Eames' lip with his thumb.
“Come on,” he says, taking Eames by the hand, and Eames couldn't possibly do anything but follow him, like a lost lamb.
+
He's wearing the leather jacket Neil bought with Eames' money in Rome, dark brown Italian leather and looking as soft to the touch as butter, and Eames wonders how he didn't notice before that Neil, apparently, has tastes as expensive as Arthur's, or at least knows what will flatter him.
He can only think in disjointed observations, because his brain has no higher functioning power than that. Arthur seats him on the bed and fetches an ice pack from the freezer, which he presses to Eames' bleeding lip.
He still has a vicious right hook. It's as comforting as it is devastating.
“So I hear you're in love with me,” Arthur tells him, a smile playing round the corners of his lips.
Eames just looks at him faintly. He can't think, not with Arthur's fingers brushing his face and Arthur's eyes fixed on him so unwaveringly. He thinks he's being mocked, but can't be sure.
“You'll live,” Arthur says, taking the ice pack away. “You can say something now.”
The only thing Eames can think of is: “What do I even call you?”
“You can call me Arthur if you want.” When Eames glances at him uncertainly, he raises an eyebrow. “I've been the same person for years now. That doesn't just go away.”
“Well, it did go away.” Eames sounds like he's got a cold or something. It's embarrassing and he can't seem to control it. “You scared the hell out of me. All the years I've known you I go on thinking you're one way, and then overnight you turn into everything I thought you hated, and tie me up in knots till I don't know what to think--”
He breaks off and rubs a hand over his face, fighting to control his breathing.
“Sorry for scaring you,” says Arthur, after a moment.
“I fucking grieved for you. I thought I'd never have you back. And when I thought I might, you told me to leave. You're fucking everything to me, Arthur, d'you know that? And I don't even ...” He has to trail off again, shaking his head uselessly, drawing deep breaths. “I don't understand.”
“Do you want me to start at the beginning?” Arthur asks.
“Start with you telling me to leave back at Cobb's.”
Arthur looks down at the bedspread. He's sitting across from Eames, cross-legged on the bed, slightly hunched over. He picks at a stray thread in the coverlet for a moment. Then he starts to peel off his leather jacket, shrugging it off and putting it down at his side.
He holds out his arm for Eames, palm up. His shirt sleeve rides up so Eames can see his wrist. He leans over and he can make out a thick scar there, a horizontal gash, pink against Arthur's pale skin.
Eames jerks away involuntarily. Arthur lifts his other sleeve to reveal an identical scar, then shakes his cuffs back down.
“Arthur,” says Eames, strangled.
“That happened the day after you left, when I was home alone. But I panicked. I called an ambulance.”
“How could you?” Eames breathes. The thought of Arthur hurting himself is overwhelming. He can't stand it. “How could you do that?”
Arthur laughs wetly, humourlessly. “It wasn't the first time.”
Eames grabs his wrist and turns his arm over, yanking up his sleeve to search the pale underside of Arthur's forearm. Arthur squirms.
“Eames, no, don't--”
It's almost invisible but unmistakeable when Eames finds it: a long, thin scar that runs from Arthur's pulse point almost to the crease of his elbow. Eames drops his wrist. He feels sick.
“Arthur.”
Arthur straightens out his sleeve, self-conscious. “That was a long time ago.”
“What about six months ago? What the hell were you thinking?”
“I don't know,” says Arthur. “I was ... I don't know. I really don't. It just seemed to make sense. But then I saw all the blood and I ... changed my mind.”
“That's it?” Eames demands. “That's what changed your mind? Seeing the blood?”
“Well, I thought that was it,” Arthur says. “But afterward, when I'd been stitched up, Cobb came to get me, and on the drive home, all he said was, 'What if you'd actually done it? What would I say to Eames?'”
“He said that?”
Arthur nods, looking rueful and pained and young again. Eames blinks. Cobb is more perceptive than he's given him credit for.
“So that's what changed my mind, since you asked,” Arthur finished. “And then I decided to get better, and I started therapy.”
Eames laughs. It just slips out, at the casual way Arthur mentions therapy, before he can think. Arthur looks down at the bedspread again.
“No, sorry,” Eames says, mortified, when he catches Arthur's expression. “It's not funny. I'm sorry. I'm just having a hard time picturing it. I mean, how do you even begin to explain--?”
“With a lot of amending,” says Arthur.
“Did it help?” Eames asks. “The therapy?”
At this Arthur smiles and reaches over to touch him, sweeping his thumb over the back of Eames' hand.
“You tell me,” he says.
+
Eames makes tea while Arthur wanders the flat, lingering in his little studio.
“This is good,” he says, when Eames joins him and presses a cup of tea into his hand. He's looking at a Manet forgery. “Probably your best work to date.”
“I've had ample opportunity to perfect my forging skills over the past year. Along with my brooding shut-in skills.”
Arthur's lip quirks. “They're good, but I like your originals best.”
“I don't,” says Eames. “They're too honest for me.”
Arthur smiles at him. It reminds him of the look Mal gave him in limbo, a little sad, a little longing.
“Can I be honest with you?”
Eames nods. But Arthur just stands there, chewing his lip, till Eames jerks his head and leads him to the squashed little table at the kitchenette, the one he never eats at because tables are for people who have someone to share meals with. They take a seat on opposite sides, and Arthur's cup is half drained by the time he gives a quiet, shaky little sigh and sets it down.
“Here we go,” he says softly.
+
When Arthur talks about his childhood, the barest hint of his old drawl creeps into some of his words -- so faint that only somebody paying attention could pick up on it. Eames is surprised that he kind of likes it, now, Neil's faded accent set to Arthur's precise words.
That doesn't make it any easier to hear.
He stays at the table, but Arthur moves restlessly while he talks, jogging one leg under the table, getting up and pacing back and forth like an animal in a cage. Eames can tell he isn't saying everything, and some of it sounds like his therapist's words, as he gropes to justify some of the things he's done; but Eames doesn't call him on it. He can tell there's more to the story, though, especially when Arthur gets a pained, twisted expression on his face as he talks about the other boy -- Brian.
“He was so fucked-up,” he says bleakly, and Eames doesn't respond, More than you?
“I saw him again one more time in Kansas when I was eighteen. I talked to him about what had happened. I couldn't believe how broken-up inside he was. It made me wonder if that could've been me. I wanted so badly to be somebody else, right then.”
He stops pacing, and sinks, slowly, back into his chair across from Eames. He knots his hands together on the table and stares down at them.
“That was the day after I was raped in New York.”
The breath he sucks in is shaky. Eames shakes his head slowly.
“And that's what made you change?”
“It had a big hand,” Arthur affirms reluctantly. “Before ... I always believed in just doing what felt good. And sex felt good. Making men stupid over me, getting paid just to fuck ... God, I loved that.”
His eyes half close familiarly, and that marked inflection in his voice is familiar too. His eyes flicker suddenly back up to Eames, and he sounds slightly rueful when he goes on.
“Then I moved to New York. A trick went bad, and I never did it again. The end.”
“Back up,” says Eames gently. “There was more than that.”
Arthur frowns and glares down at the table.
“All you need to know is that I was raped. He called me a slut and afterward I cried and threw up and I had a headache, and that's what I started associating with sex and physical attraction. Because that's what I felt like. A slut. I thought I'd been in control all along, but that's how all those johns saw me. I felt like they'd all used me like that in some way, starting with my -- coach. Just fucking used, my whole life. And I -- had this notion that he'd cared about me, somehow, but then I met Brian and thought I could have ended up like that, and I thought, he couldn't have cared about me, or he wouldn't have done all the things to me that he did. Well -- that I let him do. I let it all happen.”
Eames can tell, once Arthur trails off, that he hadn't meant to say quite so much. He's still frowning, and he's not candid about it the way Neil would be, but he's not shutting down the way Arthur would, either.
“You were a kid,” Eames reminds him softly.
“But I did the same thing in New York. Let it happen. I didn't even try to fight. Who does that, Eames?”
Eames thinks of how ineffectively Neil had tried to fight him off, and feels guilty. He can understand now why it must have been so important for Arthur to become so proficient at hand-to-hand combat, even if he didn't fully understand why himself.
He feels quite useless. He doesn't know how to make Arthur stop blaming himself. Arthur grabs his tea and takes a quick gulp and pulls a face, finding that it's gone cold.
“Anyway. I couldn't really do it anymore after that, hook up with men.” He smiles sadly. “My therapist said I never learned to see sex as anything but a tool to control people and get what I wanted from them. I didn't like it used against me.”
“And what about now?”
“I don't know.” Arthur's smile turns a little bitter. “That was the last time I ever had sex. Well -- I mean, until ... you know.”
“Oh,” says Eames, comprehending. “Oh. God. Arthur--”
“Don't,” Arthur warns, waving a hand, “don't start apologizing--”
“Fuck, I'm sorry,” Eames says anyway, burying his face in his hands, “really I am, I just wanted you so bloody bad, I always have, and I couldn't think--”
“Eames,” Arthur says sharply. “Stop it. Stop doing that. Acting like I'm two different people. I'm not. You didn't apologize to me before, so why start now?”
“I just don't understand,” Eames says helplessly. “How you can be a certain way one moment, and the next--”
“You don't like Neil, do you?” Arthur interrupts.
“He's just,” Eames starts feebly, and corrects himself: “Well, you were just--”
“This is Neil,” says Arthur, waving a hand over himself. “That's me. I used to traffic sex. Can you handle that?”
“Can you?” Eames asks, unable to resist. Arthur smiles wanly.
“I can learn to live with that,” he says. “But what I'm really getting at is -- well, I don't expect you to like Neil as you knew him. I'm fairly sure I wouldn't like you at eighteen, either. But that's still a huge part of who I am, and if you detest the person I used to be that much, then how can you say you really love me? How will I know?”
“It's not that I detested you,” Eames mutters, suddenly sullen. “It's just that you ... weren't you, anymore.”
“I'm not who Neil might have been, or could have been, if things were different,” says Arthur. “I'm just what was left when he struck out the parts he didn't like about himself. I'm still him.”
“But now you've got your memories back.”
“Yes.” Something dark flickers over Arthur's expression and it makes Eames automatically want to hold him. Then he blinks, and it's gone. “I'm still coming to terms with things. I mean ... Christ, I used to be terrified to let you touch me. But I think you could help me. If you still really want me, that is.”
“I do. I always do,” says Eames. He swallows with an effort. “Always.”
Arthur smiles a little, raising his gaze up to Eames' face. He slides a hand across the surface of the table and Eames takes it without thinking.
“I think I could love you,” Arthur says.
“You think?”
“I don't know. I've never been in love. I'd like to be. And I think I could fall in love with you.”
Eames wants to be stung or hurt or something, but Arthur raises Eames' hand to his lips and presses a kiss to his knuckles, and anything he might have said dies immediately in his throat, because Arthur is looking at him with such open trust on his face that Eames falls in love all over again, and commits in that moment to making Arthur feel the same way. Any way he can.
“Arthur,” he says, impulsively. “Can I take you on a date?”
Arthur's dark eyes flicker back up to him, wary now. “A date?”
“Yes. You know. Take you out to dinner. Haven't you been on a date before?”
“No, actually, I haven't.”
“Well, I want to take you out.” Eames sits back decisively in his chair. “And I hope that's alright with you, because I'll feel pretty pathetic going on my own.”
“You're ridiculous,” Arthur says, but the corner of his lip is twitching. “I should warn you. I'm kind of done with the whole sex with men thing.”
“Oh,” says Eames, trying not to feel a pang of disappointment.
“Yeah. See, if there's going to be sex, I'd rather it be with one man from now on.”
“Oh,” says Eames again, starting to grin.
“This will sound stupid,” Arthur says, and there's something very Neil about the wry tilt of his lips-- “Just-- I've had sex with a lot of men. But I've never had a lover.”
“I think I can help you with that,” says Eames.
“Alright, then. I suppose I'll have to go on a date with you, Mr. Eames.”
Eames leans over and kisses him, just because he can, and he feels every part of his body coming back to life when Arthur kisses him back without a trace of hesitation.
+
The funny thing about Arthur now is that it's like he wants to be insecure, but can't fully manage it. He acts nervous, when Eames takes him out to dinner, but there's confidence in his motions. For Eames, this feels wonderfully, comfortingly familiar; but there's an added element of attraction that makes this unknown and exciting.
“This isn't weird?” Arthur asks him, at least twice.
“No. We've been out for dinner before, you know.”
“I know that, but not like ... this.” Arthur gestures around the restaurant, and it is admittedly a bit more formal than the places they usually frequent. Eames was determined to do this thing right. “And I thought things would be different, now that ...”
“That what?” Eames asks curiously, halfway through buttering a roll.
“Now I've shattered all your illusions, I suppose. I mean,” Arthur smiles crookedly, “you probably imagined I was making straight A's and getting beat up in high school. Not seducing forty-year-old men for money.”
That's another example of his backward behaviour. He acts coy, but has no problem dropping lines like this into the conversation.
Eames finds he doesn't mind it at all. He maybe even likes Arthur's brash little quips, or at least appreciates that Arthur doesn't censor himself for Eames' sake. He's been finding over the past few days that, the more Arthur comes to terms with himself, the easier Eames finds it to come to terms with everything. Much easier, actually.
“Can I ask you something?” Eames asks, watching him eat.
“Sure.”
“What's your coach's name?”
“He's dead. I already looked him up.” Arthur doesn't even glance up from his salad. The reply is so instantaneous and dismissive that Eames almost has to wonder if he isn't saying everything.
“What about ... that john, in New York. Did you know his name?”
“No. I don't even really remember what he looks like.” When he looks up and sees Eames' doubtful expression, Arthur lets the corner of his lip twitch upward. His tone softens. “And that isn't just something I've suppressed. These things fade with time, that's all. Everything does. I just didn't realize it at the time.”
“Fair enough,” Eames says.
He takes care of the bill at the end of the night. Arthur raises an eyebrow.
“Mr. Eames, I hope you don't expect me to put out on the first date just because you paid for dinner.”
“I'm a gentleman,” Eames assures him. “My intentions are nothing but pure.”
Arthur just smirks at him.
But he does put out. They fuck in Eames' bed, on top of the covers, rocking into each other with unspoken mutual need. Eames thinks it's like and unlike that night a year ago; Arthur wants lube and a condom this time and he's missing the urgency he'd had before, and when Eames moves over him, they press together blindly, kissing, mapping every inch of each other's body with their hands and lips. But he's got Neil's confidence; every movement is calculated and sure, every flick of his tongue, every clench of his muscles around Eames and every languid roll of his hips designed to wring another groan out of the forger.
And Eames brushes his fingers over Arthur's dog tags, the dog tags Arthur is still wearing even when he's wearing nothing else, and suddenly he's gasping out, “I'm sorry, I'm so sorry I left you in that coma--”
“Eames, shut up,” Arthur orders, and if that isn't Arthur, Eames doesn't know what is.
+++
“What do you think?” Arthur asks. He's running his hands through his hair repeatedly, so that it hangs around his face handsomely, soft and floppy. Eames reaches up, captures one of his hands and kisses him, letting his other hand drag through Arthur's hair.
“You know, I quite like it like this.”
Arthur wrinkles his nose when his hair dangles in his eyes, letting Eames brush it away. “Let's just get this over with,” he says.
He hasn't seen his mother or been back to Hutchinson since before he enlisted. Eames always imagined that Arthur was from some clean, pretty town in a northeastern state like Vermont, or possibly someplace as manic and high-energy as Arthur himself, like New York. Hutchinson is frankly boring. Bland-looking and ... well, as attractive as one can expect Kansas to be.
The cab has pulled away from the curb and they're standing outside the house. The only thing left to do is walk up to it. Arthur seems reluctant.
“Is this where you grew up?” Eames asks.
Arthur glances dismissively at the house and shakes his head. “She's moved. I'm glad. I got sick of the old place after awhile.”
They're still standing there. Eames has a funny thought, and he laughs a little.
“Arthur, are you self-conscious?”
Arthur looks across at him, sheepish. “Do you think you can handle the unfiltered Kansas accent for a few more days?”
“I think I'll survive.” Eames smooths his palm over Arthur's cheek, a comforting gesture. He loves this -- touching Arthur whenever he feels like it, and not being met with a scowl or a curse or a shove. “Don't be embarrassed. It's a cute accent.”
“You don't really think that.”
“I can learn to think that.”
Arthur just snorts softly, smiles and shakes his head. “Let's go, then.”
He takes another second on the doorstep to take stock of himself -- jeans, plain shirt, leather jacket; both Neil-ish and yet distinctly not-Neil -- and then rings the doorbell.
His mother answers shortly, opening the door and then the screen. Instantly, she drops the washcloth she's wiping her hands on and grabs Arthur in a tight hug, breathing out, “Neil.”
“When's the last time you saw your mum?” Eames had asked Arthur, on the way over to the house, and Arthur had cast him a shrewd, narrow glance and replied, “Right after I was raped.” So Eames senses that this hug is long overdue.
And Arthur just melts into it. Ten years of tension seems to visibly flood right out of his frame right then. He's deprived himself of touch for so long; Eames wonders how something as simple as a mother's hug must feel to him. For a minute they just hold each other, like survivors of a shipwreck.
Then his mother's pulling away, wiping her eyes briskly and saying, “Here, let me get a look at you.” She holds him at arm's length and studies him, while he stands patiently, and Eames hovers off to the side, feeling like an intruder here. Arthur's mother makes a soft, wondering sound. “You grew up so handsome.”
“Mom,” says Arthur quietly, chiding.
“Look how you filled out. I swear, I think the army's done you good, and I never thought I'd say that.”
“Mom,” Arthur repeats, closing a hand over one of hers. “This is Eames.”
“Oh, God, I'm sorry.” She gives a watery laugh and turns to Eames, extending a hand. “I don't know where my manners are. I'm Ellen.”
“Pleasure to meet you,” he says, taking her hand.
Her eyes light up as she says, “Oh, he's British, too,” and Eames knows she's charmed.
They move inside the house, and Eames doesn't fool himself that he's anything other than a third wheel here. Mostly he's the moral support -- because he can physically see how much Arthur hates being here, back in Hutchinson, reminded of everything -- but now that they're with his mother, he's utterly relaxed. And Ellen, though she wants to be polite, has eyes only for him. Eames doesn't blame her. As far as she knows, Arthur has spent the past better part of a decade as a deep-cover operative for the military.
(“That is ridiculous,” Eames had stated flatly when Arthur was on the phone to his mum, telling her he was finally allowed to explain why he could never visit her, and why he always wrote from foreign countries; and Arthur had shoved him on the bed and brained him with a pillow while asking in the same steady voice how soon he could come home.)
So he takes the opportunity to explore a little, because he's nosy; not that the house is big enough to contain very much. It's a little lonely, really. The only interesting thing he finds is in the laundry room, of all places, and it's actually several things, scattered amidst a pile of clutter: a few taped-up cardboard boxes with the word Neil scrawled on them in permanent marker.
Ellen orders take-out for dinner and Eames wishes he could always see Arthur like this, relaxed and happy. Coupled with the accent, it's like having Neil back again, except that it doesn't feel all wrong to Eames. Arthur lets their thighs brush comfortably under the kitchen table and it feels natural and nice.
“I've never seen him so happy,” his mother confesses to Eames, when Arthur is clearing the table.
“I think he's glad to be home.”
“I think it's you, actually.” She smiles at him, warm, and Eames likes her, because she hasn't for a second stopped to dwell on the fact that her son has shown up with a boyfriend, like so many mothers would. “I'm just so glad he's found someone nice,” she says, with a self-conscious little laugh. “I thought he'd be playing the field forever, just like his mama.”
She really has no idea. Eames is glad for that. If she did, she'd have been struck from Arthur's memory just like everything else.
At the end of the night, when she's gone to bed, and Eames and Arthur have retired to the guest bedroom, Eames drops onto his back and lets Arthur screw him into the mattress. They kiss away each other's breath hungrily in an effort to stay quiet, though it's hard, when Arthur fucks Eames so vigorously and he angles his hips just so. He's so contented, so right with the world that Eames can almost believe he really is enough to make Arthur happy.
He waits until Arthur has been asleep for an hour or so before slipping out of bed, pulling on some clothes and making his way quietly back to the laundry room. Once he's turned on the light, he takes out his penknife and slits open the nearest Neil box.
He's not deliberately trying to pry. It's not his intention to dig up any more than he needs to. Eames figures he knows enough about Arthur's life now. There's only one thing he wants to know, and he just needs to find out if the answer is in one of these boxes.
Most of it looks like it belonged to a teenaged Neil: some DVDs, a couple shabby old paperback novels. Some porn, Eames notes with a snort. What looks suspiciously like a bong. He opens the next box and finds clothing. Moves on to the next one. He's kneeling in the laundry room for at least an hour before he finds anything: a framed photograph. He wipes off some of the dust from the glass and his pulse quickens. It's definitely a photo of a Little League team.
Just as he angles it toward the light, Arthur is on him. He yanks the frame so viciously out of Eames' grasp that his fingers sting. The frame hits the wall and cracks and Arthur bowls him over, furious.
“Don't touch him,” he snarls, leaning down over Eames.
Looking at him, Eames feels a sharp ache that has nothing to do with Arthur's fingers digging tight into his arm and everything to do with the panic in his eyes. For all his pretending, all the progress he's made, he can never shake off the ghost of Neil, never, because it's been twenty years and it still comes back to his fucking baseball coach after all--
“Touch who?” Eames spits, wanting to hear him say it.
“Brian!”
As soon as he says it, Arthur looks startled at himself. Eames is startled, too. They both falter.
“Fuck,” Arthur says quietly after a moment, looking over at the cracked frame. “That's the only picture I had of him.”
He slides away from Eames and picks up the frame, careful with it. He inspects it for a few seconds and Eames comes to realize, he overlooked the other boy in the story; but Brian just might have everything to do with Arthur. When Arthur gently lays the frame on a soft pile of his old clothes, face-down, Eames helps him tape the box back up.
“I just wanted to know the bastard's name,” he says. “I'm sorry.”
Arthur looks at him bleakly. “He's dead. I told you he's dead.”
Eames can't say that maybe he doesn't trust Arthur where it concerns this man, but this time, he thinks he can hear what Arthur isn't saying: I don't know, I don't care, he's dead to me, isn't that enough?
So he just says, “What about Brian?”
“He's dead too.” Arthur adds, “It's my fault,” and makes a sound like a dry sob.
Eames pulls him into a tight hug. He can feel Arthur quaking against his chest and hear his breath hitching. For a few minutes they sit like that on the floor, amidst the remnants of Arthur's old life, Neil's remains; until Arthur tenses in his arms and says, “Hey.”
“What?”
Arthur pulls away and Eames realizes, he isn't actually crying.
“No nausea,” he says. He touches a hand to his temple. “No migraine.”
“When was the last time you had one?”
“Six months ago. I'd remember it now. I know I would.”
Eames doesn't say anything because he knows what they're both thinking -- both scarcely daring to hope that Arthur might just never have another migraine again.
“Hey,” Arthur says again. “Let's start again, okay?”
He sits back and pushes a strand of hair out of his face. Takes a deep breath. Then he offers Eames his hand, and he looks as collected as he always is.
“Hi,” he says. “I'm Neil.”
“Eames,” says Eames, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you, Neil.”
“You can call me Arthur.”
Eames smiles. “Hello, Arthur.”
Arthur leans over and kisses him, and Eames thinks he might finally be able to leave that shower in New York. This is the first night of the rest of their lives together.
A/N: Thank you guys so much for your comments and your patience! Have I told you how you are wonderful readers? Anyway, I hope the ending is to your liking. Disgusting sap and all :D
♥♥♥!
ETA: Coda to this fic can be found here.