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Fic Post: I'm Thirsty, Brother
I haven't posted fic in at least a year, I'm pretty sure. I'd be lying if I didn't say I was a little terrified, but the Inception fandom has eaten my soul, so this is my small offering. ♥
Title: I'm Thirsty, Brother
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,500
Summary: Arthur can't remember when he started to forget, or when his reflection in Eames' eyes startled him so.
Author's Note: A fill for this request at Inception_Kink. Thank you to my beta,![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
scribewraith, for looking over this and making me add to it and listening to me ramble. Any remaining faults are mine.
Disclaimer: Not mine. I just have grabby hands. Sorry about that.
Arthur’s in a maze, literally this time, with fountains and creepy statues and everything. The mark has a slight obsession with masonry. He’s running as fast as he can towards the exit. There’s one hole in the wall that empties into an open area. From there he should be able to sprint across and duck behind a tightly woven wrought iron fence before the projections catch up to him. From there they’ll be sitting ducks, easy enough to pick off.
Left. Right. Left. Left. Left. Fuck. He runs smack into a wall padded with long, green tendrils of ivy. When he turns around his gun is ready, but there are five of them and one of him. He’s surprised he gets three of them down before everything goes black. His eyes flutter open and he’s staring at an off white ceiling.
It isn't the first time Arthur has forgotten something, but it is the first time his forgetfulness has gotten him killed, booted unceremoniously out of the dream without having completed the task. He has just enough time to unhook himself from the PASIV before Ariadne is awake and sitting bolt upright across from him. The dim lighting of the cheap hotel room they're performing the job in gives her skin a greenish tint and for a moment Arthur isn't sure whether or not he's actually awake.
She opens her mouth, eyebrows knit together in concern. Arthur shakes his head. He is up and out of the room before she has the chance to unhook herself and give chase.
. . .
Eames and Arthur were sparring. It had become a common sight in the work space. Eames needed to work off his excess energy, not liking being kept on so short a leash during the planning stages. Arthur was always looking for ways to keep up with his training and traded Eames in French lessons for the opportunity. Though, why Eames needed another language to mangle Arthur wasn't sure.
Dom rarely remarked on their antics except to occasionally tell them to quit monkeying around in that wry, tight-lipped way of his that meant he was amused. Ariadne liked to watch. Anything that could be a welcome distraction from hours of design work caught her interest. She would switch off who she cheered for from day to day. Today she was rooting for Eames, so when his fist caught Arthur square in the jaw she leapt up from her squat chair and let out a cry.
Arthur also let out a cry as his elbow hit the dusty cement floor and jarred his shoulder into a position up near his ear. “Fucking hell,” he said.
Eames reached down and held his hand out to help Arthur up. “You were supposed to feint there, mawn pet it,” he drawled. “Have you forgotten everything about the routine already?”
Arthur didn't correct Eames. Instead he let himself be pulled to his feet and rolled his shoulder a few times, wincing as he did. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Distracted.”
“So it would seem,” Eames let his gaze trail over to where Ariadne was standing, hand frozen over her mouth. He winked at her.
“Oh,” she said. “I've never had a man take a hit for me before.” She edged over to where Arthur was and gingerly felt his elbow through the sleeve of his dress shirt. “Not too swollen. We should get you some ice or something.”
“I'll be fine,” he said, and shrugged her off. “I've had worse.”
Eames let the corner of his mouth dip – a semi frown that went unnoticed – clapped his hands together and walked around Arthur to Ariadne. He placed a hand on her lower back and turned her towards the door. “You heard the man, let's give his ego some air, shall we?”
Ariadne let out a short laugh and Eames smiled at her with tight lips. When they reached the door he lightly pushed her through and paused to look back. Arthur was still standing in the middle of the room looking accusingly at his traitorous feet.
. . .
Arthur sometimes forgets things. It would be funny if it wasn't so annoying. It makes him feel slow. And it doesn't help matters that he can't remember how long he's been forgetting things for. Surely he hasn't always been like this. He never would have been made Dom's Point Man if he had. And when he tries to reach back, to remember the time when he was quick like a whip with details and facts, he only finds pockets of missing experiences. He doesn't know how to process any of it.
He is tripping quickly through the night, trailing his left hand along the stone outside of the hotel where they are pulling the job. The street is wet from recent rain and he's careless. He splashes water onto his pant legs as he moves down the street. When he reaches the cross street he realizes, suddenly, that he is going to have to give up his place on the team. He has become a liability. The thought makes him so ill he leans forward and retches.
It isn't that he'll miss the team – or so he tells himself – it's that he feels like he is losing his grasp on his identity that bothers him. If asked who he is he can immediately, and with great bravado, state that he is the best Point Man in the business, the only man Dom Cobb had trusted with the danger of his shades and guilt. From this point on he will be...well he isn't sure, but not that anymore. It is a claim he can no longer make if he is going to start blanking on maze layouts and getting himself trapped by projections.
Arthur looks down at his hands. They're moist from the wall. He rubs the tips of his fingers together. There is a thought forming in the back of his consciousness. He can't quite make it out. One word pushes its way through the grey haze in his mind.
“Lethe,” he says out loud.
At that moment a broad, heavy hand claps down on his shoulder. “I think you're going the wrong way, brother.”
Arthur turns his head and looks back at Eames. The relief in his stomach is sudden and sharp. He feels light headed. “Oh, right,” he says. He stands up straight and turns on his heels, shrugs so that his limbs fall into their usual, comfortable arrangements. He is a capable man and there is no reason for his compatriots to think otherwise.
Eames studies him for a moment, bottom lip tucked up under the top. “Are you sure you're okay?” It is a question Eames asks him once a day now.
Arthur stands and listens to the distant traffic. He is okay. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “I'm really not. Is Dom out of the dream yet?”
. . .
Eames and Arthur were at dinner, just the two of them. Eames valued the repetition of certain rituals and the way they seemed to make his life hang together. Arthur valued the company of people who didn't automatically give in to him, no matter how sure he seemed. What they had was an unlikely, and often uneven agreement. Someone always had to be on top.
Eames was deciding between two types of wine as Arthur studied the menu. When the waiter walked away Eames placed his hand on the top of Arthur's menu and pushed it down so that it was flat on the table. “You're thinking about this really hard,” he said.
Arthur looked up at him and grimaced. “I just can't decide what I want. It's not an uncommon thing in a new place.”
“But this isn't a new place, darling. We're here all the time.” Eames took a sip of his wine, giving the condescension hanging off the familiar pet name time to sink in.
Over the wide bottom of the bell shaped glass Arthur could still see the questioning arch of Eames’ eyebrows. “Oh, right, sure.” He reached into his pants pocket and felt for the die.
Eames nodded.
Arthur pulled his totem from his pocket and shook it around in his loosely formed fist just long enough to be sure it was real, that he was really here really having this conversation with Eames. He put the die back and patted the outside of the pocket. “In that case I'll have what I usually have.”
When the waiter returned Arthur let Eames do the talking. He ended up with a light salad and a very competent steak, and as he chewed slowly on the pieces of meat he wondered what had made him choose that particular meal in the first place. If Eames thought it was more than a joke he didn't push the subject, and when Arthur lapsed into silence Eames didn't ask what he was thinking about. Which was fine with Arthur, who couldn't find anything to think about at all.
. . .
Arthur is sprawled out in one of the faded and worn arm chairs in the cheap hotel room where they had performed their job hours before. Eames has taken up residence on the floor, back against the door with his legs folded up in front of him. He's leaning slightly forward, ready to jump up and catch Arthur if he bolts.
Dom paces in the area between them. “And you don't know when it started?”
“No,” Arthur says. He stares at the air vent in the corner of ceiling. It is just easier to not look at their frustrated faces.
“And you didn't think this was important enough for us to know?” Dom is standing close to him now, his shadow falling across Arthur's lap.
Arthur frowns but doesn't answer.
“It wouldn't be the first time someone on this team kept things from his mates,” Eames says.
At that Arthur does look at Dom, whose face falls blank. “That was different,” he says, and turns his attention to Eames. Arthur exhales long and slow.
“But no less dangerous,” Eames says.
“Can both of you stop bickering like my parents?” Arthur pulls himself up out of the chair and sits next to Ariadne on the bed. She's typing away on her laptop and punctuating periods of not typing with short nods.
Eames and Dom stare each other down.
“What have you got?” Arthur asks Ariadne pointedly.
She finishes a spate of typing and shuts the laptop with a flourish. “The river Lethe, as you may know, comes from Greek mythology. It flows through Hades and is the river of forgetfulness.”
“Thank you for that succinct recap of a Wikipedia article,” Eames says. “But how does that help us solve the problem?”
Ariadne rolls her eyes and continues. “Stemming from that interpretation I was able to come across the virus Lethe, which is currently being manufactured by one of the warring states in the Middle East as a way to fight against potential enemies.”
“Do they infect water supplies?” asks Dom.
“No,” she says, and frowns slightly. “I shouldn't have used the word manufacture, that's misleading. They use it to infect dreams.”
“Ah, a defense mechanism,” Arthur says needlessly, trying to maintain a foothold in the conversation.
“Yes,” she says. “The soldier is put into a dream state and then the virus is implanted in their subconscious. They're merely a host to the idea, though. Usually the idea is locked away in a safe part of their mind, just like a subconscious will lock away important information.”
Dom’s eyes light up. “And then when the infiltrator goes to extract the information-”
“If the soldier has any luck the Extractor chooses the wrong box,” Ariadne finishes.
“That's all very fascinating,” Arthur says, “but I'm not an Extractor. I don't open boxes in people's minds. I handle strategy and defense.”
Dom and Ariadne hold a silent conversation of nods and blinking over Arthur's head.
“What if the projections were infected?” Eames says.
. . .
Eames backed Arthur up to the wall and placed his hands on either side of Arthur's head. He leaned in close and looked Arthur in the eye. Arthur stared back at him. “You are losing it,” Eames said.
“Why Eames, I didn't know you actually cared.” Arthur turned his head and watched the edge of Eames’ thumb turn white and then red again where it pressed into the wall.
“That's bull. Shit. Princess,” Eames gritted out. He brought his hand down and lightly smacked Arthur on the cheek. “You are not saying something. You are not saying it so loudly it's all I can hear anymore. And you know I don't pry, because I know you don't want me to actually look like I give a shit about you -- because it makes whatever posturing you have to maintain more believable – but this thing? This thing might get us killed. Or worse, stuck in limbo. This is a thing I need to know about.”
“Fuck off,” Arthur said, and pushed Eames away. “You don't need to know anything.” Telling Eames would give him the upper hand. Arthur didn't just give people that kind of power over him. They had to earn it. And by Arthur's estimation Eames was four kicks to the backside, two black eyes, and five orgasms from breaking even there.
“What are you so fucking scared of?” Eames grabbed Arthur by the wrist and pulled him forward so that they were toe to toe in the middle of Arthur's suite.
“Nothing!” Arthur yanked his wrist away from Eames’ grasp. “I'm afraid of nothing.” And that was it. Arthur was afraid of being swallowed by the empty spots in his mind. He was afraid to talk to Eames about it because Eames had noticed those gaps were there, and their recognition in the mind of another made them real.
Mouth set taut, eyes still narrowed, Eames leaned in and kissed the side of Arthur's mouth lightly. “Yeah, that's what I thought. When you get your shit figured out, feel free to let us know.”
Arthur watched Eames stalk to the door and then slam it behind him. He looked about his room, trying to find something to break. When he didn't find anything he reached into his pocket and pulled out the die. It flashed red as it flew through the air. Arthur listened to it clank around in the bottom of the sink and then fall silent as it came to a rest.
He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. “I don't know who you are,” he said to it, “but you can feel free to get the fuck out of here as well.”
. . .
They've set up an impromptu command center in Arthur's room.
“What we're looking for is a fall out zone,” Dom says as he draws a series of nestled circles that look like ripples in a pond on the white board. “Here in the center is where the infection has nested. We need to find it and destroy it. From there the subconscious should repair itself.”
“How long will that take?” Arthur asks.
“We don't know, but you're being benched until we can be sure there aren't any lingering side effects.”
Arthur looks away, disgusted.
“How are we going to destroy forgetting?” Eames says. He's sprawled at the foot of Arthur's bed and making the whole edge of it tremble as he bounces his foot.
“We need to overpower it,” Ariadne says. “We need to make Arthur's subconscious realize that it wants to remember things again. Right now it's being tricked into thinking it's easier to just let go of things.”
“Who's to say it's not right?” Arthur asks.
Eames smacks him in the back of the head. “So we jump start that part of his brain. Wonderful. I'll go get the cables. His ears are big enough we shouldn't have any problem hooking him up.”
“If only it were that easy,” Ariadne says.
Eames looks directly at Arthur and smiles wide. “Can't we just stick an ice pick up his nose and root around in that bit in the front like they used to in the old days?”
“Do you have any more horrible suggestions you'd like to get out of the way?” Arthur says.
“Well, there was this one that had to do with a tazer and a goat, but--”
“But that's enough,” Dom says. “Ariadne, can you recreate the dream where Arthur first encountered the infected projections? I can't be positive, but I think if we give the chance for Arthur's subconscious to see the virus for what it is, it will start to fight against it.”
“Yes,with his help,” says Ariadne. “Does anyone know what the projection who hurt Arthur in the first place looked like? We'll need to recreate that situation exactly.”
Eames sits up and clasps his hands in his lap. “Yeah, I know. I can adopt the face. That's going to make me a bit of a sitting duck, though. I don't like the idea of Arthur's subconscious deliberately trying to kill me.”
Arthur smiles, small and tight. “Oh, it won't be any different than usual,” he says. If he's true to himself the idea makes him uncomfortable as well.
. . .
Arthur changed clips in his gun and then looked around the corner and out of the alley he was hiding in. They knew the mark's mind would be hostile, but he hadn't expected to be so thoroughly pinned in so quickly. Dying would simply wake him up, but his job was to draw fire away from Dom and he couldn't do that if he was kicked out of the dream. He let off three shots in rapid succession, scattering a group of projections huddled across the street. The recoil vibrated up his arm.
There was a noise behind him and he jerked his head around. A projection was running down the alley toward him, holding a two by four over its head. It was a woman in a sheer blue dress. She didn't look big enough to be carrying a piece of lumber that large, let alone like she could swing it accurately. Arthur spun around and fired a fourth shot, hitting her in the stomach. She crumpled onto the ground three yards from him. The two by four clattered on the ground and the sound bounced off the walls of the alley, amplifying. Arthur brought a hand up to his ear. Dreams didn’t often manifest sound as a defense. Whoever trained this guy had been good.
There was a sharp pain in his lower back and he was on his knees and grappling with the buttons on his vest, trying to pull it off. He couldn’t tell, but he was pretty sure he’d just been stabbed. When he turned around he saw a small boy backing away from him. In his hand there was a three inch butterfly knife covered in blood. Arthur grabbed his gun off the ground and leveled it at the boy, shooting him in the head.
“Christ,” Dom said, coming around the corner. “I’ve got the information, let’s go.”
And then Arthur was lying on the floor of a warehouse in Prague panting and gripping at his back. It had just been a dream wound. He dug his hand into his pocket and felt the familiar bit of plastic, let his fingers read the Braille like patterns. Everything was fine. No harm. No foul.
. . .
Ariadne is standing in the middle of the street near where Arthur is hiding in the alley. He watches as she looks up towards the roof of the building. The ground around him begins to tremble as the building he is pressed up against starts to sway. He backs away from it and looks down the alley. There is the woman in the blue dress. He raises his gun and buries three shots into her stomach and chest. She crumples in the middle of the alley, fifteen yards away from him. The board clatters as it lands and the sound rattles around the alley, bouncing off the shaking buildings and growing to a crescendo. Arthur groans and grips at his ear.
“Arthur!”
At the sound of Ariadne's voice Arthur spins around just in time to see a small boy running at him, a knife in his outstretched hand. The boy pauses ten feet from Arthur and waves the knife, shouting at him in a language Arthur doesn't know. At that moment the ground heaves up and Arthur is knocked off his feet. Pieces of brick fall around him from the tops of the buildings. He brings his arm up to cover his neck and closes his eyes. He draws in five ragged breaths and then the dream settles and the ground stops moving. When he raises his head again there's a pile of bricks on top of a broken body. He catches a brief glimpse of Eames’ bloodied face before he's pulled out of the dream.
Back in Arthur’s hotel room Eames is sitting up on the bed and shaking his head. “Did anyone else feel like they were starring in a Romero movie?” Dom is across the room, looking out the window, and Ariadne is leaning over Arthur staring at him. Neither of them replies. “No, just me then?”
Dom turns around. “Ariadne, how will we know if any of this worked?”
“We give him a few days. We ask him questions about his life and see if he can answer them. That will at least tell us if he’s recovering.”
“Okay. The team is disbanded then. I’ll contact you if I need you.” He crosses the room, pausing near Arthur to grip his shoulder briefly, and then leaves.
“I guess you’ll have to be the comforting one then,” Eames says. He rolls up his sleeves and slings his jacket over his shoulder. “I have a date with a bottle. Never did like the dying business.” There’s a soft click at the door and then he’s gone as well.
Ariadne is sitting back on her heels now, looking at Arthur uncertainly. “Do you?” Arthur shakes his head and looks down at his hands. He and Ariadne sit for a few more minutes. “Okay then,” she says. “You know how to reach me if you need anything.” When she gets to the door she pauses and turns back. “Arthur?”
“Yeah,” he says, not looking at her.
“You’re still the best.”
“Thanks,” he says.
When he’s sure he’s alone he lies back onto the carpet and closes his eyes. Left. Right. Right. Left. Left, he thinks. Then he laughs at himself, because there’s really nothing else to be done.
. . .
Arthur's hand was raised, knuckles set to rap on the door, when it opened. Eames looked him up and down and then leaned against the door frame, his arms crossed. “I don't recall ordering room service.”.
“I'm losing it,” Arthur said.
Eames pursed his lips. “Excuse me, Captain Obvious, while I go get your cape and tights.”
“I would look horrible tights,” Arthur said.
“You do have those chicken legs,” Eames said.
Arthur stood in the hallway. To an outsider he would have appeared as together as ever. Shoes polished to the point of shine, sharp edges in the line of his sleeve, not a wrinkle in his vest or a hair out of place. He had never before felt so incredibly naked as he did at that moment, scared and reflected in Eames’ gaze.
“I won't tell,” Eames said.
“I might need you to,” Arthur said.
“There is a time and a place for everything.”
Arthur looked down at Eames’ stockinged feet. One of his socks had a hole and Arthur could see the skin of Eames’ big toe through it. “Do you think I could have a glass of water?” he said.
“A glass, a river. You have as much as you like. I'm sure I'll be able to find a way to replace what you take. It's not as if it will kill me.”
Arthur let his shoulders slump. He felt tired. Sated. He didn't deserve any of what Eames was offering, but for once he would let it be enough.
Title: I'm Thirsty, Brother
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4,500
Summary: Arthur can't remember when he started to forget, or when his reflection in Eames' eyes startled him so.
Author's Note: A fill for this request at Inception_Kink. Thank you to my beta,
scribewraith, for looking over this and making me add to it and listening to me ramble. Any remaining faults are mine. Disclaimer: Not mine. I just have grabby hands. Sorry about that.
Arthur’s in a maze, literally this time, with fountains and creepy statues and everything. The mark has a slight obsession with masonry. He’s running as fast as he can towards the exit. There’s one hole in the wall that empties into an open area. From there he should be able to sprint across and duck behind a tightly woven wrought iron fence before the projections catch up to him. From there they’ll be sitting ducks, easy enough to pick off.
Left. Right. Left. Left. Left. Fuck. He runs smack into a wall padded with long, green tendrils of ivy. When he turns around his gun is ready, but there are five of them and one of him. He’s surprised he gets three of them down before everything goes black. His eyes flutter open and he’s staring at an off white ceiling.
It isn't the first time Arthur has forgotten something, but it is the first time his forgetfulness has gotten him killed, booted unceremoniously out of the dream without having completed the task. He has just enough time to unhook himself from the PASIV before Ariadne is awake and sitting bolt upright across from him. The dim lighting of the cheap hotel room they're performing the job in gives her skin a greenish tint and for a moment Arthur isn't sure whether or not he's actually awake.
She opens her mouth, eyebrows knit together in concern. Arthur shakes his head. He is up and out of the room before she has the chance to unhook herself and give chase.
. . .
Eames and Arthur were sparring. It had become a common sight in the work space. Eames needed to work off his excess energy, not liking being kept on so short a leash during the planning stages. Arthur was always looking for ways to keep up with his training and traded Eames in French lessons for the opportunity. Though, why Eames needed another language to mangle Arthur wasn't sure.
Dom rarely remarked on their antics except to occasionally tell them to quit monkeying around in that wry, tight-lipped way of his that meant he was amused. Ariadne liked to watch. Anything that could be a welcome distraction from hours of design work caught her interest. She would switch off who she cheered for from day to day. Today she was rooting for Eames, so when his fist caught Arthur square in the jaw she leapt up from her squat chair and let out a cry.
Arthur also let out a cry as his elbow hit the dusty cement floor and jarred his shoulder into a position up near his ear. “Fucking hell,” he said.
Eames reached down and held his hand out to help Arthur up. “You were supposed to feint there, mawn pet it,” he drawled. “Have you forgotten everything about the routine already?”
Arthur didn't correct Eames. Instead he let himself be pulled to his feet and rolled his shoulder a few times, wincing as he did. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Distracted.”
“So it would seem,” Eames let his gaze trail over to where Ariadne was standing, hand frozen over her mouth. He winked at her.
“Oh,” she said. “I've never had a man take a hit for me before.” She edged over to where Arthur was and gingerly felt his elbow through the sleeve of his dress shirt. “Not too swollen. We should get you some ice or something.”
“I'll be fine,” he said, and shrugged her off. “I've had worse.”
Eames let the corner of his mouth dip – a semi frown that went unnoticed – clapped his hands together and walked around Arthur to Ariadne. He placed a hand on her lower back and turned her towards the door. “You heard the man, let's give his ego some air, shall we?”
Ariadne let out a short laugh and Eames smiled at her with tight lips. When they reached the door he lightly pushed her through and paused to look back. Arthur was still standing in the middle of the room looking accusingly at his traitorous feet.
. . .
Arthur sometimes forgets things. It would be funny if it wasn't so annoying. It makes him feel slow. And it doesn't help matters that he can't remember how long he's been forgetting things for. Surely he hasn't always been like this. He never would have been made Dom's Point Man if he had. And when he tries to reach back, to remember the time when he was quick like a whip with details and facts, he only finds pockets of missing experiences. He doesn't know how to process any of it.
He is tripping quickly through the night, trailing his left hand along the stone outside of the hotel where they are pulling the job. The street is wet from recent rain and he's careless. He splashes water onto his pant legs as he moves down the street. When he reaches the cross street he realizes, suddenly, that he is going to have to give up his place on the team. He has become a liability. The thought makes him so ill he leans forward and retches.
It isn't that he'll miss the team – or so he tells himself – it's that he feels like he is losing his grasp on his identity that bothers him. If asked who he is he can immediately, and with great bravado, state that he is the best Point Man in the business, the only man Dom Cobb had trusted with the danger of his shades and guilt. From this point on he will be...well he isn't sure, but not that anymore. It is a claim he can no longer make if he is going to start blanking on maze layouts and getting himself trapped by projections.
Arthur looks down at his hands. They're moist from the wall. He rubs the tips of his fingers together. There is a thought forming in the back of his consciousness. He can't quite make it out. One word pushes its way through the grey haze in his mind.
“Lethe,” he says out loud.
At that moment a broad, heavy hand claps down on his shoulder. “I think you're going the wrong way, brother.”
Arthur turns his head and looks back at Eames. The relief in his stomach is sudden and sharp. He feels light headed. “Oh, right,” he says. He stands up straight and turns on his heels, shrugs so that his limbs fall into their usual, comfortable arrangements. He is a capable man and there is no reason for his compatriots to think otherwise.
Eames studies him for a moment, bottom lip tucked up under the top. “Are you sure you're okay?” It is a question Eames asks him once a day now.
Arthur stands and listens to the distant traffic. He is okay. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “I'm really not. Is Dom out of the dream yet?”
. . .
Eames and Arthur were at dinner, just the two of them. Eames valued the repetition of certain rituals and the way they seemed to make his life hang together. Arthur valued the company of people who didn't automatically give in to him, no matter how sure he seemed. What they had was an unlikely, and often uneven agreement. Someone always had to be on top.
Eames was deciding between two types of wine as Arthur studied the menu. When the waiter walked away Eames placed his hand on the top of Arthur's menu and pushed it down so that it was flat on the table. “You're thinking about this really hard,” he said.
Arthur looked up at him and grimaced. “I just can't decide what I want. It's not an uncommon thing in a new place.”
“But this isn't a new place, darling. We're here all the time.” Eames took a sip of his wine, giving the condescension hanging off the familiar pet name time to sink in.
Over the wide bottom of the bell shaped glass Arthur could still see the questioning arch of Eames’ eyebrows. “Oh, right, sure.” He reached into his pants pocket and felt for the die.
Eames nodded.
Arthur pulled his totem from his pocket and shook it around in his loosely formed fist just long enough to be sure it was real, that he was really here really having this conversation with Eames. He put the die back and patted the outside of the pocket. “In that case I'll have what I usually have.”
When the waiter returned Arthur let Eames do the talking. He ended up with a light salad and a very competent steak, and as he chewed slowly on the pieces of meat he wondered what had made him choose that particular meal in the first place. If Eames thought it was more than a joke he didn't push the subject, and when Arthur lapsed into silence Eames didn't ask what he was thinking about. Which was fine with Arthur, who couldn't find anything to think about at all.
. . .
Arthur is sprawled out in one of the faded and worn arm chairs in the cheap hotel room where they had performed their job hours before. Eames has taken up residence on the floor, back against the door with his legs folded up in front of him. He's leaning slightly forward, ready to jump up and catch Arthur if he bolts.
Dom paces in the area between them. “And you don't know when it started?”
“No,” Arthur says. He stares at the air vent in the corner of ceiling. It is just easier to not look at their frustrated faces.
“And you didn't think this was important enough for us to know?” Dom is standing close to him now, his shadow falling across Arthur's lap.
Arthur frowns but doesn't answer.
“It wouldn't be the first time someone on this team kept things from his mates,” Eames says.
At that Arthur does look at Dom, whose face falls blank. “That was different,” he says, and turns his attention to Eames. Arthur exhales long and slow.
“But no less dangerous,” Eames says.
“Can both of you stop bickering like my parents?” Arthur pulls himself up out of the chair and sits next to Ariadne on the bed. She's typing away on her laptop and punctuating periods of not typing with short nods.
Eames and Dom stare each other down.
“What have you got?” Arthur asks Ariadne pointedly.
She finishes a spate of typing and shuts the laptop with a flourish. “The river Lethe, as you may know, comes from Greek mythology. It flows through Hades and is the river of forgetfulness.”
“Thank you for that succinct recap of a Wikipedia article,” Eames says. “But how does that help us solve the problem?”
Ariadne rolls her eyes and continues. “Stemming from that interpretation I was able to come across the virus Lethe, which is currently being manufactured by one of the warring states in the Middle East as a way to fight against potential enemies.”
“Do they infect water supplies?” asks Dom.
“No,” she says, and frowns slightly. “I shouldn't have used the word manufacture, that's misleading. They use it to infect dreams.”
“Ah, a defense mechanism,” Arthur says needlessly, trying to maintain a foothold in the conversation.
“Yes,” she says. “The soldier is put into a dream state and then the virus is implanted in their subconscious. They're merely a host to the idea, though. Usually the idea is locked away in a safe part of their mind, just like a subconscious will lock away important information.”
Dom’s eyes light up. “And then when the infiltrator goes to extract the information-”
“If the soldier has any luck the Extractor chooses the wrong box,” Ariadne finishes.
“That's all very fascinating,” Arthur says, “but I'm not an Extractor. I don't open boxes in people's minds. I handle strategy and defense.”
Dom and Ariadne hold a silent conversation of nods and blinking over Arthur's head.
“What if the projections were infected?” Eames says.
. . .
Eames backed Arthur up to the wall and placed his hands on either side of Arthur's head. He leaned in close and looked Arthur in the eye. Arthur stared back at him. “You are losing it,” Eames said.
“Why Eames, I didn't know you actually cared.” Arthur turned his head and watched the edge of Eames’ thumb turn white and then red again where it pressed into the wall.
“That's bull. Shit. Princess,” Eames gritted out. He brought his hand down and lightly smacked Arthur on the cheek. “You are not saying something. You are not saying it so loudly it's all I can hear anymore. And you know I don't pry, because I know you don't want me to actually look like I give a shit about you -- because it makes whatever posturing you have to maintain more believable – but this thing? This thing might get us killed. Or worse, stuck in limbo. This is a thing I need to know about.”
“Fuck off,” Arthur said, and pushed Eames away. “You don't need to know anything.” Telling Eames would give him the upper hand. Arthur didn't just give people that kind of power over him. They had to earn it. And by Arthur's estimation Eames was four kicks to the backside, two black eyes, and five orgasms from breaking even there.
“What are you so fucking scared of?” Eames grabbed Arthur by the wrist and pulled him forward so that they were toe to toe in the middle of Arthur's suite.
“Nothing!” Arthur yanked his wrist away from Eames’ grasp. “I'm afraid of nothing.” And that was it. Arthur was afraid of being swallowed by the empty spots in his mind. He was afraid to talk to Eames about it because Eames had noticed those gaps were there, and their recognition in the mind of another made them real.
Mouth set taut, eyes still narrowed, Eames leaned in and kissed the side of Arthur's mouth lightly. “Yeah, that's what I thought. When you get your shit figured out, feel free to let us know.”
Arthur watched Eames stalk to the door and then slam it behind him. He looked about his room, trying to find something to break. When he didn't find anything he reached into his pocket and pulled out the die. It flashed red as it flew through the air. Arthur listened to it clank around in the bottom of the sink and then fall silent as it came to a rest.
He caught sight of his reflection in the mirror. “I don't know who you are,” he said to it, “but you can feel free to get the fuck out of here as well.”
. . .
They've set up an impromptu command center in Arthur's room.
“What we're looking for is a fall out zone,” Dom says as he draws a series of nestled circles that look like ripples in a pond on the white board. “Here in the center is where the infection has nested. We need to find it and destroy it. From there the subconscious should repair itself.”
“How long will that take?” Arthur asks.
“We don't know, but you're being benched until we can be sure there aren't any lingering side effects.”
Arthur looks away, disgusted.
“How are we going to destroy forgetting?” Eames says. He's sprawled at the foot of Arthur's bed and making the whole edge of it tremble as he bounces his foot.
“We need to overpower it,” Ariadne says. “We need to make Arthur's subconscious realize that it wants to remember things again. Right now it's being tricked into thinking it's easier to just let go of things.”
“Who's to say it's not right?” Arthur asks.
Eames smacks him in the back of the head. “So we jump start that part of his brain. Wonderful. I'll go get the cables. His ears are big enough we shouldn't have any problem hooking him up.”
“If only it were that easy,” Ariadne says.
Eames looks directly at Arthur and smiles wide. “Can't we just stick an ice pick up his nose and root around in that bit in the front like they used to in the old days?”
“Do you have any more horrible suggestions you'd like to get out of the way?” Arthur says.
“Well, there was this one that had to do with a tazer and a goat, but--”
“But that's enough,” Dom says. “Ariadne, can you recreate the dream where Arthur first encountered the infected projections? I can't be positive, but I think if we give the chance for Arthur's subconscious to see the virus for what it is, it will start to fight against it.”
“Yes,with his help,” says Ariadne. “Does anyone know what the projection who hurt Arthur in the first place looked like? We'll need to recreate that situation exactly.”
Eames sits up and clasps his hands in his lap. “Yeah, I know. I can adopt the face. That's going to make me a bit of a sitting duck, though. I don't like the idea of Arthur's subconscious deliberately trying to kill me.”
Arthur smiles, small and tight. “Oh, it won't be any different than usual,” he says. If he's true to himself the idea makes him uncomfortable as well.
. . .
Arthur changed clips in his gun and then looked around the corner and out of the alley he was hiding in. They knew the mark's mind would be hostile, but he hadn't expected to be so thoroughly pinned in so quickly. Dying would simply wake him up, but his job was to draw fire away from Dom and he couldn't do that if he was kicked out of the dream. He let off three shots in rapid succession, scattering a group of projections huddled across the street. The recoil vibrated up his arm.
There was a noise behind him and he jerked his head around. A projection was running down the alley toward him, holding a two by four over its head. It was a woman in a sheer blue dress. She didn't look big enough to be carrying a piece of lumber that large, let alone like she could swing it accurately. Arthur spun around and fired a fourth shot, hitting her in the stomach. She crumpled onto the ground three yards from him. The two by four clattered on the ground and the sound bounced off the walls of the alley, amplifying. Arthur brought a hand up to his ear. Dreams didn’t often manifest sound as a defense. Whoever trained this guy had been good.
There was a sharp pain in his lower back and he was on his knees and grappling with the buttons on his vest, trying to pull it off. He couldn’t tell, but he was pretty sure he’d just been stabbed. When he turned around he saw a small boy backing away from him. In his hand there was a three inch butterfly knife covered in blood. Arthur grabbed his gun off the ground and leveled it at the boy, shooting him in the head.
“Christ,” Dom said, coming around the corner. “I’ve got the information, let’s go.”
And then Arthur was lying on the floor of a warehouse in Prague panting and gripping at his back. It had just been a dream wound. He dug his hand into his pocket and felt the familiar bit of plastic, let his fingers read the Braille like patterns. Everything was fine. No harm. No foul.
. . .
Ariadne is standing in the middle of the street near where Arthur is hiding in the alley. He watches as she looks up towards the roof of the building. The ground around him begins to tremble as the building he is pressed up against starts to sway. He backs away from it and looks down the alley. There is the woman in the blue dress. He raises his gun and buries three shots into her stomach and chest. She crumples in the middle of the alley, fifteen yards away from him. The board clatters as it lands and the sound rattles around the alley, bouncing off the shaking buildings and growing to a crescendo. Arthur groans and grips at his ear.
“Arthur!”
At the sound of Ariadne's voice Arthur spins around just in time to see a small boy running at him, a knife in his outstretched hand. The boy pauses ten feet from Arthur and waves the knife, shouting at him in a language Arthur doesn't know. At that moment the ground heaves up and Arthur is knocked off his feet. Pieces of brick fall around him from the tops of the buildings. He brings his arm up to cover his neck and closes his eyes. He draws in five ragged breaths and then the dream settles and the ground stops moving. When he raises his head again there's a pile of bricks on top of a broken body. He catches a brief glimpse of Eames’ bloodied face before he's pulled out of the dream.
Back in Arthur’s hotel room Eames is sitting up on the bed and shaking his head. “Did anyone else feel like they were starring in a Romero movie?” Dom is across the room, looking out the window, and Ariadne is leaning over Arthur staring at him. Neither of them replies. “No, just me then?”
Dom turns around. “Ariadne, how will we know if any of this worked?”
“We give him a few days. We ask him questions about his life and see if he can answer them. That will at least tell us if he’s recovering.”
“Okay. The team is disbanded then. I’ll contact you if I need you.” He crosses the room, pausing near Arthur to grip his shoulder briefly, and then leaves.
“I guess you’ll have to be the comforting one then,” Eames says. He rolls up his sleeves and slings his jacket over his shoulder. “I have a date with a bottle. Never did like the dying business.” There’s a soft click at the door and then he’s gone as well.
Ariadne is sitting back on her heels now, looking at Arthur uncertainly. “Do you?” Arthur shakes his head and looks down at his hands. He and Ariadne sit for a few more minutes. “Okay then,” she says. “You know how to reach me if you need anything.” When she gets to the door she pauses and turns back. “Arthur?”
“Yeah,” he says, not looking at her.
“You’re still the best.”
“Thanks,” he says.
When he’s sure he’s alone he lies back onto the carpet and closes his eyes. Left. Right. Right. Left. Left, he thinks. Then he laughs at himself, because there’s really nothing else to be done.
. . .
Arthur's hand was raised, knuckles set to rap on the door, when it opened. Eames looked him up and down and then leaned against the door frame, his arms crossed. “I don't recall ordering room service.”.
“I'm losing it,” Arthur said.
Eames pursed his lips. “Excuse me, Captain Obvious, while I go get your cape and tights.”
“I would look horrible tights,” Arthur said.
“You do have those chicken legs,” Eames said.
Arthur stood in the hallway. To an outsider he would have appeared as together as ever. Shoes polished to the point of shine, sharp edges in the line of his sleeve, not a wrinkle in his vest or a hair out of place. He had never before felt so incredibly naked as he did at that moment, scared and reflected in Eames’ gaze.
“I won't tell,” Eames said.
“I might need you to,” Arthur said.
“There is a time and a place for everything.”
Arthur looked down at Eames’ stockinged feet. One of his socks had a hole and Arthur could see the skin of Eames’ big toe through it. “Do you think I could have a glass of water?” he said.
“A glass, a river. You have as much as you like. I'm sure I'll be able to find a way to replace what you take. It's not as if it will kill me.”
Arthur let his shoulders slump. He felt tired. Sated. He didn't deserve any of what Eames was offering, but for once he would let it be enough.