Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Then, as it was,
then again it will be
Though the course may change sometimes
rivers always reach the sea

 

** ** ** **

 

Arthur is eleven, and school is almost out, when his Dad tells him that, surprise, his Mom's family from overseas are coming to visit for the summer. They're from France, like his Mom. That's really cool and exciting. He's never met any of his cousins before. Okay, so he only gets to meet one of them, and she's not a cousin cousin, but his mother's sister's step-daughter or something, and she's about five years older than he is. She's a teenager, and that's pretty important. He'll be able to show his cool family off to his friends. Well, his friend, anyway. Tommy Plakehart, who he goes to school with, hangs out with Arthur sometimes because they like a lot of the same things. Tommy is a good guy. He wears glasses like Arthur does (they tried to get matching ones,) and he helped build the treehouse in Arthur's yard. Well yeah, Arthur's Dad built the basics of it, but he and Tommy had nailed up the walls and made the ladder. Also, they had painted the inside blue.

It's a great place and he is definitely going to hang out up there with his cousin. If she feels like it.

The week before his aunt and cousin arrive, his Mom tells him at the breakfast table, "Mallorie is troubled, Arthur. I want you to be careful around her. If you see her doing anything bad, you'll tell me or your Papa right away."

"Like what?" he asks his Mom. "You mean like smoking, and kissing people?" Because if that's the case, he is definitely not going to tell. Arthur doesn't believe in being a tell-tale, and anyway, if she's a teenager, then she's old enough for that stuff.

"No," his Mom says. "Other things. Mallorie has had some trouble at home. This is why she's coming here. You'll tell me if she's mean or cruel to you."

That sounds like a lot less fun than it had before.

But June finally arrives, and Arthur is ecstatically excited the day his Mom and Dad go to pick them up at JFK. He doesn't know what to do with himself while he waits, (and he's at home alone – of course he is, because Arthur knows better than to set the house on fire or do any dumbass crazy thing like some other kids would do.) He goes from his room, to the kitchen to make sure there's good stuff in the fridge, to the TV, then back to his room.

He looks around to make sure everything is clean. His room is pretty neat. It's tiny, with one old, cracked window. The walls could use a coat of paint. Well, the entire house could, really. And a new roof, because this one leaks. They have to put buckets down when it pours.

He goes up to the treehouse and scans the small yard. Weeds and dried grass. Not too nice to look at, now that he thinks about it.

When the car pulls up into the dirt driveway, he gets tingly all over, but he wants to play it really cool. He's going to hang out in the treehouse and then jump down like a ninja once he's in their line of sight. Like, hey, no big deal, he jumps out of the tree all the time.

Also, he can spy on them from up here. He can see his Mom and Dad in the front seat undoing their seatbelts and stuff. He's trying to see into the back, to see his aunt and cousin, but he can't yet.

Finally, finally, all the doors open. His aunt Sylvie gets out first. She's small and elegant, with blonde hair twirled around tight at the back of her head. She's wearing high heels and clutching a little purse.

Then he sees his cousin, not cousin cousin, but still someone in his family. Someone associated with him. And his jaw drops. She is just so pretty. She's beautiful in a way he's never seen girls be beautiful before. Her hair is brown and wavy, and even though her face looks a little mad or something, he can tell that the angles all line up the right way. She looks like some kind of painting.

He hopes that the kids at school will get to see her, like maybe if he sees them around town or something (because they don't come to visit him.) They'll see her, and they'll know that this beautiful girl from a whole 'nother country is his cousin.

They start walking up the driveway, and she—Mallorie--is struggling with a big suitcase and her own little purse.

Forget making a grand ninja entrance. Arthur climbs out of the treehouse to go and help her. That will definitely make a better first impression. Much more mature.

He runs up the driveway (which he knows is uncool, but at this point, whatever,) and doesn't bother saying hi to Mom or Dad or even his aunt. Just to Mallorie.

"Hey," he says. And oh man, her eyes are really blue, and she's a lot taller than he is, especially wearing heels. She's so adult that he doesn't know what to say aside from, "Um, I'm Arthur. Um. I'll help you with your bags."

Mallorie just frowns at him, her mouth pursed, her head tilted back like a queen's. She looks from him to her mother (step mother, or whatever,) and shoots off a whole bunch of words in French. Really fast French. Arthur can speak a little, because of his Mom, but this is too much at once.

He does get one word out of the whole thing, though: "Boy."

** ** ** **

For the whole first week, maybe more, Mallorie hides in the spare room, where she sleeps, and ignores everyone. She comes out a few times during the day to have something to eat. She doesn't speak a word to anyone other than her step mother, Arthur's Aunt Sylvie.

In fact, Aunt Sylvie mostly ignores him, too.

Arthur's bored. This is not as exciting as he thought it was going to be.

One day, Tommy comes over. They're playing video games on hand-helds in the treehouse. It's hot as hell. The treehouse smells of mold and dust, but it's a smell that he loves.

Without looking up from his screen, Tommy says, "When do I get to meet your cousin?"

"She doesn't come out of her room much," Arthur says with a shrug. "Mom says she's troubled."

"That sucks," says Tommy, and leaves it at that. They don't really have to talk to be comfortable, because they're best friends.

Arthur continues beating the hell out of Tommy in a melee game, when the smell of cigarette smoke drifts through the slats. His parents both quit smoking a few years ago, so he knows it's not either of them. He pauses his game and parts the curtain of the treehouse to look outside.

Mallorie is sitting on the back porch, wearing shorts, her hair pulled back into a thick ponytail. She's smoking a cigarette. And she's doing it right, too, and not coughing at all.

Tommy leans over Arthur's shoulder to look past him. He's using binoculars, like a total asshole.

"Stop," Arthur says, shoving him back. "She'll think you're weird."

"Your cousin is really hot," Tommy says.

Arthur elbows him in the stomach until he retreats back behind the curtain. He watches Mallorie for a few more seconds.

She glances up toward the treehouse and catches him looking. Arthur feels a flush of embarrassment, but realizes it would look really stupid if he ducked behind the curtain to hide. So instead, he waves. Casually.

Mallorie blows a perfect smoke ring and, with a smile, nods in his direction.

Arthur's entire day is made.

It's not until the next week that he sees her again in more than passing.

Arthur wakes up early naturally, even when school is out. All the good cartoons are on in the morning, anyway. He crunches on some dry cereal as he watches his shows on a TV that's older than he is. His parents go off to work. His aunt goes off to one of her mysterious meetings that she's always going to. That's what they're called, "meetings." Not a job or something like that.

He may as well be alone in the house, but he knows that Mallorie is in her room, probably still asleep. She usually gets up at around noon. At first that was probably jet lag, but she should be over that by now.

Maybe today, he'll take a walk down to the creek or something, maybe look for the treasure he and Tommy buried there last summer (fifty dollars in the waterproof lunch container Arthur doesn't use anymore.) Maybe he'll go in the treehouse to read one of his summer assignments, or maybe he'll play video games all day or something. His plan is to have no plan at all.

This all changes when he goes to the kitchen around noon, and finds Mallorie there, looking into the fridge for something to eat.

"Oh," Arthur says. "Hey."

She turns with a bottle of water in her hand, regarding him like she always does, which is to say, a little like a frog she found in her back yard.

Then she says, "'Allo, Arthur."

He's never heard his name from her before. It sounds a little like when his Mom says it, at least the accent. In her voice, it sounds – he's not sure. More meaningful, maybe.

"Bonjour," he tries.

And then, in what sounds like a teasing tone, she asks, "Oh, parlez vous Francais?"

"Uhh," Arthur says, "Un petit peu. Ma mere parle Francais, umm, elle est Francaise. Uhh. Parlez vous Anglais?"

Mallorie tilts her head, considering. Smiling a little. Then she says, "Take me to your tree."

Arthur literally has to refrain from skipping all the way there. He walks at a leisurely pace through the back yard, as cool as he can be. When they get to the tree, Arthur goes up first, because he's seen enough movies where boys look at some girl's butt as she's going up the ladder, and he doesn't want her to think that's what he's doing. Anyway they're cousins, for godsakes.

Mallorie follows, climbing one-handed, holding her bottle of water in the other. Arthur parts the curtain to let her inside.

Now that she's in it, Arthur can see how shabby the treehouse is. Motes of dust float around in the sunlight that breaks in through the slats. The boards creak. The two beanbag chairs are torn, and repaired with duct tape. A girl like Mallorie shouldn't have to sit on duct tape.

But she does anyway. She takes a look around and declares it, "Cool. Very cool, Arthur."

Blushing like an idiot, Arthur murmurs "Merci, Mallorie."

She giggles, and tells him, "Mal, if you please. Papa only calls me Mallorie."

Arthur nods, looking down. He's not sure what he's supposed to do now. But he's had his share of adult conversations, and he's pretty sure he can at least act a little bit sophisticated.

"So," he says, "aimez vous Amerique?"

She laughs like she's delighted with him, opens her bottle of water, and takes a sip. "You smart little boy," she says. "America, it is not bad. Boredom, sometimes."

"Me too," Arthur agrees. "So why did you come here?"

Mal shrugs. Then she takes a pack of cigarettes out of her pocket, draws one out with her lips, and lights it with a metal lighter. She takes a long drag before answering. "I have had trouble at home."

Arthur's not sure how much he's supposed to ask, but he has to say something. "What kind of trouble?"

Instead of answering, she takes the cigarette out from her lips, turns it in her fingers, and holds it out to him.

This is dangerous territory. He could get in so much trouble. But he doesn't want to let her down. It would be so cool if she would come up here and talk with him like this—like adults—all the time. But he really doesn't like the smell of the smoke, and also his parents told him about how bad they are.

"Thanks," Arthur says, "but I don't smoke."

Mal laughs again, and says, "Of course not. Too young. It is good of you to say no. Saying no – important. But only sometimes." She takes another drag herself, and curls her long legs under her. Then, with her cigarette in her mouth, she holds her arm out to him.

For one horrifying moment, Arthur isn't sure what he's supposed to do. Touch? Look? Or what? Then he sees them: small, horizontal scars on her forearm. On the back of it though, not the front, where a person would try to kill themselves.

"Did you do that to yourself?" he asks, his voice suddenly quiet even though he didn't try to whisper.

"Yes. But not why you think. No, this is because I have sleep disturbance. I do this in sleep. With my... With my..." Unable to remember the word, she demonstrates by scratching her finger along her arm.

"You did that with your nails?" Arthur asks.

"Mmm. My Papa is a--" She taps the side of her head--"a doctor. Mama - real Mama, and also Sylvie - also doctors." Again she taps her temple. "Doctors of sleep. My Mama took a sleep drug in pregnancy. So, I have a sleep disturbance."

"Oh," Arthur says. "Wow. Sorry about that."

"Yes." Another drag of her cigarette, another sip of water.

"So is that why you came to America? Is that the trouble you got into?"

"Oh, no. That was boy trouble."

Arthur doesn't know what to say to that, aside from, "Oh." His face and ears are so red; he can feel it. He probably looks like a big beet. There's no way to play it cool now.

"Not what you think," she says again, smiling. "I just," she stops to kiss the air a few times. "Kiss kiss. But the boy, he wants more. I tell him, Non. He still wants more so I..." She makes a fist and jabs it at the air. But her fist is turned the wrong way, not like a regular punch to the nose.

"You punched him?" Arthur asks, not sure what else she could mean.

"Non, non. With a knife."

"Holy shit! You stabbed someone? Did he die?"

"Non. But he went to hospital. I hurt him."

Wow, is all Arthur can think. Wow, and, "That's awesome."

She shrugs. She's not smiling anymore. "Yes. But there was a time, when I knifed him, when I hurt him. It felt very, very good, Arthur. To hurt him felt good." She stops for a drag, and a sip. "So, the boy went into hospital, and he was very rich. I got into trouble."

Still trying to process the part about hurting people feeling good, Arthur just nods. His Mom had said something about this to him before Mal came, had said that she might hurt him, and to tell on her if she did anything bad, or strange. He doesn't understand how it could feel good to hurt a person – but maybe, if they were trying to hurt you – but either way, he's not going to tell. Mal has told him a secret. A bunch of secrets, even. And she's up here in his treehouse, talking to him like an adult, trusting him like he's some kind of friend or something, and Arthur is absolutely, definitely, never going to tell on her.

For the rest of the summer, Arthur's pretty sure they're good friends. Mal comes out of her room when his parents go to work, and Sylvie goes to her meetings. They watch television. She lets Arthur show her his video games. He does backflips in the yard, and she claps her hands and yells, "Hourra!" He teaches her English words she doesn't know (although, she's already very good at English,) and she corrects his grammar when he tries to speak French. He knows he's going to do so great in French class next year. He won't even have to study for it.

Even Tommy gets to meet her a few times, although he just stutters and acts shy, and doesn't know what to say to her. Arthur can understand that, because that's how he felt at first, too. But not anymore.

She tells him some of her secrets. About the crazy things she dreams, about her first cigarette and her first kiss. She tells him what it's like to get drunk, and says that one of these days she'll sneak him a glass of wine, just not yet. She tells him that her father couldn't come to America because his secret is the biggest of all. It's the one thing she can't tell Arthur.

But that's fine with him, because he doesn't need to know everything. He just wishes he had some better secrets to tell her, but he doesn't yet. He hasn't kissed anyone, or stabbed anyone. His parents are pretty boring and they don't do anything top secret. But one day, he will have some really good, really juicy secrets. And then he'll tell them to Mal, and only Mal.

 

Mal and Sylvie leave at the end of the summer. Mal and Arthur write, in a mix of French and English, over the school year. Arthur gets an A in French. Mal meets a boy, crashes her car, and blames it on someone else. Her secrets are still awesome, and interesting, and dangerous.

She comes back next summer, and again the next.

Arthur won't have any good secrets for her until he's sixteen, when he'll tell her, haltingly, and blushing around her for the first time in five years, "I kind of had sex. Sort of. A little."

Mal will laugh and let him sip her wine as she asks, "Did you kind of have sex with a girl, or with a boy?"

God damn it, she knows his secrets before he even tells them to her.

** ** ** **

While across the ocean, a sixteen year old boy fumbles his way through his first sexual experience—his biggest secret to date—a nineteen year old boy sits in his professor's private study. He's known the value of secrets for years. He never guessed that his own secret would break his heart like this.

His professor tells him, "Eames, you're the best student I have, and the smartest man in the room, up until I walk in." His smile is sad, stern, and kind all at once. "There has got to be a way I can convince you to stay at uni. This program needs young men like you."

All Eames can say is, "Can't, sir. Sorry."

Professor Miles's face softens into sympathy. "Is it your father? Because if it is, I can have a word..."

"I just can't," Eames says. And that's all he's going to say. His silence is to protect everyone else.

 

But Eames's story doesn't start here. It starts a year ago, with William.

Well really, it starts ages ago, back when he was a toddling little bastard. Back when he learned to read people out of self preservation. When he learned to watch his father's every expression, to better know what was coming next.

But the reason he's sitting in professor Miles's office, dropping out of university to join the military, well, that's because of William. Or at least, it's because William is no longer a secret.

** ** ** **

At eighteen, Eames likes to think that's he's done a little bit of everything and everyone. He'd tried running away from home a few years back. He could steal – was, in fact, brilliant at it – but was never willing to pay the price of getting sold out. This he learned early on, when he woke up in hospital with two broken fingers, three fractured ribs, six stitches across his eyebrow and a week's worth of memory gone. His father came to take him home. That was worse than what had landed him in hospital in the first place.

Eames's mother had left when he was six. He understood why, although he often wondered why she hadn't thought to take him along.

At eighteen, Eames is bright enough for UCL, which works to get him the fuck out of his father's house, and also earns him enough approval that his father pays for his fees and living costs, for as long as he's willing to stay out of trouble. The decision about his course of study is the easiest he's ever made: psychology, neuroscience and language studies. He's been navigating other people's minds since childhood anyway. Might as well see if he can make something of it.

It isn't easy, but it's good.

He meets William at a series of lectures called "Time, Reality and Experience in Dreams," given by professor Steven Miles.

There are a few jerk-offs in the lecture hall, sitting there texting, or pretending to take notes. Eames can't even imagine wasting time like that. Well, perhaps, but only if he was doing something uninteresting, like architecture or maths. This, though – this is the core of human experience. Consciousness. The greatest mystery humankind will ever try to fathom. Never mind space, the ocean, physics or any of that. What makes life real? That's what Professor Miles is on about. That's what turns Eames on.

"There are experiments abroad," Miles says to the class, "being carried out on soldiers returning from battle, with post traumatic stress, night terrors, and in some cases, psychotic breaks."

The screen at the front of the hall switches from a picture of men in the dirt, taking cover behind an overturned armored vehicle, to a photograph of a young man in a pristine white room, on a bed, with electrodes attached to his head.

"A few of these studies are working with dream suppression, and in some cases are reporting absolute cessation of all remembered dream activity. Subjects report absolute loss of consciousness. Like being anesthetized. Recorded measurements of their brainwaves confirm this, in some cases. Anyone have any ideas what might come of that?"

It's odd for a speaker to stop a lecture like this to ask questions. Feels more like primary school.

A young man in the first row raises his hand. No, not exactly. It's more like he gestures politely, barely moving his forearm, holding up one finger, softly, like he doesn't want to be noticed too much. Yet he's sitting in the front, so he obviously wants to participate. Eames can't see his face, because he's in the exact middle of the theatre.

When the man begins to speak, Miles interrupts him to say, "A bit louder, please."

The man clears his throat, a perfunctory noise. "I just thought that perhaps if these soldiers were suppressing the release of their unconscious minds, it's likely they'd find the issues they're trying to avoid manifesting consciously. Disinhibiting the prefrontal cortex during sleep would—might, I mean—disturb executive functions in waking hours. Or at least this seems to be the case in sleep deprivation."

Miles answers with a restrained smile and says, "Is sleep deprivation the same thing as dream deprivation?"

This time, Eames raises his hand. Miles points him out.

"It's not the same," Eames says. "Both states can be artificially induced through chemicals that inhibit acetylcholine. You can sleep without awareness, like with anesthesia. Or you can disinhibit the prefrontal cortex while awake, artificially. Induce a dream-like state, but without entering REM sleep or losing consciousness at all."

Miles says, "Or, to put it simply, the typical university experience."

Only a few people laugh. Eames and the man in the front row are among them.

"So now," Miles says, "we're skirting the subject of addiction, which isn't exactly where I wanted to go, but does bring up a good point. When we're talking about either sleep deprivation, dream deprivation, or chemical addiction, the prefrontal cortex is a common thread. What else comes to mind?"

"Schizophrenia," says the man in the front row, at the same time Eames says, "Psychotic break."

"So, all in all," Miles says, "these studies don't sound very promising. Let's talk about what does."

The lectures continue in much the same way for a few more weeks. Professor Miles is subtle, engaging, and accessible. He asks questions, and Eames finds himself eager to supply the best, most cutting edge answers and observations. The man in the front row does the same, even if his answers are a bit more conservative.

Once, they find themselves saying essentially the same thing. The man turns around briefly, to acknowledge Eames. His eyes are vividly blue. His smile is so honest that Eames resents him for a moment: How spoiled he must be, to be so open. Still, he can't help smiling back.

A few weeks rush by, and soon Miles is wrapping up his series and dismissing everyone, with gratitude and grace and words of encouragement.

Eames is coming down the stairs when professor Miles catches his eye. He gestures, Come here, and then turns to beckon someone else over to him. It's the man from the front row, of course.

"Professor Miles," Eames says. "It was a pleasure."

"Yes," the other man says, "It was." His voice is soft. He's shy, now that he's not speaking academically. His blond hair looks soft where it curls at his temples. Eames can't see how blue his eyes are now, because he's looking somewhere at the podium.

"The two of you really got into it," Miles says. "And that's it, you see. That's why I teach. You find a few gems in the mud."

"Thank you, sir," they both answer.

"I called you both here because I could use a bit of help, you see. With something I'm working on."

Eames and the other man glance at each other, then back to Miles.

"It's a paid position. Mostly theoretical, but you'd be working with delicate equipment. I need some input. And to be honest with you both, I need some test subjects. No chemicals involved, no drug trials at this stage. It's all perfectly safe. If either of you have got the time, I thought you might be interested."

"I'm interested," the other man says, so quickly that Eames suspects it's because of the money.

"Yeah, sure," Eames says. He couldn't care less about the money.

"I'm William, sir," the other man says, holding his hand out to Professor Miles. "William Ashford."

"Oh, William Manwaring," Eames says. "But call me Eames. It was my Mum's maiden name. No one bothers with the 'William.'" Except my father, he doesn't add, because no one needs to know that. "I cede the right to my first name."

It's one of those moments that sticks.

** ** ** **

The trials take place in an abandoned warehouse. So, not really on the up and up, Eames reckons. He doesn't care how above-board it is or isn't. It puts the rest of his life on hold because it's so fascinating. He knows, as soon as Miles and his wife, Sylvie, explain it to him, that this is what he wants to do with his life.

He sits in a lawn chair while Miles and Sylvie attach electrodes to his head.

"No drugs involved," Sylvie says, pushing his hair out of the way. "In this we test the equipment, not you."

Miles wheels over a cart which supports a dark screen. "This," he says, "is a prototype. It's quite primitive as a mind interface. We've had a bit of luck with it with certain people. Let's see if we can get anything out of you. Don't feel pressured, Eames. Just relax."

Eames is too excited to relax. Mind interface? He's heard of them, but never seen one at work.

Miles pulls up a chair behind Eames, facing away, and pulls the screen around.

"Don't I get to see?" Eames asks.

"Not this time," Sylvie says. "I'm going to show you images. Miles will sit behind you, looking at the screen. If this works, he should be able to tell me what you're looking at. All you have to do is think about the image you see. Concentrate on what it looks like. What it does. What it means. All right?"

"Right," Eames says. "Easy enough."

"It can take a few minutes," Sylvie says, "for the image to solidify into waves that the screen can translate. Just relax your mind and don't worry about how long it takes." She takes a folder from the table and sits down across from him, then pulls out a photograph of an airplane.

"And," Miles says, behind him, "if it doesn't work this time, don't fret. It's early stages yet, and the equipment-- oh my goodness. Airplane."

Eames doesn't miss the quickly-hidden widening of Sylvie's eyes.

"Try another," Miles says.

She takes out a photo of a shark.

"Shark," Miles says.

Sylvie flips through the folder, shuffling the photos around. It could be that they're in the same order each time; Eames doesn't know how many times they've done this before. Maybe the computer has solved an algorithm or something – some maths / computer thing he wouldn't understand.

She takes out a picture of a flower. He barely glances at it (blue purple white spiked petals green center) before Miles announces, "Passiflora."

"What?" Eames says.

"Passiflora," Miles says. "That's the kind of flower I'm seeing. Good god. It's so clear. Christ, Slyvie, just look."

Eames has to see, too. He can't help turning around to look at the screen. And there it is: a hazy, wavering representation of the flower in the photograph.

His brain is doing that. That image is from his mind, and he hasn't put it there with his hands, or drawn it, or done anything other than to think that image into existence. It's from his mind.

"Shit," he says.

Sylvie tucks the pictures away and says, "Let's try something different." Over his shoulder, she shares a glance with Miles.

"Yes," Miles says. "Let's. Level two."

"Level two?" Eames asks. "What's level two?" He can't think of anything beyond this. This is amazing – that screen translated his thought into an image. Entire movies could be made like this. It would eliminate the need for cameras, sets, actors. Not now, but years down the road, maybe a few generations. It could be used to extract locations from people – hidden things, secrets, if used against their will. He considers briefly what he'd been told earlier: 'No drugs. Yet.'

Sylvie puts her hands over his, softly, and says, "Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. Clear your mind."

It's always been hard for Eames to clear his mind. Stray thoughts bombard him from all directions. True clarity is a myth, he thinks.

"I want you to picture something random. Think of a very specific thing – not an emotion or anything abstract. Something solid, real, an actual thing. But totally random. Once you think of this thing, concentrate on it. What does it look like? Feel like? Smell like?"

Eames is starving. A cupcake would be brilliant right now. Chocolate, with icing. Moist, almost too sweet, with sugary crystals of flavor on his tongue. A dark, rich...

"Yes," Miles says, with a little breathless laugh, "that'll do. We should break for lunch. I could have a cupcake, too."

Eames turns around again just in time to see the image of his cupcake waver on the screen, before the warehouse door opens.

"Oh, hello," says William. "I'm so terribly sorry to be late." His smile is tentative, yet brilliant. His eyes--

The cupcake flickers off the screen, replaced by a starburst of blue.

 

** ** ** **

 

Three weeks later, Eames and William sit back to back in lawn chairs. They are alone in the warehouse. Miles and Sylvie gave them keys. It's the most Eames has ever been trusted with anything, and he is not going to fuck it up.

Eames is hooked up to the machine, and the screen faces William.

"A goldfish," William says.

Well, Eames had been thinking of a koi, but they're about the same thing.

"Oh, that's a raven," William says.

A crow, but again, close enough.

Now, he's going to try something he's never done before. So far, they've thought stock images to each other. Animals, objects, things that could be replicated, or were replicated naturally through biology. Now he's going to get a little more complicated.

"It's blank," William says.

"I know. Give me a moment. Concentrating."

William goes quiet, waiting. Eames breathes deeply, closes his eyes. He thinks of the way Miles speaks, first. The cadence of his Cockney accent, south London. Then his hands, how he braces them firmly on his podium, or links his fingers when he sits at his desk. His white hair, his height, the blue of his eyes.

"My god," William says. "That's professor Miles!"

"Am I doing it?" When he turns to look at the screen, the image flickers away.

"You did it. For a few seconds, I saw him on the screen. Like you drew him out of nothing."

Eames feels a little breathless, as he always does when this mind-sharing thing is a success. "We've got to write this down in our notes." He reaches for the electrodes on his head, but William's hand stops him.

William is facing away from him again, still staring at the screen, but gently holding onto Eames's hand, behind him. "Wait, not yet. Just... I want you to try something else, first."

"Oh. Right. Don't know if I can, but I'll give it a go." He settles back into his seat, suddenly aware of the press of their chair-backs up against each other. Of William's blond curls behind him. If he leaned his head back, he'd be able to feel them.

William links their little fingers together and says, "Try me. Try to do me."

A nervous little laugh escapes Eames; a sound he's never heard from himself before. He's not laughing at the innuendo, but out of a weird kind of pressure he doesn't understand. He wants to do it—wants to impress William—but it's something more. He wants to get this right for its own sake. To be able to do something amazing that no one else can do.

"Give me a moment," he says. They both go quiet.

Eames stills himself inside and out. The only point of contact he has with William is their linked fingers, but he can call him to mind easily, detail for detail. He's always been able to put his finger on the details, to collect accents, impressions and mannerisms. He used to entertain his Mum with impersonations, before it all became too much for her.

But he's not meant to be focusing on her now, or on his father. He thinks first of William's eyes: vividly blue. High forehead, and straight, aristocratic nose. White, even teeth, mouth usually smiling. His hair: strawberry blond, he'd call it, and curling. William is stunningly tall, he's got a few inches on Eames. He dresses nicely, though his clothes are inexpensive. His hand gestures are soft and unobtrusive. He tilts his head when he's listening. He is reserved and polite, but not obsequious or timid.

Eames's concentration is broken by a startled little gasp from behind him. He holds onto the threads of his image, trying to project it fully, knowing he's succeeding.

William tugs on his finger a little, to get his attention. "It's amazing, Eames."

When Eames turns around to see the screen, William turns at the same time, blocking his view. Eames never gets to see what he created, because William is kissing him – still shy, but not unsure.

 

It is, of course, not long before they're sneaking to Eames's residence hall (he's got a private room,) pretending to read notes all the way, and making small talk about their studies. Eames feels like everyone's watching them anyway, that everyone knows what they're going off to do. His blood hums through his veins, tingling. He's done this before, with boys and girls – girls proudly paraded in sight of his father, and boys hidden away in the backs of fancy cars, alleys, closets. He always looks forward to the pleasure, the exploration. And in some ways, he looks forward to the secrecy, too.

Soon they're on Eames's bed, and when he reaches for the top button of William's shirt, William says, "Erm."

Eames stops, because "erm" has many meanings, none of which belong in sex.

William laughs, a charming little sound, and says, "I want to impress you, actually, so I'm a little nervous about making a fool of myself."

"'Course you won't. It's going to be brilliant."

"Well, I've done a bit. But just a bit, you see."

"Ah. Erm, yes." Eames inches away slowly – not a rejection, just an offer of space. "Well, we'll do exactly what you want. Nothing more."

"And nothing less, I hope."

Eames laughs, casual and friendly. "I hope not, too. You can do me, if you like? Or I could do you. Or we could just lie around for a bit and snog."

"No, I think—you should do me. Since I've never done... that before... I know this sounds terribly saccharine, Eames, but I want it to be you. Because you try hard to do everything well, I have to imagine this wouldn't be an exception."

"Right, no pressure," Eames says. He smiles into William's neck.

"Just try your best," William says, laughing a little again. "I'm sure it will be fantastic."

It is. It is fantastic, and awkward, and nerve-wracking, and absolutely the most brilliant sex Eames has ever had.

And, he reckons, the best he probably will ever have. Because it's different, this time. William is different.

 

They go on for the entire next year together, and the studying and discovering they do with Miles and Sylvie are damn near as good as the sex. If Eames's other grades suffer, and if he becomes a little less guarded in his happiness—a little careless, maybe—then it's not something he stops to think about. He's happy. He's got work that stimulates his mind in ways he's never imagined, and a lover who is just as enthusiastic about the work as he is. And William is talented, too. He's taken to building structures with his mind and projecting them onto the screen.

Towards the end of the year, Miles and Sylvie introduce the second stage of the experiments: screenless mind-share. They've been hooking up directly to each other. If you can project images onto the electric passages of a computer, then why not skip the middleman and go right into the neural pathways of another person?

"We like dreaming bigger," Sylvie says.

But this process requires a deeper state of consciousness to operate, and so in this phase, chemicals are involved. Miles and Sylvie bring their daughter into the lab, a young, bloody brilliant woman named Mallorie, who studies neurochemistry. She's clever as hell, with a ruthless streak that Eames can see in her, no matter how she hides it behind the sweetness of her smile. He likes her, but he's wary of her. Her edges are rough and sharp. Like his used to be, before William.

Eames and William are going to be included in this phase of the study after winter break. A winter break which Eames will most certainly not be spending at home.

He'll visit the old man, and that'll be it. One day. Not even; just a few hours, just to show his face and then get the fuck out for another year. He doesn't even pack his clothes. He doesn't say goodbye to William, since he's only going to see him the next day.

His father's house (and that's what it is: his father's, never his,) is an ostentatious beast that Eames has always hated, every second of his life that he's had to be there. What his father lacks in taste, he makes up for in expense. He's got a liquor cabinet that he only opens for guests, because no alcohol ever passes his father's lips. A deer head hangs from the wall over the fireplace, a startled-looking expression on its dead face, like it can't quite imagine how it ended up here. Eames feels the same way.

"Ah," his father says, coming out of his study, "here you are. Late, as always." His blue eyes are mild and just a little too wide.

"Sorry," Eames says. "Can't stay too long—studying, you know—but I've got groceries in the car and I can cook din--"

"Ah," his father says again. The sound is like an alarm bell. It's how he begins all of his "important" conversations. "Yes, your course of study, yes. What is it you're studying, William? Psychology, yes, I know, but what are your courses?"

This is not a line of questioning that Eames expected, and it throws him off. His father has never asked about what he was doing before, not unless he was angry about something. He can feel a chill begin to creep up his spine and down his arms.

"Err, dreams, currently."

"Ah. Dreams."

And this is how quickly it happens: His father takes a photograph out of his pocket. Before it's even in Eames's hand, he already knows it's a picture of William.

"And who's this?" his father asks.

"That's William." He's not blushing, or flushing with heat or embarrassment or anger. He's just afraid, and trying his best to hide it. His father already knows who it is. He knows the whole thing, probably. This is part of the game.

"Ah. I see. And tell me, my William, tell me, because I'm not clear on the details here. What is it that you and this other William do?"

Eames knows there's no use in lying, but he does it anyway, because it comes naturally when he's in this house. "We're in the same program. We study."

"Mmm. Yes, of course. And this would be William Ashford, wouldn't it? William Ashford of London, father Harold Ashford, mother Olivia Ashford nee Leighton, no siblings, etcetera. And this," he pulls another photo out of his pocket, "would be his car, I believe. Which he gets serviced at Globe Motors."

"Yes." Eames doesn't have to look at it to know. His father is nothing if not thorough.

"I see." He takes both photos back and paces around the sitting room, quiet. "I've been doing a bit of thinking," he says, turning to face Eames again, with his awful, mild eyes. "I'm not sure you're suited to life at university. Your particular interests and set of skills are just being wasted there." As if he knows even the first thing about Eames's interests or skills. "Academic life is not for you. No, a lad like you needs more structure."

"Listen, Dad--"

His father just meets his eyes, and Eames stops. "A young man like you needs to learn more about life than you can pick up in books. You need to learn such things as how to look out for your best interests, and the interests of the people in your life. I know you've got a soft streak in you. I know you care about other people. You're not a self-serving bitch like your mother was. Are you a self serving bitch like your mother?"

"No, sir."

"No sir, indeed you are not. You care about other people's well-being. You are the kind of young man who will do what's best, even if you don't want to. Do you know, William, the way to make a man do what you want? You don't. It's a secret, but I'm going to share it with you. The way to make a man do what you want, is to simply offer him what he wants more than anything. Offer that to a man, and he'll do whatever you ask. What is it you want more than anything, right now?"

Eames wants his father dead more than anything, but he's not going to say that, or even look like that's what he's thinking. He wants William to be safe. That's all. That's what he wants more than anything. For William to not be hurt just because he happened to fall in with Eames.

"Yes," his father says, smiling. "There we go. How simple that was. You get what you want, and we both benefit. So! I'm glad that's cleared up. We're not wasting any more time, or any more of my money, at university. No, a man like you needs discipline. There's only one place in the world for the kind of rigor that you require."

** ** ** **

"I just wish," Miles says to him, "that there was something I could do, Eames. Anything at all."

Eames wishes there was, too.

 

** ** ** **

 

For Arthur, the military was a choice. Or at least, he joined voluntarily. It was his only option if he wanted to continue college without loans hanging over his head for the rest of his life. His parents weren't crazy about it, but they had no way of helping him.

While it was a choice, that doesn't mean he's in love with it. He'd enjoyed the training. Discipline had come naturally to him; the structure had made him feel in control, and had given him control over himself. He could fuck up, sure, and he had, quite a few times. But those had been bumps on the path. Everyone fucked up. Training had also carved him a body he never thought he'd have. He'd discovered endurance and agility in his bones and sinews. He'd learned to defend himself.

His deployment, and this war, on the other hand, Arthur does not enjoy. This is chaos. As much as he tries to keep structured, nothing can prepare him for every new day in the field.

He's in the middle of his second tour, having already seen more than enough shit for his lifetime, when he meets the man who's going to trigger another cataclysmic change. And it all happens in the space of a few hours.

Arthur is at an internet cafe during his three-day-pass, typing an email to Mal. It's early evening. Over the dim, tinny sound of American radio, he can hear reports of firearms in the distance, an intermittent "POP-POP-POP-POP" that is so much background noise to him these days. The air sticks to him. Even indoors the heat is oppressive, and sweat crawls down the back of his shirt. He feels gritty all over with sand that seems to never wash off.

He's not going to burden Mal with any of that. He's not going to pour everything out to her, about how badly he wants to come home. About how he wanted to learn architecture, but instead he's learning how to watch people die, and in some cases, to kill them himself.

He will tell her that he misses her, and he misses home, and that he'll be on leave soon enough. He writes that he wants to meet this boyfriend of hers that she seems so serious about. Other Marines tell their sisters, 'You tell that boyfriend of yours that your brother is a Marine, and if he ever hurts you...' Arthur says no such thing. People learn early on not to fuck with Mal. Mal fucks back, with a smile.

He hits send, gets up to leave, and walks straight into some stranger, who spills tea all over his clothes.

"I am so sorry," the stranger says. "Terribly sorry, I'm too clumsy." He is extremely British.

"It's all right," Arthur says. "It's not even that hot, don't worry about it. I should have been watching where I was going. First thing they teach you."

"Oh yes, of course," the man says. "You're military, of course you are. And American. Please let me at least buy you a cup of tea."

"It's all right. You don't have to."

"I'd like to."

Arthur looks up (this guy is tall,) and meets a pair of vivid blue eyes. One thing that combat hasn't managed to kill off yet is his attraction to a certain type, and this man is that type. So he smiles and says, "Sure, okay. Why not." He reaches out to shake hands. "Arthur Calloway."

"William Ashford." His grip is strong. His hands are large, long-fingered, and too soft to be anything other than a civilian's. "Pleased to meet you. Lance Corporal, are you?"

"That's right."

"You've been here a while."

"A year."

They go to the counter to place another order. Arthur opts for coffee instead.

"Do you like it?" William asks him. "Being a soldier, I mean."

Arthur's sensors perk up at the leading question. "Is this a test?"

"No, sir, not at all." William smiles. "Just curiosity. It's my nature. I'm a psychologist."

Arthur raises his eyebrows. "Really? Are you helping deployed soldiers cope, or something?"

"Yes. Sometimes."

This whole conversation suddenly puts Arthur on edge, and makes him feel defensive. Which probably shows. Which only makes him feel more defensive. He decides to be straightforward. "Are you analyzing me?"

"Oh, not at all. It's funny how everyone asks that."

They get their tea and coffee and take a seat outside. The air is still muggy, but the temperature has dropped by a few degrees and it's cooler outside than inside now.

"So," Arthur says, eager to move the conversation away from himself, "do you like being here?"

William sips his tea. Even Arthur can see it's a way for him to look away. "No, I really don't."

"Then why stay?"

He shrugs. "I'm looking for someone. A friend."

"Strange place to look."

William puts his tea down. He looks like a man out of options. "Well, I all know is that he's in the military."

Mila-tree, he pronounces it. Arthur's always liked that accent.

"I just can't get a lead on him. He disappeared. We were... I mean, for a while we were together, and then he just disappeared."

"How long ago?" Arthur asks. He already has a pretty good idea of what happened to William's friend. (Or lover, actually, if Arthur's instincts are correct.) And what he's coming up with is not good, but he's not about to tell him that.

"About four years ago. We went to university together and we – well, we were close. Very close." He looks at Arthur then flicks his eyes away.

"I hear you," Arthur says.

"I know he had some family problems, and then one day, he was gone. Just completely gone out of everyone's lives. Our professor said he'd joined the military, and that he was deployed, and that's all he knew."

"So you've been looking for this guy for four years?" Arthur asks. Because, shit, that's a long time to pine for someone, and there go his chances. Not that Arthur has any long term plans, but he's been pretty eager for a quick fling, and he was sure this guy was trying to pick him up. The clumsy British thing, the luke-warm tea, the tentative smile. Yeah, he'd been fairly certain he was going to at least be asked if they could see each other again the next time Arthur had a three-day-pass.

To say that Arthur is maybe a little desperate to have actual sex before he's killed in the line of duty is a fair assessment, and he owns it.

"Well, I'm not constantly searching for him," William says. "Only when I've the time, which is rare, these days. So when I'm not working, I ask around. I just want to know what became of him. Maybe he got scared and left. Or he could have died years ago, for all I know."

Killed, probably, is what Arthur thinks. Or—optimistically--he got bored or scared, and ran off. Either way, nothing good. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not hung up on him," William says. "It's not that, I mean, I have moved on from him. It's just a mystery. I'm curious and I don't like leaving things unsolved."

Arthur smiles and says, "I'm the same way. Like a pit bull."

"Hmm, no," William says. "I think you're more of a German Shepherd. If I had to choose a breed, that's what I'd choose for you."

"Is that your professional assessment?"

"It is. As a psychologist, I can say, with confidence, that you're a German Shepherd. I know we've only just met, but I am extremely good at reading people."

"And what are you picking up now?" Arthur asks.

William actually blushes, which makes Arthur blush, too.

"Err," William says, "I'm staying just up the street from here actually. If you'd like to come and have tea? Or, well, yes, you've already got coffee, that was silly of me. I should have asked..."

"Yes."

 

And yet, it is to Arthur's shock and bewilderment that he actually finishes the evening in a hot British stranger's hotel room, feeling him up. This is not how he imagined his tour. Well actually, it is how he fantasized it, just not how he actually believed it would be. He hasn't had sex since his deployment, and the sex that he'd had before then was limited. He's only twenty-one. It shames him a little bit that he's fought, watched people die, and wounded (and possibly killed) others, but his sex life is still so unsophisticated.

Hell of a life, he thinks, while being kissed up against the door.

He's a little uncomfortable--because intimacy always makes him feel unbalanced and unsure—but excited, too, because he's horny and, well - tall, hot, British guy.

William touches the first button of Arthur's shirt and stops, waiting for permission.

In a show of boldness he doesn't actually feel, Arthur shoves William toward the bed. William laughs and goes along with it.

"We can do whatever you like," William says. He's sprawled on his back, letting Arthur loom over him. "If all you want is to lie around and snog..."

"No," Arthur says, joining him on the bed. "No, I've only got a few days, and there's no way of knowing what will happen after that." He's getting morbid now, so he just stops. "I want do something I've never done before."

Times like this, Arthur pretends to be Mal. He doesn't have her sweetness or warmth, and he can't fake that. But he can fake her confidence, and her willingness to go after what she wants. Mal gets right into things, whether it's her work, or love, or anything she's passionate about. Mal just jumps. Arthur doesn't have that kind of fearlessness (at least when it comes to intimacy,) but he can fake it. He's going to jump, too.

"So then I'll..." William begins. "Or you could..." He flips his hand back and forth. Or you could top, Arthur reads from his vague gesture.

"No. I want you to."

William leans up on one elbow, smiling. Arthur tries to project confidence as he smiles back. It's not that he's ashamed, it's just that this is how he always feels when he lets someone get close to him. Like he's outside of himself, watching.

"I'm honored," William says, and Arthur snorts a laugh in response. "No, don't scoff, I really am. My first time doing it that way was lovely. I think yours should be, too."

"I'm a Marine," Arthur says. "I've been trained to withstand torture, so it's not like it's going to be traumatic."

"The last thing in the world you should be thinking about is torture."

At that, Arthur laughs – a little genuine, and a little bitter, too. He really shouldn't be thinking about that right now, even if it is his reality. This is exactly what he needs to purge that darkness, or he'll go crazy. A little happiness, a little fun, a little sex. Just for one night.

"I'll make it good," William says.

And he does. It's neither as fantastic nor as awful as Arthur had been imagining. It's awkward and he's sweating and nervous through the whole thing, but it is good. William is kind without being condescending. He makes it obvious that he's enjoying himself—enjoying Arthur--instead of just getting it over with. It's nice, is what it is. Lighthearted. A good memory in the making.

It was, he thinks when it's over, exactly what it should be.

And then it gets uncomfortable. Lying around feeling sticky and sore, Arthur can't think of anything to say that won't sound contrived.

"Can I borrow your shower?" is what he finally comes up with.

William tells him "Yes, of course."

His mind is blank as he stands under the hot water. Not unpleasant, just buzzing with blankness. It's soothing, in a way. He's glad for this. He likes having done it.

Once Arthur is done, William goes in after him. It's not long before they're both dressed again, standing in the hotel room, not sure of where to look or what to say. Arthur's watch tells him it's 2353. Not even midnight, and he feels pretty accomplished.

"Erm," William says, "is it impractical for you to stay the night?"

"It... yeah, I'm sorry, it is. I didn't even think about that. I'm sorry, it's not that I don't want to, I'm not like that, but I have all my stuff at my..."

"No, that's all right," William says, "I understand. I should have thought of it, too. I could walk with you back to the cafe. If you don't mind."

"I'd like that."

During their walk back, Arthur feels fatigue settle into every cell of his body. Just a sudden, utter and devastating tiredness as it all catches up to him. The war. The weekend off. Longing for home. The heat. The suddenness of the fling he just had, and the knowledge, down to his bones, that once his three days are up, he's going back out there and he's not going to feel any different, in spite of what he's done. So he got laid, big deal. Everyone gets laid during their 72 hours. In two days, people are still going to be trying to blow him up.

William must sense this, because he links his arm through Arthur's. It's okay because there's no one else on the street.

"Our having this... this affair," William says suddenly, "doesn't preclude you from talking to me as a soldier."

Arthur laughs tiredly. "It kind of does. I'd rather, I don't know, keep this separate from that. You know?"

"That is also perfectly all right."

They walk the rest of the way in silence that is no longer uncomfortable. When they get back to the internet cafe, it looks so bright to Arthur, it makes the rest of the night seem like it never happened. Like a different world. There are civilians and other soldiers hanging around the cafe, indoors and out. A decent crowd for this time of night, and every internet station occupied. The radio is still playing, audible in the outdoor seating area.

"This one is for all the brave young men and women out there serving your countries and fighting for freedom," the DJ says.

The only freedom Arthur feels is at stake is his own. And actually, no one threatened his freedom until he came here. He was just fine, at home.

He doesn't know why he's so morbid tonight.

Something is out of place.

"Your Shangri-La beneath the summer moon," the DJ says. "May you all return again." The heavy guitar of Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir" begins to play.

"Well," William says, "and here we are."

"Yeah."

There's something about this place that seems wrong, but Arthur can't quite put his finger on it. He focuses, starts to actively look for something, like figures lurking around, people staring too long, shadows out of the corner of his eye. Some people (and probably William) would call this hyper-vigilance, but to Arthur, it's just survival.

"I'd like to see you when you're free again," William says, "if that's possible."

"I'd like that," Arthur answers, distracted.

"Have I kept you too long? You're exhausted. I'm sorry."

"No, not at all, it's not that. I really would like to see you again."

"Whenever you're free. I know your schedule is unpredictable. Can I give you my number?"

"Huh? Sure."

"Arthur?" William has to lean down an inch to signal for eye contact. "Everything all right?"

Arthur asks, "Does anything look weird to you here?"

All I see turns to brown, as the sun burns the ground ...

William looks around, alarmed. "No? But you'd know better than I."

Everyone inside the cafe seems to be minding his or her business. No shadows, no lurkers, not even really any concealed corners or dark windows for someone to shoot from, but Arthur can's shake the feeling that he's seeing something he didn't see before. There's a humvee, and a few cars parked outside the cafe. He'd seen the humvee earlier. One of the cars has British plates.

William didn't drive here. We walked. He probably doesn't even have a car here.

Arthur doesn't know why that's so damn out of place, but he finds himself taking William's arm and saying, "Let's go, let's go, now, come on, move." And he knows it makes him sound like he has PTSD and maybe he does, but William goes along with him.

When Arthur turns back to look over his shoulder, he finally sees someone—a hooded figure—running in the opposite direction.

Instinct kicks in. He shoves William, yelling "DOWN!" and trying to shield him, but he's not fast enough. A blast of heat knocks him onto his face. The roar is deafening. His ears are still ringing when another blast goes off a few seconds later.

Disoriented, and with sand and smoke in his eyes, Arthur scrambles to his knees, but feels a strange dragging sensation in his right leg. Sounds fade in and out. There's heat, and a strange pain somewhere, but it's background pain that he'll deal with later. Panic drives him. Get out alive, get out alive, get out alive. The danger is nowhere near over yet.

When he can see a little, he looks back again. The British car is a metal shell, torn to shreds and billowing fire and smoke. The entire front of the cafe is gone. Some people are still alive. Their screams sound dull and too far away. But most of them must be dead, because there are a lot of unmoving bodies on the ground, and some still burning.

He finds William on the ground a few yards in front of him, face down. Arthur crawls to him, dragging his right leg, and manages to hook an arm underneath him. William doesn't feel right. Arthur's hand comes in contact with something that doesn't feel like a part of the human body, but he holds William against his chest and, still crawling, drags him along in the sand. He's not moving fast enough. Finally, he manages to get his legs under him. The right one feels cold, or hot, or wet – he can't tell. But it works well enough so that he's able to half drag, half carry William around the corner where there will be shelter should there be any more blasts.

His vision is blurry, but he can see enough to assess the situation when he turns William onto his back. He's not dead (yet), but there's blood on his face and a shaft of metal coming out of him. He doesn't know what the fuck it is, a piece of the car, most likely, but it looks so fundamentally wrong coming out of a human body, he can't look at it. And he knows better than to pull it out.

All Arthur can think, and say, is, "No, no, oh fuck, no."

William's lips move and he coughs, spraying blood onto Arthur's face. His voice doesn't work, but it's easy enough to read his lips: Help me. Help me. William raises his hand to clutch at Arthur's shirt (which is covered in blood too; how did that happen?) and, briefly, his blue eyes find Arthur's.

"It's okay," Arthur croaks out to him. "You're all right, you're going to be fine, just hang on."

Arthur. William's mouth forms his name like he's just remembered who he's with. Help me.

Then his hand goes slack, and his eyes stare at nothing.

** ** ** **

Chapter Text

The first thing Eames thinks when he sees a picture of the mark is, Christ, I know him. It's just one of those flashes, a seizing moment of familiarity down his spine. It's gone in under a second. Of course he doesn't know him. Eames has perfect face/name recall, and there's no way he could know him.

The second thing he thinks is, We're going after children now? This thought is the one that sticks. He looks over the file, seeking out the mark's DOB. Turns out he's twenty-two. Not a child at all, though he could pass for an adolescent.

"Arthur Calloway," says Eames's superior, Julian Prescott. He points his laser to the screen, indicating the image of the boy as if the rest of them can't see where it is.

Prescott is a man about Eames's father's age, and, in his estimation, his father's temperament, too. Prescott called his team to an emergency meeting with orders "directly from Thames House." This Calloway—this boy barely out of his teens—is apparently a national threat. Eames feels ridiculous just looking at his photograph. He has dark hair, long enough to curl over his ears, dark, bespectacled eyes, and a child-like mouth.

Eames's partner, Christopher Clement, throws his pen down onto the long table in exasperation.

Prescott sees this. "Don't be fooled," he says. "He's older, tougher, and smarter than he looks. Arthur Calloway is an American Marine who was honorably discharged last year after being wounded in a car bombing. He was treated for third-degree burns, and later, treated for PTSD. After making little to no progress, Calloway's therapists turned him over for a more experimental treatment."

Experimental treatment, Eames muses. That means dream therapy.

"That was last February. After that, Arthur Calloway disappeared. So did the PASIV they were using."

"So," Clement asks, "we're assembling our team to hunt down a twenty-two year old wounded war veteran with PTSD, for a PASIV? Christ, let him have it. He'll self destruct in a few months and they'll get it back. This is America's problem."

Prescott turns his mild eyes onto Clement. Eames nudges Clement under the table with his foot. He knows well enough what that mild look means, and Chris is always too open with his reactions. He's a good agent, a good point, and one of the best dreamers they've got. But topside, he has a way of showing his hand. It's why Eames usually deals with the aspects of their job that require face time with marks. That, and the fact that Eames can be whoever he wants in the dream, so he won't be recognized when he goes under.

"We are not looking for Arthur Calloway," Prescott says. "American forces have already detained him for enhanced interrogation."

Eames runs down the list of America's sanctioned interrogation techniques. Loud sounds, light control, isolation, sleep deprivation, stress positions. He looks back to the picture of the mark.

"This method failed, which is why he's being turned over to us. We are, however, looking for Calloway's associates. Turn to the next page in your folders."

He clicks a button and the screen shows a different young man. This one with sandy blond hair, blue eyes, and movie-star good looks.

"Dominick Cobb."

He clicks to the next picture. Eames doesn't even need to hear the name, because this face, he definitely knows.

"And Mallorie Miles."

His heart drops. She's a little older, a little harder, but still Miles's daughter.

"Dominick Cobb and Mallorie Miles were treating Arthur Calloway for PTSD. In fact, Ms. Miles was the one who got him pulled into the program. It turns out that she's his cousin by marriage. We're not certain what made them go underground. Miles and Cobb made it out of the country. Calloway was detained shortly after that, after having visited his family in New York.

"America is transporting him here, to us, to extract the location of Cobb and Miles. That's where you come in."

He looks at Eames and Chris.

"That's all we have to do to him?" Chris asks. "Just extract?" Chris has never had the stomach for the harder stuff.

Neither has Eames, but he's had to hurt people in order to protect others. William, for one. His partner. Professor Miles, Sylvie, and Mallorie, also. This conflict of interest tumbles around in his head, unsure of where to fit. He knows better than to speak it. His father has held these threats over his head for years. It kept Eames determined when he was deployed and facing his own hardships. Do this mission, or others will die. It's why he has no one but Christopher Clement by his side, ever. It's why he doesn't let anyone in. Because getting close to Eames means getting onto his father's radar.

"Eames, you're going to be forging Mallorie Miles. That should be easy for you, since our intel says you've met her."

This shouldn't shock him, but it does. "I haven't seen her in years. She could be vastly different. Probably is."

"That won't matter," Prescott says. "We'll just take him back a few years in the dream. This should be a quick, in and out job."

And what happens when we get the information? Eames thinks anyone else would ask. But it's not necessary, because this is pretty straightforward. Mallorie and Cobb get detained. Probably sent back to America for more interrogation. Arthur Calloway, though young, is a Marine. He had been trained to withstand those techniques, possibly even by some of the people who ended up using them on him. Mallorie is a scientist. Cobb, he knows very little about.

And then, Arthur Calloway probably gets terminated. Or recruited back into the fold. Either option is fairly grim.

Later, when they're alone, Chris says to Eames, "How about that, eh? This kid serves under the constant threat of death or capture, then comes home and gets 'interrogated.'"

Eames can hear the air quotes around the word. "Happens to the best of us," he says. He served his country against his will, and was treated the same way and was treated the same way before being recruited into black ops. Still has the scars, and nerve damage in one finger to show for it.

"I take it you don't approve?" Chris says.

"I don't have to approve of my job to do it."

But he's already thinking of a plan. He doesn't know what the plan is yet, but when he gets to it, it's going to be brilliant.

** ** ** **

Eames is dying. He can't breathe. His partner is beside him, also struggling for breath. At least Eames won't die alone.

He has literally never laughed so hard in his life. Maybe as a toddler when his Mum tickled him or something, but certainly not since then.

Clement straightens up, wipes his streaming eyes, and then breaks down into laughter again. He's slapping his knees helplessly and pointing to the CCTV screen.

"Rewind," Clement manages to say. "Christ, rewind, I need to see it again."

Eames hits the button. Even backwards and at high speed it's funny, but nothing beats seeing it the way it happened.

On the screen, Prescott is sitting at the small desk in the interrogation room. Across from him is the mark—Arthur--with his wrists bound by handcuffs. He looks small in the white scrubs he's been given, especially in comparison to Prescott, who is over six feet, and broad as a barn. Dark smudges surround his eyes as he stares down at the desk, uncommunicative. He looks more like a surly teenager trying to ignore his dad, than a war vet under interrogation.

Prescott stands up and looms over Arthur, with his fists planted on the table, and says, "Look, son, we're going to get the information from you. So instead of putting yourself through anything more, why don't we do it the easy way?"

And then Arthur, still sitting down and still in handcuffs, punches Prescott right on the nose and says, "Fuck off."

Eames and Clement break down into hysterics again.

"He didn't even get up," Clement says. "Just, POW! Like nothing!"

On the screen, Prescott staggers backwards. Then (Eames's favorite part,) he puts his hand on his nose like he just can't believe that happened. It comes away bloody and he stares at it like a dolt for a second.

"He's like, 'Holy shite, is that blood?'" Eames says. "'What just happened?' Oh, man. Respect."

Prescott just looks at Arthur. This part, Eames doesn't like, because Prescott no longer looks angry. He just looks blank. And then he leaves the room. Arthur looks up to the camera and stares. Even though this happened at least ten minutes ago, (and Arthur can't see who's watching, of course,) Eames still feels like Arthur is looking right at him.

"Well done, mate," Clement says to the screen, giving it a slow clap. "Wanted to do that myself for years."

Eames has, too. One thing he's really trying not to consider is what that shot is going to cost Arthur in the future. He hopes it was worth it.

When Prescott comes to get them later, he's sporting two bruises, one from the corner of each eye. Clement has a hard time containing his smirk when he first sees him. Eames isn't laughing anymore, because Prescott looks completely unfazed. It's his tell for when he's beyond angry.

"You got your level worked out?" Prescott asks Clement.

"Err, yes. All I had was photographs of the warehouse they were using, so that's what I have to work with. It's not going to be perfect."

"We don't have time for perfect," Prescott says. "The mark is too unpredictable."

Eames wants to beg to differ. If you put a certain type of person into a situation where he knows he's going to be pushed around, eventually that person is going to lash out. The surprising part is that the kid did it to Prescott. Eames has definitely entertained fantasies of doing that exact same thing, but he's not at a point in his life where he has nothing to lose. Arthur apparently is. 'Tempt not a desperate man,' said the Bard. If Prescott can't see that, he's blind and stupid. Eames sees it clear as day.

"And you," Prescott says, turning to Eames. "Ready to go under? Got your role worked out?"

"Yes, sir." He's not ready, and his forge isn't going to be the best, but then again, he's not going to follow the plan anyway. He doesn't know how he's going to deviate from it, only that he's going to.

"I'm going under with you," Prescott announces, in a moment of intuition.

"I don't know, sir," Clement says. "If his subconscious recognizes you, he'll go into lockdown."

"Dream persuasion is much more effective and elegant than physical," Prescott says. "Whatever needs to be done to him can be done over and over, wearing the subject down without rendering him unable to speak."

"I really don't think that's the way to go with this mark," Eames says. "He's not going to buckle under pressure. But he might give his secrets up if he feels safe."

Prescott considers this for a moment. Then he says, "Your way first. If you come up with nothing, then my way."

It's going to have to do for now.

Prescott leads them to the dreamwork room. Inside, one agent, Jenkens is his name, stands guard with a gun, while another, Agent Finch, unravels a line from the PASIV. When he moves aside, Eames sees their mark on the bed, already under.

Again, he's hit with an alien feeling of deja vu, or nostalgia. A bit stronger this time, and so unnerving that he struggles to remember where he could have run into this kid before. He still can't come up with anything.

Arthur is strapped to the bed, as per procedure. He looks angry in his sleep, as if he's already fighting. He's still in white scrubs, but where the short sleeve cuts off on the right, Eames can see the pink, raw edges of burn scars. And a little on his hip, where the trousers have ridden down a few inches.

"Jenkens is on point," Prescott says, "Clement is our architect, Finch is the extractor. You," he says, pointing to Eames, "forge Mallorie Miles to distract him. And see if he leads you anywhere, or leaks any intel, just in case Finch can't get past his defenses."

Eames nods and unspools his own PASIV line. He takes a bed next to Arthur. Clement takes the one on Arthur's other side.

Prescott pushes the button.

Eames opens his eyes to a cityscape that looks a little bit like Portland. Clement stands beside him and Finch is nowhere in sight.

"Fuck," Clement whispers, looking frustrated. "He's not letting me build. He's already got it set up."

Eames shrugs. "I don't know what anyone else expected. He knows how to dream."

"I just didn't think..."

"He'd be better than you?" Eames asks. He smiles a little to take the edge off.

"I can already tell it's a maze," Clement says. "And I can't change it without alerting him."

"So don't change it, right? We'll split up. Looks like Finch is already out there. Keep it simple, don't try to change anything, and look around."

"And you?"

"I'll do what I do," Eames says.

Clement starts to leave, but then turns back. "Hey. Is there something going on that I don't know about?"

Eames doesn't know why this makes him feel caught out. "Not as far as I know. If there was, I'd tell you."

"It's going to get violent in here, isn't it?"

Eames, who can remember what his projections were like shortly after combat, just nods.

"Good luck," Clement says. He turns the corner and disappears down one of the many streets.

Eames turns to one of the buildings, where he can see his reflection in the dark window. There are no projections lurking around here, so he changes quickly.

His Mal is not perfect. He hasn't seen her in years. But he remembers how she occupied a room, and that's what he focuses on. The little details of her, like an errant curl of hair that she'd tuck behind her ear, or a slow blink when something didn't go her way. It's the subtle things that people really look for.

Eames straightens out Mal's skirt in the window, and sets out into the maze in search of Arthur.

He doesn't know why Portland. None of the intel on Arthur Calloway mentioned him ever visiting there. But he makes his way through it, walking like Mal used to walk, crisp and businesslike, never seeming to hurry even when she was. Soon the Portland-ish area gives way to a more rural scene. In the distance, he sees a row of trees, in all the reds and golds of Autumn. There's an aura of sadness and beauty about this part of the dream, and yet it's so distant he can make out nothing but the colors of the trees. He knows it means something. But it's not what he's here for.

A train whistle blows in the distance – a lonesome sound. He trudges through snow for a while, until it melts away to reveal a dilapidated Victorian house. It shivers him all over, the way the house (really Arthur's mind,) seems to be watching him. Then he's walking through a place that looks like upscale New York – it makes sense that Arthur would have seen places like this. He skims through a spooky, dead-end town by the railroad tracks. Then, strangely, England. Oxford town, it looks like. Arthur has never been there either, as far as his intel goes.

He doesn't know why he's here. He comes to the realization that he's lost somewhere among Arthur's most indistinct images, more hazy, long-forgotten emotion than anything else. They're only one level down, but he's managed to end up somewhere deep in the mark's unconscious memories.

And then it's gone. All of it, just blitzed out of existence, like it never happened. It leaves Eames disoriented and in the dark. He takes a few deep breaths and waits it out.

Soon, the silence is replaced by a distant thunder.

The thunder turns to a constant pounding. He follows it until he can see flashing lights. The pounding sound grows louder, until he finally understands what it is: some kind of drumbeat. And the flashing lights – he's seen these before. It's a strobe used in interrogation techniques.

Not surprising. If he has, somehow, marched unmolested through Arthur's defenses, he's probably ended up in the very dark part of his mind where he stores all the ways he was tormented.

The song builds into something recognizes. Kashmir, by Led Zeppelin. Not a usual choice for interrogation techniques.

The flashes of light finally illuminate a tiny cell, with a person huddled into the corner, hands pressed over his ears.

In Mal's voice, Eames says, "Arthur?"

 

** ** ** **

Chapter Text

Arthur looks up to see Mal. She' blurry around the edges. That makes sense, because this flashing light, along with the lack of sleep, is really fucking with his eyes. There's something else off about her, though. Mal doesn't belong here in the cell with him. She's out of place. He knows he did this part alone.

That's because you're dreaming, fuckwit, his brain supplies in a disappointed voice. He should be used to this by now. He and Mal have done this exercise before, in order to get him to stop reliving the night of the explosion as if he could change it. It happened, it's over, and it only exists in dreams now. Except, of course, they took his stupid totem.

So she's a projection, then. A projection of Mal is better than none at all.

"They went into my head," Arthur tells her, "before they put me into this cell, to see what they could use to make me talk. That's why they picked this song." He hasn't told her this yet. "They went into my head, found something that – I was over there for them, doing what I thought I was supposed to be doing, and they found that and used it against me."

To find you and Dom, he thinks. And then, Why haven't I told Mal this yet?

It strikes him, then, why he hasn't told her. Because he hasn't seen her. Because this—the cell, the interrogation—came after Dom and Mal left. They left, Arthur took too long to catch up, and that's when they got him.

She smiles. "I can still help you."

"They're trying to extract from me right now. I promise you, it's not gonna happen. They're getting slaughtered out there, Mal. You know what it's like in my head. No one gets through."

"I know," she says. "I trust you."

She looks younger than his projection of Mal, more like she did a few years ago. Before he enlisted. Before all of this. He figures maybe he made her this way because it feels safer.

She says, "Tell me about the song."

"You already know what happened that night," Arthur says. "It's what we were working on before we got..." He doesn't dare spill an iota of information even to his own projection, just in case anyone else is lurking and listening. Arthur's always been good about censoring his own thoughts.

The walls of the cell fade, which helps. He feels more in control outside of it. There's no reason to keep going back there. That's what Mal told him about the night of the explosion: Close the door, lock it, but don't bury it. You don't want it to rot under there.

"Topside, I'm somewhere in England right now," Arthur says. "I remember being taken here. They put me into a room. Prescott – the man's name is Prescott. They want to know where Mal and Dom are. I didn't see who else was coming into the dream."

"Do you know why they're coming after us?" Mal asks. "What it is they want? Why Prescott wants to find us?"

"I know, but I'm not going to say it." He locks that thought down, even from himself. "I'm in control. I'm in control of the dream."

He says it, repeats it in his mind like a mantra just as Mal taught him, but he doesn't feel like it. People are fucking around out there, digging through his thoughts and destabilizing the maze. He can feel them leaving as they die and wake up, and then he can feel them coming back in. It was Dom who taught him to tune into that feeling.

He feels hot. The scene around him starts to shift.

"It makes me so fucking angry that they used that song to try to get me to break. That they looked around in my fucking head until they found what happened that night and then used it."

Mal says, "I'm not going to make you go back to that night, I'm not here for that." She sounds sad, and a little strange.

He wants to ask, 'Why are you here?' but he doesn't get to. He's going back anyway, because he can't help it when he's out of control like this. The heat crawls up his right side, bearing down on him, and then he's looking at William's eyes again.

Mal says, "Jesus Christ, you're on fire," but he ignores her, because he's on his knees holding onto William now, watching him die, watching him try to say Arthur, help me, and, just like every single time, he can't.

He hears some kind of sound, a surprised, choked off cry. When he turns around, Mal is no longer standing behind him. In her place stands an unfamiliar man. His eyes look wide and shocked. His hands are curled into fists as he watches the scene.

Arthur snaps out of the memory. He rises, drawing his gun. "Who are you?" he asks, but he already knows the answer. It's one of the people trying to extract from him and he was this close. Anger burns through him.

He's got his finger on the trigger when the man, still staring at the body on the ground, says, "William."

Arthur waits. This could be part of a greater plan, sure. They'd extracted William's name from him, before he'd fortified his defenses. But it's worth it to let this play out and see what their angle is this time.

The part that really fucks with him right now is, that was Mal standing there a second ago. Or at least, his projection of her. This guy came out of nowhere, just totally snuck up on him. They might have gotten past some of his defenses, but no one's been able to sneak up on him like that until now.

The man shoves past him and goes to his knees next to Arthur's projection of William, who lays dying in the alley. Arthur watches as he gently wipes the blood from William's face and smooths his blond curls. It's possible that he's crying. It actually looks sincere. It looks like a private moment, but fuck them all. Arthur has no private moments left, so no one else should have any, either.

Then, the man stands, and turns back to Arthur. His face is tear-streaked as he says, "Don't shoot. I need some information from you, but it's going to help us both."

Realization dawns on him, although he's not sure he trusts it yet.

"You're him, aren't you?" he asks. "Are you the guy William was looking for?"

"He was looking for me?" For a second, it looks like he's going to lose his composure. Then he runs his knuckles under his eyes and laughs, a harsh, bitter sound. "Of course William was looking for me. Yes. Of course he would. And yeah, I'm the one he was looking for."

"You realize," Arthur says, "that this sounds like the same bullshit I've been hearing the whole time."

"Then let me offer you some proof. I don't know how close you were, or what he told you, but... We were at university together. Professor Miles, Sylvie, and Mal, I knew Mal. My father... I had to join the service. I never told William why. I didn't say goodbye to him."

"You could have gotten that information from me."

He looks almost desperate. "Eames, my name is... Actually my name is William Manwaring, but he would have called me Eames."

"He never mentioned your name," Arthur says. Then adds, "Sorry," because he actually is, a little.

"Right. Look, we don't have much time. I knew William, all right? I knew Mal. I don't know what they want with her, but I don't want her to be harmed either, so I'm going to help you. I have no other way of proving this to you, but I need something from you first. We don't have much time."

Arthur considers this—the more he gets these people talking, the better--but doesn't holster his weapon. "I have all the time in the world. What do you need?"

"There's something in your memory here, a blur. I can see it out of the corner of your eye. You saw the person who killed William."

"It was a car bomb," Arthur says. "It was just one of those things."

"It wasn't. Arthur, I need this before they pull us all out and start over. Prescott is going to do it his way if we don't come up soon, and I know you know what that means. I'm asking you. I'm not telling you, I'm asking you to trust me, and then I will help you. I'll get you out of here."

"You think they're going to just let you do that?"

"No," Eames says. In his voice is a note of complete understanding. He knows what he's up against. He knows what he's about to do.

"Why?" Arthur asks. "Why, out of everyone, are you the one guy that's going to help me?"

"Because," Eames says, casting a glance to the projection of William, dead on the ground, "I don't have anything left to lose."

"Your life, stupid," Arthur says. "And, hello, mine."

"That's not going to happen." He sounds certain in a way that Arthur's heard soldiers be certain before a mission. He's trained to trust that voice. Still, these people are tricky.

"Before I do this," Eames says, "I need to see something. Are you going to help me, or not?"

If this guy is for real, there actually isn't a lot of time to think this over. He nods, but doesn't let go of the gun. The most he could do is shoot Eames out of the dream, in which case, he'd just come back in. But still, holding onto it comforts him.

"Then stop the scene in your mind and let me look. I need to know what you saw that night. I know it was something. If you could just freeze it, and let me look around."

There's nothing left in this scene that anyone could possibly use against him. It's wrung out. They already got all the juicy bits. They even know that he got laid that night. Hell, they know the details of precisely how he got laid. They know he was emailing Mal before he met William, and they got her old email address, too, not that it did them any good. There's really nothing left that would be of any use to them.

And there's something about this guy, too. He's either a very believable conman, or he's telling the truth. Arthur is tired. He wants to find out.

"Do it," he says.

The relief on Eames's face is evident. "Thank you."

Opening his mind totally right now would let everyone in. So instead he just stares at a small burst of flames at his feet. What else happened that night? His arm and hip were on fire. His knee was sprained from twisting when he threw William to the ground. Before that: the music. The DJ. 'Your Shangri-La beneath the summer moon, may you all return again.' And that feeling he'd had that something was about to happen. Something wasn't right. He had looked around for it. The cafe. The patrons. The Humvee. The car that eventually took out one third of the cafe.

"Stop," Eames says. "That's it, right there."

Arthur looks up to see the car, the one with British plates. And right before it went, the figure sneaking away.

"The plate number," Eames says. "That's all I needed. Right, well done, now let it go. Let's get out of here."

Arthur shakes it off, like he's been doing since that night. The flames, the heat, William's body, they all fade away, for the moment.

"What's your plan?" Arthur asks.

"Haven't got one as yet. At least not aside from a well-placed arm to the knee of the man standing guard, and then a lot of ducking and running."

"Not gonna happen," Arthur says. "They have me drugged; I won't be able to run. Even without the sedation I probably couldn't go very fast." Being forced to stand for twenty hours will do that to you. He also hasn't eaten in three days, and all of his sleep has been under Somnacin. He's having a hard time deciphering what's real and what isn't. But he doesn't say any of this. He thinks at first it's because he's through with giving them the satisfaction. But it's not exactly that, this time. It's almost like--he stops to consider it--he doesn't want to complain to this guy.

"Right," Eames says. He gives another ironic little laugh. His teeth are crooked, Arthur notices, and, briefly—madly--wonders what it was like between Eames and William. "That's true, yeah. Then I'll have to be a bit craftier. We're going to wake everyone up, including you. But when they press the button, pretend you're back under. Got it?"

Arthur's game for just about anything right now, if it will get him out of here. Hell, maybe even if it doesn't. He's tired. "Sure. And then?"

"And then assess the situation from there. And let me do the talking."

Arthur doesn't like the sound of that at all, but he sees no other option.

"And Arthur, please. Trust me. It's probably going to look like I'm setting you up to let Prescott in. I'm not. I will get you out of here."

"Oorah," Arthur says, with a shrug.

** ** ** **

Eames shoots himself out of Arthur's dream, and comes back to the smell of vomit and sweat. The room is a flurry of activity. He looks across the line of beds to see Finch wiping his mouth as he shakily lays back down. Next to him, Clement looks pale and exhausted. Everyone's covered in sweat, like they just ran a marathon.

Everyone except Jenkens, still on point, who looks collected and impassive. He's Eames's biggest obstacle right now, but it's not time for that yet. He'll consider him when the time comes. Probably in a minute or so.

Eames looks at Arthur, who is still strapped down, but with his eyes open. He looks confused, overheated. But strangely, more composed than the other two.

Prescott looks over the group, and finally to Eames. He knows he can't possibly look as bad as the other two, but his forge could at least account for that. It makes sense that he could have gotten off easier, and not been torn up by projections.

"What happened down there?" Prescott asks.

"Just... slaughter," Finch says. "Just chaos and slaughter. We couldn't get through."

Prescott's eyes light on Arthur. He blinks serenely, considering.

Eames speaks up. "You were right," he tells Prescott.

Prescott turns his eyes to him. He wouldn't expect Eames to give anything away right now, not with the mark awake and listening. He would expect Eames to be exactly as he is: terse, tight-lipped and professional.

"We'll do it your way," Eames says.

Prescott nods, satisfied, and unspools a line for himself. If he's got anything specific planned (and he does, of course he does,) he's not spilling any of it. Why would he? Eames and the others are supposed to be decoys, to take the brunt of Arthur's projections while Prescott gets by on brute force. Eames is willing to bet that no matter how fucked up Arthur's mind is, Prescott's is worse.

Which makes him wonder, just for a second, why Arthur's projections actually didn't hunt him down. Maybe it really was because he was wearing Mal, and Arthur's subconscious couldn't be bothered with him, when all the other strangers were so obviously trying to get through. That's probably it.

Prescott's not looking at him, so he glances toward Arthur again. He's not surprised to see him looking back, bleary, but present.

Eames rolls onto his side, blocking Jenkens's view of his hands. On the pretense of giving his own PASIV line more slack, he snags Arthur's line, and crimps both of them between his fingers, blocking the flow of the compound. Then he hides his hand, still holding the lines, under his hip. Arthur's lips twitch a little when he sees it.

Jenkens comes around and presses the button.

The rest happens fast.

The others drop off. Before Jenkens can straighten up, Eames springs up, elbows him in the sternum so he's doubled up, and covers his mouth so he doesn't cry out. This is all on CCTV, so if anyone out there is watching, they're bound to see it. He's got seconds.

He puts his own IV into Jenkens and un-crimps it, then with his free hand, unhooks Arthur from the machine. There's a set of compounds on the table that holds the PASIV. One of them is the sedative they used on Arthur. Eames snatches it up and feeds it into the PASIV, to buy a few more minutes.

He stops to take one last glance at Clement. He could wake him, almost wants to, because this is goodbye. But that would put Clement in the position of having to either betray him, or side with him, and he can't do it. A parting glance will have to do.

"Can you walk?" he asks Arthur as he unbuckles his straps.

"Try to," Arthur croaks out.

"Carry a gun?"

"Yes."

Eames helps him up with a hand under his back. Arthur's body feels thin, small, and too hot. He visibly sets his jaw and holds back a sound of pain. Eames doesn't know if it's from the stress they put on his bones and muscles, or if he's been beaten. No time to find out.

He takes Jenkens's gun, shoves it into Arthur's hand, and gets an arm around his waist. He's probably going to have to drag him.

He gets through the door and down the first hall without any interference.

Once someone sees the CCTV, they're going to know he's on the run, and they'll block his security pass card. Which is fine. Eames has been preparing for this day since the beginning. He made copies of his card, using the bar codes of other agents with his photo, and he's always carried them. He keeps a car, registered to an alias, in a car park five miles from here.

He knew he'd run someday.

He just never thought he'd have to run with someone else, and someone who could barely walk, at that. This was always supposed to be an escape, not a rescue.

You could have left without him, his mind hints.

No. He has information on who killed William. I need him. Yes.

Well, Eames is adaptable. Arthur becomes a non-entity, just something he has to pull along beside him, until Eames has to deal with him again. Although, at least Arthur is trying. He gets his legs under him and manages to get one in front of the other, just not as fast as Eames would like. And he does keep his grip on the gun.

Eames turns the corner hard, almost at a run, and gets them down another corridor. But now he can hear people coming his way, their footfalls and voices echoing down the tiled halls. They sound conversational, their steps unhurried.

"Hang on," he tells Arthur, "and hide the gun."

Arthur stuffs the gun into the waistband of the white scrubs they've stuck him in. Eames picks him up entirely. Arthur reacts with shock, immediately trying to get away.

"Stop it," Eames orders, and Arthur goes still. "Go with whatever I say."

Eames takes off at a run with Arthur in his arms, and purposely runs headlong into a group of agents coming down the next hall.

"Emergency," he says, shoving them with his shoulders. "Prescott's guest from America, we're losing him."

"Holy shit, do you need help?" one of them asks.

"Get the neurologists into sick bay!" he calls over his shoulder as he keeps running. "Tell them to set up!"

He's going in the opposite direction, and maybe a few of them notice, but he keeps running.

When they get to the stairs, Arthur says, "I can do it."

Without asking if he's sure, Eames sets him back down. Surprisingly, Arthur actually can do it. Not as quickly as Eames would like, but they still make it down three flights without incident.

They come to the door to the underground car park. Eames digs his forged keycard out of his pocket and uses it to open the door. Arthur's panting and struggling to keep moving by the time they get to Eames's car. He never parks too far away from the door, because driving is faster than running.

But he still has to get past the guard at the exit, and if the alarm isn't raised yet, he doesn't want to raise it now. He can't be seen taking Arthur out of here.

Bugger.

He turns Arthur to face him. He looks like death under the harsh fluorescent lights. Eames says, "We've only got seconds, so listen. You've got to get into the boot."

Arthur stares blankly at him.

"The trunk. It's the only way you won't be seen."

His eyes widen and he draws back.

"I promise, it will only be for a few miles, I've got another car parked not far from here. I'll ditch this one and get us to safety. You've got to do it."

Eames watches him set his mind to it. Arthur nods once, firm. Brave, yes, but Eames will admire his courage later, if they manage to pull this off.

He opens the boot and lifts Arthur into it, without waiting for him to struggle to do it himself.

"Just close your eyes and breathe, remember it's me behind the wheel and we're almost to safety. Don't make a sound."

Arthur curls up tight, with his knees to his chest, sucks in a breath, and shuts his eyes tight. Eames closes the boot and gets behind the wheel.

He drives to the security station, swipes his card for clearance, and nods at the guard in the booth.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Manwaring," the guard says. "Enjoy the rest of your day."

"You too, thanks," Eames says.

As he leaves the car park, the alarms blare to life. The red lights on the gate behind him start flashing. The guard looks out of his window, startled and confused as Eames drives away.

He pulls the car out into a stormy afternoon. Rain lashes his windshield and he thinks, 'I'm out. That's it, I'm done forever. Goodbye.' He feels relief and terror in equal measure.

He's bound to be followed, and he wouldn't be surprised if there's a tracker somewhere on his car that he's never known about. Yet it's with perfect calm that he tears through the streets for about five miles, give or take, as he goes the most indirect route he knows. He turns down an alley, stops the car, and runs around to get Arthur. The rain soaks through his clothes before he even gets there.

Unhelpfully, Arthur's first reaction upon being released is to shout "FUCK!" and take a swing at Eames. His half-closed fist skims Eames's cheekbone with no strength behind it. He looks like he's about to keep fighting, so Eames gives him a good shake and says, "Get your shit together," right into his face.

Arthur does.

They keep moving. They're at the mouth of the alley when Eames's car blows up.

He's not sure who's more shocked, him or Arthur. Because holy mother of shit, that's been planted in his car since he got it from them. Probably all of the cars have them, and this is the price for betrayal.

No, Arthur is definitely more shocked than he is, because he takes Eames down to the ground and jumps on top of him, wrapping both arms around Eames's head protectively.

Which is very kind, and also very insane of him, but Eames does not have time for any of that. He rolls out from under Arthur, drags him to his feet, and keeps pulling him along. He doesn't stop to assess the situation or even to see if Arthur is in the same reality as him. Probably not, since he's babbling about things like not being awake, and looking for a totem or something.

They're both drenched and filthy by the time they get to the car park. Apparently Arthur had taken Eames down into an oil slick, because they're both covered in black slime from the alleyway. The rain has soaked through Arthur's flimsy white scrubs and he's shivering.

Eames takes a second to tell him, "It's all right, we're almost there."

"Did your car blow up?" Arthur asks. "Did that happen, or did I make it up?"

"It happened," Eames says. "I suppose that's what I get for leaving them." And the information in Arthur's head was not, apparently, worth letting them both get away. He laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical to his own ears. "But I've got a car in here that's registered under an alias. It's untraceable to me, all right? I've got some spare clothes. But we've got to hurry, because they'll be out here searching for us in a few minutes."

Arthur says, "I'm going to be sick," just a second before he is. At least he has the good grace to turn away and not get any on either himself or Eames. Eames holds him up while he coughs and shakes, counting seconds, wishing he'd hurry up. Then Arthur says, "Okay, done," and does his best to straighten up.

When they get to his car, he strips Arthur out of his shirt, strips out of his own shirt, opens the boot, and takes out a bag of clothes. He gets into a flimsy dress shirt, and helps Arthur into a sweater that is three sizes too big for him. As he does this, he catches glimpses of the bruises on his ribs, pressure sores and lacerations from restraints, and the obvious dehydration of his skin. This, he files away for later. There's nothing he can do about it now.

"You can sit in the front this time," Eames says.

Arthur just shakes his head and heads for the back seat. When Eames opens the door, Arthur crawls into it and curls up, looking like he wants to die. Tucking his hands into the sleeves of the sweater, he draws his knees up again and shuts his eyes.

"Just as well," Eames mutters, and gets in the driver's seat.

He's leaving London, unnoticed, when the emergency vehicles arrive at the alley where his old car is. Or, was.

Eames drives without looking back.

The storm doesn't let up. Arthur doesn't make a sound for the first two hours. Eames feels completely alone, numb inside and out. Almost calm, even. Once in a while he thinks, 'William is dead,' and it doesn't feel real. He hasn't seen William in years, so either alive or dead, it feels unreal. Still, everything he did to protect him, to protect the people he went to university with – all of that, for nothing.

He thinks, once or twice, 'I'm out,' and, 'It's over,' even though he knows it isn't.

He doesn't breathe, it seems like, until they reach Severn Bridge.

A clap of thunder rouses Arthur. He sits up in the back, looks around and asks, "Where are we?"

"Wales," Eames says.

"And do you have a... I mean, where are we going?" His voice is shot, no more than a whisper.

"Somewhere safe," Eames says.

In fact, it's the safest place he knows.

Chapter Text

** ** ** **

 

"I'm not very good at these situations," a woman's voice says. It sounds like he's hearing her underwater. "I suppose you'll live, though."

Arthur tries to open his eyes, fails, and goes back to sleep.

Someone is undressing him. What? He flails, tries to push the hands away, and gets a slap on the wrist for his troubles.

"Stop fussing," the woman's voice says again. "You're not a child."

He cracks his eyes open and sees a flash of blond hair. The room is too bright. "Where...?"

"Safe."

The next time he wakes, he's coughing so hard that he's retching, making himself gag. She turns him onto his side and says, "That's disgusting. Do try to get it into the bucket."

But he's not throwing up, his lungs ache and burn, he can't breathe. When he opens his eyes, he's staring into the bottom of a white bucket. The woman's hand is gripping his shoulder hard, where the burn scar is.

"You've got pneumonia," she says.

Arthur doesn't remember having pneumonia. "How?" he asks.

"Weren't they pouring water into your lungs?"

The image of the cell comes back to him and then he's retching again, but still nothing comes up.

"All right," the woman says with a sigh. "All right, that's over now. Come on. Get it together."

He takes as deep a breath as he can manage. Yes. Get it together. That part is over. "Months ago," he says.

When he's got his breath back, she takes the bucket away and tucks a pillow under his head. Her hands are lined and rough, the nails blunt and stained dark around the edges. But they feel nice enough when she smooths one over his forehead.

"Days ago, darling," she says.

Days? How could it be days? He'd spent ages trying to put out all the fires, defuse all the bombs, and hide from the intruders. Trying to find Eames to tell him – to tell him what? He doesn't remember. Something about William.

She pulls her hand away, but he reaches up to grab it and says, "Who are you?"

"Elaine," she tells him. "Go back to sleep."

The next time he opens his eyes, it's darker, and he's alone. A sliver of light seeps in from between two dark drapes. He's too hot, so he nudges the blankets down. In a few seconds he's shivering, so he pulls them back up. He wishes he had the energy to get out of the bed, part the curtains, and look outside. But he knows his legs won't hold him.

From what he can make out of the room, it's spacious, with two doors, and paintings that he can't make out. The bed is plush and actually has four posts around it. He has no idea where he is or how he got here. It could be a dream. They took his totem.

He starts coughing again. He manages to turn himself onto his side, because he can't get enough air, but if he can get the water out, at least this way he won't choke on it. Every time he tries to stop coughing, another bout seizes him. He starts to panic.

The door opens, letting in more light. He catches a flash of blond hair again, and red clothes, before squeezing his eyes shut again.

"Oh, dear," she says.

There's movement beside him. He blinks, and the white bucket comes into his vision once more. He coughs into it, expecting floods of water to come from him. But it won't come out. He's drowning in it.

"You're all right," she tells him, which is a flat out lie, no matter how convincing she sounds. "You're not dying. It must feel as though you are, but you're not." Her free hand rubs up and down his back, sort of like his mother used to do when he got sick as a child.

"There now, you're getting better already. It's just as I told you."

Slowly, the coughing fit tapers. He's so afraid of starting it again that he takes shallow breaths until he gets dizzy.

"Arthur," she says, "you need to drink something. But the last time I brought water to your lips, you threw it across the room and threatened to kill me. The threat was just silly in your state, but I do object to having to clean up. If you'll be good, we'll try again."

She eases him over onto his back, and he gets his first actual look at her. Her hair is short and blond, her eyes very blue. She's got to be in her sixties, one of those women who has managed to keep her stately beauty, if not her youth. Her lips are still full, and her nose is an elegant slope. It's actually the nose that clues him in at first.

Yet, it's not so much her features, but rather how she carries herself, how she smiles by quirking her lips, that reminds him of the man who had taken him out that dream.

"Eames?" he says.

"Elaine Eames," she tells him. "But of course, you have met my boy."

"Where...?" Where did he go? Is he all right? What happened between then and now?

"He's gone to fetch some supplies that I don't keep about the house. Antibiotics, bags with liquid in them, tanks of air, machines that go 'bing', I imagine. He's very thorough. I'll be surprised if he doesn't show up with a container full of replacement lungs, actually."

Arthur doesn't have enough air to express his confusion, but it must show on his face. He knows he's not in a hospital.

"Now, no more questions. William will return soon."

"William?" Now he must be dreaming.

She sighs. "The silly thing won't go by his first name, will he? He insists on going by my last name, which makes my life very confusing. Eames. He'll be back tomorrow with everything you need."

"Where are we?" Arthur asks.

"Swansea. Rhossili, if you're really interested – doubtful. Far enough from the very bad people who were chasing the both of you, and that ought to do for now. Have a cup of tea. It will clear your lungs. If you go into a panic and throw this across the room, you'll clean it up this time." She braces a surprisingly strong arm under his shoulders and says, "Come on, then. Up."

His arms are too weak to hold him, but he gets himself wedged up against the headboard enough so that she can hold the cup to his lips. He's in such an amount of all-over pain that he doesn't even feel ridiculous when she helps him drink it. It's warm, not hot, but still burns his throat going down. He fights not to choke on it.

She gives him a satisfied smile that still manages to look impatient. "We'll have you feeling fine in no time," she says, and he knows it's a lie.

She helps him lie back down, and leaves the door slightly ajar when she goes.

Arthur drifts in and out of his thoughts for what seems like weeks. Sometimes he's in a darkened room (somewhere – England? Home? The desert?) and other times he's on the field, or in the alley. Cars explode into supernovas, and the fires burn him to ash, rubble buries him alive. The heat suffocates him, he's got sand in his lungs, he's drowning.

Time passes, and he hears voices outside of his own mind. They sound hushed and urgent, a man and a woman.

How is he?

Terrible, sorry to say.

Shit.

Did you get what you needed?

I hope so.

A door opens, light falls on him, floorboards creak, the bed dips. He opens his eyes.

"Eames." It's a only a whisper. He can barely move his lips. I met your Mom, she brought me tea, he wants to tell him. He's pretty sure that happened.

"Hey, Arthur," Eames says. "Sorry I was gone yesterday."

Yesterday? More like weeks, months.

"I had to get a few items. How are you feeling?

Peaceful. "Tired," is what he says.

"I'm going to help you," Eames tells him. "But I need your cooperation." He holds up a hospital mask attached to a tube. "I didn't think you'd like it if I put this on you without asking. Can I? It's just oxygen."

Yes, he's starving for it. No, he doesn't want anyone's hands near his face. But he looks at Eames for a second, and then nods.

"Good, excellent, well done."

He closes his eyes when Eames's hands come toward him, and holds perfectly still when he straps the mask onto his face. He doesn't like it. It's uncomfortable and too confining.

But it also helps, almost immediately. He blinks a few times, as if to clear his head.

"Right," Eames says. "I'm not done bothering you yet. We've got to get some fluid into you, and some antibiotics. That's bacterial pneumonia you've got there, see, so we've got to knock that out of your system. There's no way around it; I have to stick you with a needle. But I thought I'd warn you first."

Again, Arthur nods. He feels more present, a little less confused. Logically, he knows this isn't an interrogation, and he's not going to be put under again. His brain wants to panic anyway. He tells it to sit down and shut up.

Eames pulls his arm from under the blanket and starts tapping around for a vein, which he can't seem to find. Arthur doesn't like the tapping, tapping, tapping, the squeezing, or any of it.

"Hey," Eames says, "I know this isn't anything you want to hear at the moment, but I've been in the place you're in now, and I know it's a terrible place. But I also know that you'll get out of it. All right? I did, and you will, too. I need you to stick around, because I'll need your help. So, hoorah, or whatever you lot say, right? Don't let me down."

The "hoorah" he could do without, but, Don't let me down - those are the four words guaranteed to get Arthur to do something.

Eames gets the needle into him, and Arthur turns his hand and gives him a thumbs-up.

"That's the spirit," Eames says, smiling. Eames looks tired, too. And sad.

The next day, Eames brings him a bowl of soup on a tray. He sets it up and doesn't offer to help, for which Arthur is profoundly grateful. It's luke warm, but burns his lips and the inside of his mouth like acid. He eats the whole thing anyway, because he knows he has to.

When Eames is gone, he turns over to face the door that he assumes leads to a bathroom. He knows what's going on in his body: muscles forced into stress positions for sometimes days at a time, and then, after that, hours of complete immobility. He knows his legs aren't going to hold him for long, if at all.

He also knows that Eames asked him to do something. Eames asked him to get better so that Arthur could help him. Arthur, who was unable to save William, but whom Eames saved anyway. He's sure he'll never be able to repay that.

Also, it's been good, so fucking good to be spoken to instead of shouted it, and touched without being hurt. And maybe he's losing his mind—probably is, he thinks—but he loves Eames for that. Loves him and would give him anything right now, and his beautiful Mom, too.

He gets to the edge of the bed, and turns so that he's got his legs dangling over it. His ankles scream in agony, his back spasms in protest, and Arthur breathes through it. He refuses to make a sound. He can't alert either Eames or his Mom that he's trying to get to the bathroom. This is his job, no one else's.

He slides off the bed and lands in a controlled heap on the floor, then stops, hoping that they didn't hear the floorboard creak. Maybe it's a big enough house that they couldn't. When he doesn't hear any footsteps coming down the hall, he gets onto his hands and knees. His shoulders knot up, and for a second, he's sure they're not going to hold him. During the interrogation, they had his arms above his head for a few hours. His arms shake and threaten to give out, but he clenches his jaw, locks his elbows, and moves.

It's slow, slower than he wants it to be. His limbs burn with returning sensation; he imagines them swelling with blood. He gets to the doorway when another fit of coughing grips his lungs. Unwilling to give up his position should they come running upstairs to check on him, he curls up and muffles the coughs into his folded arms.

When it's over, he continues on his way, and pushes the door open.

He was right, it is a bathroom. Huge, sprawling, tiled, and rich like he's never seen. It's even got a skylight. There's a shower, too. Might be worth a shot. He looks down and – yes, apparently she did change his clothes. He's wearing silk pajamas. Nothing underneath.

Well, fuck. That's humiliating, but it leaves him with a strange feeling of gratitude, too.

He hooks his hands onto the sink and pulls himself to his feet. Gripping the marble with his fingers, he steadies himself with his hips against the basin and raises his head. His reflection stares back at him.

He knew it was going to be bad, but couldn't have prepared for this. He looks like a ghost in the mirror, like he turned around three times and said "Bloody Mary" and a corpse appeared, staring back at him. His mouth is red, hair crusted with what's probably blood and spit – some his own, some other people's. He wants to throw up, but fights it.

Well. He's up now, at any rate, and there's a shower. This is his mission.

He has to sit on the toilet in order to get his clothes off, his thighs burning with the pressure as he does so. Eames is going to hear the water running, there's no way around that. That's okay. He trusts Eames. He reaches over to the tub and turns on the tap. The muscles in his back feel like paper, tearing into little scraps every time he moves.

He more or less dumps himself into the tub. The water hits him, burning even though it's not that hot. As he scrubs himself with just his hands, he watches the water turn a rusty, reddish brown and wash down the drain. He lets the water run over his hair, and, steeling himself, tilts his head up and lets it rinse his mouth out, too. The relief he feels when he's finally able to spit the metallic tang out is worth it.

He scratches at his wrists and ankles, where the skin had previously swollen up and split open. The dead skin washes away and it feels amazing.

He sits under the warm water until he's shivering, aching with the return of sensation, and crying with relief. This is so good, this beautiful, spacious bathroom with sun streaming in from the skylight, and a big tub where he can sit down, and warm, clean water.

A knock at the door makes him lift his head from where it's been resting on his knees. He fumbles with the faucet until he gets a grip on it to shut the water off.

"All right?" Eames's voice comes through the door.

"Yeah," Arthur says. It comes out as a rasp, but the door isn't closed entirely, so Eames hears him.

"I've put a dressing gown—a bathrobe--on the hook. There are towels in the closet. You'll let me know if you need anything?"

"Yeah."

He hears Eames's retreating footsteps and wants to say, 'Thank you for this, thank you for saving me, thank you for this bathroom,' and in the back of his mind, in the clarity that the water gave him, he knows how massively over the top that feeling is. His feelings are irrational, and at least he can rationalize that. But it doesn't stop him from feeling them.

Getting out of the tub is a little easier. He has to sit down again to towel off. He gets to the door and retrieves the bathrobe. He can't get his arms through it, so he contents himself with wrapping it around his shoulders.

Bracing against the wall, he makes his way back to the bed. The window is on the other side of the room and he really wants to look outside, but he's exhausted.

Eames's Mom comes in the next day with another bowl of soup. She sets the tray on the bed, and instead of leaving, she sits next to him. The drapes in the room are still closed, and he hasn't been able to see much. Now, she leans over and turns on the bedside lamp. It takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to light again. When they do, he finds her regarding him with both interest and caution.

"I don't want you to think," she says, "that you're the only person in this house who has been where you are now."

He fumbles with the spoon for a second while his stupid, useless hands relearn simple motions. When he gets it in his grip, he nods and says, "Eames told me..."

"Yes," she says, "him too." Then she lifts her chin a little.

At first he thinks the gesture is one of those prideful little head-tilts. He's only known her for a handful of days, but she does have a way of tipping her head back at a regal angle. But in the light, he can see the real reason: A scar that runs from her ear to her collarbone. Arthur swallows hard, and looks away.

"Oh, don't be upset," she scoffs. "I lived with William's--Eames's father for five godawful years. This is from a knife, although he rather enjoyed burning as punishment, as I'm sure Eames might be able to tell you. He's never told me about it, though. I might have stayed until he killed me, if he hadn't sent me away on the threat of killing the boy. It took me over twenty years, a forged death certificate, and the help of a clever son in a high place, to finally lose him.

"So, you are safe here. Elaine Eames-Manwaring is dead, and this house officially belongs to Helen Tate. No one can find us here, and, unless you betray us, it's going to remain that way. That's the first thing you need to know.

"The second thing you need to know is that I lived like that for five years. I only once saw the inside of a hospital, and that was because I dragged myself half a mile to a neighbor's house on a broken ankle after he pushed me down stairs. Arthur, I know you've been tortured. Nothing can take that back. I've a fairly vivid idea of what they did to you. But you're going to have to pack that away and move on. It would be easy for me to say that if I could do it, anyone can, but that's bullshit. Not many people can do what I did."

She levels him with that sovereign stare again and says, "You'd better be one of them."

Arthur holds onto the soup spoon, feeling weak and useless and guilty. He looks from the scar on her neck and back to her blue eyes, thinking of Eames saying, 'I'm going to need your help.' He thinks of how he let William die.

Never again.

"Yes," he says. "Yes Ma'am."

She leaves him alone again. He finishes his soup in silence. Then he puts the tray aside, and gets up. It's slow going, getting to the window. He braces on the end table first, then a dresser, then the wall.

Finally, he parts the curtains to a wide bay window. The sun is too bright, searing his retinas and he's got to close his watering eyes for a few minutes. His legs buckle and he catches himself on the alcove, where he turns slightly to sit down. It's wide enough that he can crawl onto it and curl up, with his back to the edge. He blinks a few times, slowly, keeping his eyes open for a few seconds more each time, until he can see again.

And he looks out to see green hills that roll out into rocky bluffs, overlooking the water. The colors are so vivid, so bright and alive after the dark cell in America, the white holding room in England, and then this darkened bedroom. He feels like he hasn't seen colors in ages and he wants to drink them in, taste them.

The window casings open out instead of up, so he unlatches one of them and cranks it open. His arm is useless by the time he's done, but it's worth it to feel the soft, salt breeze.

Arthur thinks he might never want to leave.

** ** ** **

Once he's is up and about, he makes progress quickly. Within a few days he's clean, dressed (Eames's Mom bought him some clothes, and he's pretty sure they weren't cheap,) and walking down the stairs to see the rest of the house.

With sunlight streaming through open windows, arched doorways, exposed brick and unpainted wood, it's breathtaking. A stained drop cloth covers a section of the floor by the window, and there are easels and a small, untidy work station sitting in the natural light.

On the wall hangs a painting that he's pretty sure he recognizes from college. He briefly dated an art major so he's familiar with a few famous paintings. This one depicts one of the Popes, shawled in purple and surrounded by gold, but distorted and screaming. He's pretty sure it's by Francis Bacon. He leans closer to get a better look. It's not a print. It's actually on canvas.

"Do you like it?" Elaine asks.

Arthur turns to see her leaning in the doorway to her kitchen. She's wearing a fitted grey top, tight bluejeans, and bright red lipstick.

"Uhh, yeah," he says, momentarily awkward around her. "I think I read about that painting in college. It looks real. Is that, like, the real thing?"

"No, don't be stupid," she laughs. "It's a forgery, darling. We've got to make illicit money somehow."

We? "You and Eames? You're like, art..." He stops, unable to think of a polite word for it.

"Thieves, forgers, creators, however you want to look at it. When Eames tracked me down, years ago, we realized that if he could find me, anyone in his department could, too. With him back in my life, I was able to pass on some of my talents, which he took to very well. We created my identity together. He makes—or I should say, made--considerable money as an agent, but he couldn't funnel it all to me, could he? So we started dealing in forgeries. He's become quite good at it."

Arthur pictures this, the two of them painting together, Eames selling things on the black market and buying his Mom this house. Eames and his Mom having tea together before a morning of crime. The images forces a startled laugh out of him. It turns into a cough, which he tries to hold back. It doesn't work. Soon his eyes are streaming again, and he's hacking into the sleeve of his new, very nice oxford shirt.

She quirks an eyebrow and saunters over to him, pulling a cloth out of her pocket. "There, there," she says, patting his back a little too hard until he straightens up, gasping. Instead of offering the cloth to him, she wipes his eyes for him.

"That's a horrible noise," she says. "You'll have to stop doing that soon."

"Trying," he croaks out.

"Still," she says, tucking the cloth into his pocket, "you're much better already. Up and about like this, coming down the stairs without falling. You could stand to put some weight back on, but you'll be fit as a fiddle, soon enough."

He nods, wondering how soon. He can't stay here forever. And when he's better, then what? He can't possibly ask them for anything more.

"I realize," he says, "that I can't ever thank you enough. You and Eames, for helping me. For saving me. I can't ever repay you."

Smiling, she pats his arm. "Oh, Arthur. Yes you can."

** ** ** **

Arthur runs. With the salt breeze in his hair, the sun on his face, and velvet green hills under his feet, he runs. Well, jogs, is maybe the better word. Speed-walking, in some places. And even then, only for about a half a mile. It's August and the sun is strong, but the breeze from the water is blessedly cool and Arthur wants to drink it in.

He stops because his lungs burn and his knees are twinging. His right hip has been off kilter since the burns, because he'd spent so much time protecting the injury and favoring the other side. His muscles remember moving, though, even if they can't quite keep up the pace.

He leans down with his hands on his knees to catch his breath.

Beside him, Eames slows to a stop. He's been running and walking alongside Arthur, most of the time, to make sure he doesn't take a spill or collapse. Anyone else, and Arthur would tell them to fuck off, he can do it himself. But he likes Eames's company. It's strange, a little disturbing how much he likes Eames beside him.

Eames says, "You really shouldn't double over like that after a run. You'll get cramps. Just straighten up and breathe through your nose."

Nodding, Arthur does as Eames suggests. Eames hands him a water bottle, still cold from the house.

"Not too bad today," Eames says. "Better than yesterday."

"The day before was better," Arthur says. He takes a sip of the water. It feels glorious in his mouth and on his lips. "The day before, I got the whole mile."

"You'll get there," Eames says.

They do this three times a day: morning, before dinner, and sunset. Eames has a serious pair of trainers, and, now that Arthur's looking, a serious set of runner's legs, too. He's obviously cut his regime back a lot just to run with Arthur. He's nowhere near out of breath. A few months ago, Arthur wouldn't have been, either. Taking time off, and staying still enough for long enough to let the burns heal had been the start of the downfall. But it was what they did to him after his capture that really set him back.

He thinks of himself running five miles, climbing ropes, training in the Marines. Doing backflips to show off to Mal. It feels like he'll never get that back.

You'll get there, Eames told him. He's got to believe that.

It's not just his body that feels ruined. He still can't close his eyes without seeing the interrogation cell, and can't sleep without feeling like someone's crawling around inside his head, picking his memories apart. They were in there for weeks, topside. Years in the dream, sometimes. Arthur knew—still knows—in theory, how to wake himself up. But even when they were using a light sedative, he couldn't. It's just not a thing he can do. He'd seen Mal and Cobb throw themselves off of cliffs in order to escape the dream. Mal especially. She had always hated shooting herself, and would avoid it if she could. Mal jumps. That's her escape. She lets the fall wake her.

Arthur can't fall. He can jump, no problem there. But he never hits the ground. His brain always takes over, says, No, and the fall never wakes him. He slows down and lands softly, or he flies back up. He's never yet been able to give up that control.

It's the same thing with natural dreams, the ones where he's not lucid, and doesn't realize it's a dream. It's exhausting. A few nights ago, he threw himself out of the bed before he was able to wake up. The night after that was a little hazier. It's possible that he woke up cradled in someone's arms, a voice telling him to shush, now, you're fine, stop waking the entire house, but maybe he dreamed that part, too.

The sound of voices singing in the distance jerks him back to the present. He tilts his head.

"It's from the church over the hill," Eames says, nodding. "Morning mass, I guess. Sounds like Rock Of Ages, I think. Never been one for church, though."

"No," Arthur says, "no, me neither."

Eames laughs and sings, "'Rock of ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in thee...' That's all I know."

"I only know the Def Leppard version," Arthur says, and Eames laughs. It's a good laugh, loud and free. His teeth are crooked.

Arthur looks at him, once again trying subtly to trace the lines of his face, catch the exact shade of his eyes, study the sweep of his long eyelashes. He's not sure how subtle he is. All that time in the cell, and in his own mind, dulled his sense of propriety. It's hard to think of manners when you've spent weeks with other people's hands all over you.

Maybe it's the voices drifting on the breeze, or maybe it's the gentle, shushing sound of the water, or the sweet, soft smell of the air, or maybe it's because after serious consideration, Arthur decides that Eames's eyes are grey with flecks of dark blue in them. Whatever the reason, he chooses that moment to lean forward and press his lips to Eames's.

And for a few seconds, it's so good. It's more than good, it's real, and weirdly familiar. Eames's mouth is cool and slick from the water they've both been drinking. Arthur never wants to stop, he could go without breathing if he had to. He reaches for Eames's shoulders.

That's when Eames catches him by the wrists and starts to urge him away. The signal is clear and immediate: Stop.

Arthur stops. Whatever he expected to see in Eames's eyes, panic had not been one of the options. It's a subtle panic, and gone in a second, but there long enough for him to take note. Just as quickly, Eames looks distressed and uncomfortable.

It's crushing. In any situation, it's crushing, and humiliating and horrible, but now, under the warm sun after over a week of staying with Eames and being in his care--owing him—it's the worst Arthur's felt since America.

"I'm sorry," he's quick to say.

Eames looks away, rubbing at his chin like his fingers are itching to wipe his mouth, but he's too polite to do so. "Don't be," he says. "It's all right."

"No, I – I really am," Arthur says. He's got to turn away, so he looks out at the water again. "That was way out of line."

"No, it wasn't," Eames says. "It's not even... Arthur, look..."

"We don't have to talk about it," Arthur says, "you don't owe me any explanations, you don't owe me anything--"

Eames takes him by the shoulders and turns him so they're eye to eye. "It's not that," he says. "It's... look, Arthur. Essentially, I am one of your captors. I've just spent eleven days not acting like one. There's a phrase for what you're feeling right now, and it's not a good one. There is literally no version of this story where I come out as the good guy in the end."

Arthur holds his breath while he parses this information. It takes him a second. "You think I have Stockholm Syndrome?"

"I know you do," Eames says. "And I've already told you I needed something from you, so think about what it would mean for me to take advantage of that right now. Yes, it's awful of me to turn you down. But it would be more awful of me not to."

Arthur stands there, stunned into silence. Logically, there is probably something to what Eames is saying. But Arthur can't feel logic. All he knows is that he doesn't want to let Eames down.

"I've put off asking you for days and days," Eames says, "because I know I've got you at a place where you would probably say yes no matter what. And then you would resent me for that, and maybe turn against me later, when you figured it out. I've waited for you to start realizing that you're as captive here as you were in the cell, that this isn't happiness and freedom you're feeling, it's just relief. Rhossili is a lovely prison, Arthur, but it is still actually a prison."

Arthur sits down heavily on the grass. Yes, he'd thought about what might happen when it came time to leave. He'd thought about when that might be, and where he would go, how he would be safe, and ensure the safety of his family, and of Mal and Dom. But every single time, those thoughts disintegrated into mere lack of information, filed away in the recesses of his mind, to be considered at some future date. He'd thought of this as a sanctuary. But in his dreams, he had known that he really couldn't leave. Not until he was in the clear.

Eames sits down next to him.

"Why did you take me with you?" Arthur asks, looking out at the sea again instead of at Eames. He already knows he's not going to like the answer. "You could have just left me and escaped."

"Because I knew you still had the information in your head that would lead them to Mallorie, and professor Miles. Eventually, they would get it from you. I didn't want that because I know this is only going to get bigger. And also because I don't like their methods. But let's be honest, it's never stopped me before."

"Before - when you had something to lose," Arthur says.

"Yes. When I was protecting William."

"Is that why you went into the service?"

Eames toys with the top of his bottle. "It wasn't a choice. My father is a very powerful man, and he found out about William. Right now we're actually skirting the issue of what I need from you, Arthur. Tell me to stop if you're not ready for me to ask."

"I'm ready." He's more than ready. He needs to know. This way he can repay his debt to Eames, and then leave him alone. It hurts, but logically he knows it will get better. With time, and distance.

"Right, straight on, then," Eames says. "I need Mal."

No. No, no, no, absolutely no, is the first thing he thinks. The request shocks Arthur so much that for a second, all he sees is red. He's spent weeks hiding that information away, has bled for it, inside and out.

"You might get it into your head that this has all been an elaborate plan. I'm saying that before you give yourself the idea," Eames says. "But just think about it. I pulled you out of there because I didn't want her, or professor Miles, harmed. With Prescott digging around in your head, they would have eventually gotten the information. There's no need for subterfuge on my part right now. Could I be an independent agent, looking out for my own interests? Yes. But then I wouldn't have taken you to my mother's home." He turns to face Arthur again. His cheeks are slightly flushed now. "And I wouldn't have turned you down just now. I would have taken advantage."

Arthur opens his mouth to speak, whatever comes to his mind – he's not sure yet what it's going to be.

Eames holds up a hand. "Don't feel," he says. "Think. It's only a matter of time before the people who took you go back for your family. They'll try to flush you out. And it will work. Mal, and presumably Dom Cobb, have either some skill, or some information that has made them dangerous to the establishment. I need to know what that information is. That's the first thing."

"And the second?"

"I need a team."

Arthur searches Eames's face for clarity. "A team? For..."

"I need to extract information from someone, and it's not going to be easy. I need the best, and, unfortunately, that was Prescott. Out of everyone I've known in the dream end of the business, he was the most skilled extractor."

"No," Arthur says. It's a denial of the statement, not a rejection of the request. He's not sure if he's going to say 'yes' right now, like he wants to, or if he's going to drag it out on the pretense of giving it more thought. He's not feeling anything right now except for panic.

Eames is right about them going after his Mom and Dad. It's only a matter of time. It's not about Eames anymore, and it's not about Elaine or their care of him, or about the bright sun and sweet, soft scent of Rhossili in August. Now, it's about practicality. He's not going to let his panic, or his out of control emotions get in the way. His decision will be in favor of the most practical, reasoned plan of action.

And as far as Arthur is concerned, from now on, that's the way it's going to stay.

"No," he says, clarifying. "Dom Cobb is the most skilled extractor."

** ** ** **

Chapter Text

In Eames's experience, you learn a lot about a person when they set their terms in a deal. Arthur's terms for bringing in Mal and Cobb are unexpectedly heavy, and extremely shrewd, yet fair, considering what Eames is asking. It teaches him quite a few things about Arthur, the first being that he's not as incapacitated as he seems – in body maybe, but not in mind. He learns that Arthur is not to be underestimated, but that he's fair, even when he's on the spot. He learns that he's glad he is not, in fact, trying to trick him.

Arthur's terms are as follows: He will bring Mal and Cobb to Eames, but it has to be at this house, where Eames and his Mum are most vulnerable. This exposes their secret to two more people, and Eames is not even sure whose side they are on yet.

Mal and Cobb are not to be searched. If they come in with weapons, they get to keep them.

Additionally, Arthur gets to carry a gun to the meeting as well.

Arthur uses their landline, alone, to make a single phone call. Eames is not allowed in the room while he makes it, which makes perfect sense. They've probably got a code worked out to tell each other when it's safe.

After the phone call, Arthur joins him in the kitchen. It's morning, and the late August sunlight streams in at that peculiar angle. When Arthur leans against the counter, a patch of sun falls on one pale hand. His hands are long, graceful, like William's had been. Eames looks to his face instead, where Arthur is so different, with his dark hair and almond eyes. His hair is starting to curl where it falls to his ears, and the back of his neck. Most military boys would have shorn it off again by now, and Eames wonders if keeping his hair is some kind of rebellion, or if it just hasn't occurred to him to ask for the clipper.

Eames asks, "Will they come?"

"Yeah." Arthur's eyes look a little bright.

"When?"

"You don't get to know that," Arthur says. "They're just going to show up. Sorry," he adds sincerely.

"Makes sense," Eames says. "You're good, you know. Would have done well in special ops. Remind me never to fuck you over."

Arthur smiles and says, "You wouldn't." It's not the shark-tooth grin of a man who knows he's just gotten his way, but neither is it a smile of easy trust. Eames can see, under the exhaustion of shock and sickness, an extremely canny businessman. It makes him wonder what Arthur is like at one hundred percent. What he might be like years down the road.

With sudden clarity, Eames is sure that he knows exactly the man Arthur will be in the future. He has a strange sensation of having stood next to him, just like this, in some other kitchen in some other time, with the late summer sun falling across his hand. Odd, but dreaming will do that to you. You get inside someone's head, you're bound to pick up a few of their sense memories, or imaginings. It connects you, whether you want it to or not. Still, it's such a bizarrely intimate feeling, and so comfortable that it makes him actually uncomfortable and he shifts away.

"Guess I'll tidy up the house," Eames says. "Mum's gone to fetch some groceries."

Arthur looks surprised.

"I know it's not a social visit," Eames says, "but she's always very hospitable. I've one thing to request, if that's all right."

Arthur says, "Let's hear it."

"If my mother could not be involved in our conversation. It has nothing to do with her, the dreaming. She's a criminal of a different sort."

Arthur considers this. "I get what you're saying," he says, "and it's probably true that the less she knows, the better. But..." He stops to think, staring at a patch of sun on the floor.

Eames can guess where his mind is going, because he would be thinking the same thing: that she would make a call, sound an alarm, or come back in armed. All of which is ridiculous, but he can understand Arthur's position.

"Yeah, that's fine," Arthur says.

Another thing Eames knows is that Arthur said yes because he's thinking of Elaine taking care of him, bringing him water, treating him kindly. He knows he's taking advantage of that. He just has no other choice.

"Will it be soon?" Eames asks.

Arthur smiles and says, "Yeah, soon."

 

'Soon' ends up being two days later, when Eames is almost at his wits' end waiting to get started, hoping that they'll be willing to hear him out, and to help. It's not that what he wants to do is necessarily time sensitive, but he's eager to get it out of the way.

He's standing in the kitchen, tying up his trainers to go for a morning run. Arthur, clever sod that he is, has completely stopped leaving the house for a jog, so that it wouldn't be obvious the one time he stayed back to wait for Mal and Dom. Instead, Arthur is at the counter, putting the kettle on. He still moves stiffly, gingerly at times, and he leans most of his weight on the left side. Eames watches him, thinking that it's going to be a while before he's got full use of his body back, when the knock comes at the door.

Arthur turns, and they share a glance. For a second he seems nervous. The look is gone quickly, replaced by a shrewd, narrow look.

"Go on," Eames tells him. "Your weapon is on the desk in the sitting room."

Arthur goes and Eames follows, so as to remain in his line of sight if he checks his six, which he will. He keeps his hands visible and posture relaxed. Arthur looks at him once more before opening the door. This time, it's with a small smile, and Eames knows that all the security precautions are just those: precautions. He has Arthur's trust, and it's a weighty thing.

Mallorie is the first one in. She takes a second to look Arthur over before pulling him into her arms. She crushes him so hard that Eames has to cringe. He hasn't seen Arthur in any state of undress since he first cut the white scrubs off of him, but he knows that even if the bruises have faded, his ribs are probably still cracked. She's murmuring something to him over and over again, and Arthur tells her, "It's okay. I'm fine."

The man standing awkwardly in the doorway behind her is strikingly handsome, in a pretty, blond sort of way. Eventually he edges past them and sees Eames in the sitting room. Eames motions him in.

"Hey," he says quietly, extending his hand. "I'm Eames"

"Dom Cobb. Pleasure to meet you." His grip is maybe a little too firm. He's nervous and trying to hide it.

Dom nods toward Mal and Arthur and says, "Can we give them a second?"

"Sure, of course. Come on in."

He leads Dom into the kitchen where they stand awkwardly for a few moments.

"Thank you for having us over," Dom says, as if they're not on the run and Eames didn't essentially force them here. "And for, you know, helping Arthur."

"Had to," Eames says. And then, "Listen, you know...Arthur kept your whereabouts from me. And not only from me, but from the people who were trying to force it out of him. I just want you to know that."

"I expect no less from him," Cobb says, like it's nothing, like Arthur didn't go through weeks of torment for him. "It's a compliment," he says, when he sees Eames's face. "I was worried for Arthur. But I also had absolute faith in him."

Eames wants to tell him that, faith or not, they would have killed Arthur eventually, if Eames hadn't decided that he needed him for something.

"Why did you save him?" Cobb asks, as if reading Eames's thoughts.

The question shocks him. He opens his mouth to answer, even though he hasn't worked out what he's going to say yet, but never gets the chance. Mal comes into the kitchen, followed by Arthur.

Her hair is shorter than it was when he last saw her, her eyes harder, and her clothes are those of someone on the run: worn down and cheap. He doesn't know what to expect from her. Never did.

"Eames," she says, and opens her arms.

Eames goes to her, hesitating, because this is one thing he did not expect. They'd worked together, but had always been colleagues more than friends.

She wraps her arms around him and says, "I'm so sorry, Eames. I'm sorry about William."

Oh. That. Of course. She had known him, too, and they had probably continued to work together after Eames had left. He wants to ask her. He wants to ask what William said, what he did, if he ever found any peace about Eames's disappearance. But now isn't the time. And anyway, Arthur is watching all of this with a look of gentle surprise and understanding, as if all of his caution over this meeting had been for nothing.

She gives him a kiss on the cheek and releases him. And then she's all business once again.

"Well, then," she says, clasping her hands together. "Let's discuss these matters."

"Right." Eames is still reeling a little, but there's one thing he knows he's got to do right now. "I'll put the kettle on."

They seat themselves at the table while Eames makes tea. Mal sits between Cobb and Arthur. Cobb is her boyfriend, according to the dossiers that he'd read, yet it's Arthur's hand that she takes, stroking her fingers over his knuckles absently. If this embarrasses him, he doesn't show it.

"I need to know," Eames says, taking the remaining seat, "what you were running from, and why. I'm asking because I think our goals might coincide."

Mal is the one who speaks. "You remember back in university, how my father was always pushing, pushing, never stopping in his search for something new."

"Yes," Eames says.

"We got so far in our studies, all of us together. Father, Dominic, myself, and for a time, William. Then of course William wasn't around often, because he must focus on his work as a psychologist, to make money. We had no funding. And he was with us here and there, sometimes, and sometimes not."

Eames knows that the 'sometimes not' parts were when William had been looking for him.

"We made such strides, Eames," she says. "So much better than anything they were showing you in your special ops, so much better than the military. And Dominic started doing extraction. It was intended to help people with hidden memories. To unearth those things that people wanted unearthed but had accidentally buried. To help people overcome old traumas, to pull them out like a rotten tooth, or to remember important things that had been lost.

"But of course, soon the military was interested in our work, and they picked up on extraction. They took it in a different direction to what we were using it for. Well, that had nothing to do with us. Like Einstein, we had not intended our work to harm, but they had it their way anyway. By this time, Arthur had come back to us. We were all working together.

"As you have probably guessed," she goes on, "they tried to recruit us. We wanted no part of their endeavor, which we soon learned was also to train soldiers to kill each other on the battlefield. They had gotten our research and did with it what they will. But now they wanted us to come in, to do these deeds with them."

"You refused," Eames says, "obviously. And?"

"And then the threatening began," Mal says. "First, they took all of our money and turned my father out of university. Then, they outlawed the PASIV for civilian use. Anyone in possession of one was to be considered a terrorist."

Eames already knows that part of it, because he'd seen one or two "terrorists" brought in.

It's quiet for a moment and then Eames asks, "And that's when you ran?"

"No," Cobb says. "There was one more thing."

Arthur cuts his eyes sideways toward Cobb, then to Mal. Then to Eames, where he meets his gaze steadily.

"We found some things out," Cobb says. "We were doing work with some soldiers who had served, trying to help with the PTSD, and having some success. A few of them had already had some field training on the PASIV, what Mal was telling you about. It's not really that we went looking for this information, but when we were working with these men and women, their training was a large part of the trauma, in many cases. And without even meaning to, they would just spill information. Names, people, faces they had seen. What those people in power had gotten up to. And most of all, who was really in charge of this entire mess."

Eames sits back in his chair, his brain buzzing with excitement. Because if he's right—and he suspects he is—they they're really all here for the same thing.

"So, you know who's behind the whole thing with the military taking PASIV technology and using it for, essentially, torture. You're in a position to expose this person."

Cobb sighs and rubs both hands over his face, and through his bright blond hair. He's young, but he looks tired beyond his years. "Yeah, but we aren't in a position to protect ourselves if we did that."

"Unless," Arthur chimes in, finally, "we could get hard proof. Something physical, the actual documentation that no one would be able to refute. And we don't know where those documents are."

"But," Eames says, leaning forward now, into Arthur's attention, "you could get them, if you had access to the person responsible. You could extract the location of the hard copies." He suspects that Arthur knows what he's saying here. Because Arthur's already proven that he's good with remembering details.

"That's right," Cobb says. "We don't know how to get to that person."

Arthur just stares at him, quiet. Eames gives him a small smile.

"I think," Eames says, "that our objectives are the same. If I'm correct, the man I suspect you're talking about is the same one I need an extraction on. That's why I told Arthur that I needed a team."

All eyes are on him now, but he keeps looking at Arthur, because damn it, Arthur has known all along.

"Might this man's name," Eames says, "be William Everest Manwaring the First?"

"That's him," Cobb says. "That's the name that kept coming up. You're saying you can get us access to this man? To do an extraction?"

"My dears," Eames says, again really addressing Arthur, "I could walk right into his house. He's my father."

** ** ** **

You can also learn a lot about people by the way they make plans. Eames watches Arthur as they plan the grab on his father, and thinks that he would make a good point, someday. He's thorough, and even though his military background makes him uncomfortable, he still uses it to his advantage.

They're gathered around a little table at a tiny, pleasant cafe by the sea, the four of them. Arthur sits next to Eames at the red wooden table, his chair pulled close so he can look at the blueprint of his father's house, and the surrounding map. Mal and Dom are across from them. The sky is as blue as a dream, the salt breeze gentle, as the waves make quiet, 'shush, shush,' noises. Patrons sit around chatting quietly, largely ignoring them. A few people stroll quietly past on the promenade.

Eames taps his fingers on a blueprint. "I haven't been back there in about three years," he says, "so I'm not sure if he's added anything. I know he's got security cameras posted around the perimeter, and that everyone coming and going gets recorded on a CCTV."

"We can probably disable those, or at least one of them before we get in," Arthur says.

"Except," Eames points out, "there's a chance he'll actually be watching the monitors. He's got screens in his bedroom, and in the kitchen. If he happens to glance up and see one of them down, he'll call it in."

Mal and Dom look at each other. Dom seems to be weighing the risks versus the possible outcome. Arthur sits back in his chair and taps a pen against his bottom lip.

"That's why I'm going in first," Eames says. "Everyone already knows I'm on the run, so having my face show up on tape won't make much of a difference to me."

Arthur frowns and says, "Are you sure it's safe?"

It's not, exactly, because his father could make the call to turn him in before Eames even gets to the door. That is, of course, only if he happens to be looking at the CCTV when Eames approaches. And also, he would only do that after trying to see if there was anything in the visit for him. He might give Eames a chance to talk before he calls the police. His father is sadistic, but his violence has always been planned out and carefully weighed.

Actually, he wouldn't call the police. It wouldn't be that easy. He'd make the call straight to Prescott.

But hopefully by the time he decides to do that, Arthur, Mal and Dom will be in the house, ready to sedate him.

"It's the best shot we've got," Eames says. "I'll go in as if I've got something to discuss with him. Something important, information that he might want, perhaps. I'll keep him occupied, telling him that I've found something on Mal and Dom. He probably won't believe me, but it might buy you enough time to disable a camera and sneak in."

"Or," Dom says, "we could just wear ski masks and come in."

Eames has to fight the urge to laugh. When he glances up, Arthur's hiding a fond smirk by turning away. Mal and Dom might be great at what they do, but what they do is not this. They're civilians. He's not going to depend on them to take care of the practical parts.

"We're not trying to hide our identity," Eames says, "because when it's over, it's going to be obvious that it was us anyway. We're disabling the camera so that he doesn't see you coming. Even if he glances up and sees that the camera is down, he still won't know how many you are. And he won't see you coming in with the PASIV, that's important."

"And if he does see that the camera is cut?" Arthur asks. "What will you do to keep him in check? What I'm asking, Eames, is how you can be sure of your own safety. You're going in there with no backup."

"Well don't forget, darling," Eames says, "I have done missions like this before. And so, I think, have you."

"Not exactly like this," Arthur says. "I'm more used to just storming into places strategically, but ready to open fire."

"Can you cut a wire?" Eames asks.

"Well, yes, of course."

"Then you're good."

Arthur sighs, leans forward in his chair and says, "All right. Show me where we come in."

On the layout, Eames traces a route with his finger. "It's a spacious neighborhood full of rich bastards," he tells them, "so there's nowhere close we could park a car unnoticed, and I haven't got any new, unregistered ones lying around. So, we're going to park a block over, and then come through the woods out back, here. If all goes well, we'll walk out of there twenty minutes later, get back in the car, and go. No problem.

"Right here," he says, tapping his finger against the paper, "is the fuse box. My father will have everything marked, but he marks it wrong. Cutting the one marked 'CCTV' or 'camera' or whatever, will likely cut some other thing, that will alert him. He changes the labels every few months. The actual CCTV circuit is three down on the right side. Got it?"

"Got it," Arthur says. He's leaning in close, and for a second, their arms brush. He's probably not aware of it, but when Eames glances up, he sees Mal watching them with a faint smile.

Remembering the cool press of Arthur's lips on his the other day, Eames knows he's got to shut this down, now. Ever so slightly, he angles away from Arthur. If Arthur notices this, he doesn't show it.

"Assuming that when we get there he doesn't have guards posted," Eames goes on, "I'm going straight in the front door. You lot will go around the back, where the kitchen is. There's a door to the pantry. Do not force the lock. It will set off the alarm."

"Any windows?" Arthur asks.

"Yes, a large one in the kitchen. It's August, so he'll have it open. He's got glasses lined up on the sill, so pull the screen out, and do try not to knock them over as you come in. Then go to the pantry, unlock the door, and let them in." He indicates Mal and Dom with a nod of his head.

"And you'll have him, where, in the living room?" Dom asks.

"Yes, and I'll try to get his back to the kitchen. He won't take any drinks I offer, so you're going to have to do it the old fashioned way: by jamming him with a hypodermic."

"I'm not as quick as I was," Arthur says, "but I think I can manage."

"You can. He's got a bad hip, so he won't be running too far. Even if he sees you coming, you'll still be able to grab him."

"And then we go in the dreamscape," Mal says, finally in her element. "I'll build. Dom, you will do the extraction and Arthur and I can will hold off the projections. Can you do that, Arthur?"

Arthur nods.

"His projections are going to be tough," Eames warns.

"The compound will be safe enough that any of us will just wake up if we die in the dream," she says. "And then go back under as many times as it takes."

Dom leans forward in his chair and says, "Let's do two levels."

"Unheard of," Eames says. "It's too unstable. Everything will fall apart."

Now, Mal and Dom share a knowing glance. Arthur smiles and sits back, self satisfied. It's a weird feeling and Eames doesn't like it. Arthur was one of his just a moment ago, and with that little smirk, now he's back with them.

"You wanted the best, Eames," Arthur says.

"Yes, and?"

"Oh, this is cruel," Mal says. She reaches across the table and takes his hand. "Darling, how did you get here?"

The realization crests slowly. He didn't get here at all. The last thing he remembers before this was sending his Mum to her friend's house, and the four of them settling down on the floor of the sitting room. He scrubs his hand across his mouth, a little awed, a little stupidly betrayed. But more than anything, hopeful.

They are good. If they could make him forget, then they have a chance with his father. A bloody good one.

"We'll have to get him a totem," Dom says.

"What?"

"Let's wake up and go over it one more time," Arthur says.

Dom and Mal both groan.

 

Later, Eames will appreciate a lot of things about how Arthur prepares for this job, including his need to go over everything "just one more time." It's a good quality to have, even if it annoys everyone else.

He'll appreciate it, even admire it, but it still won't matter.

The night of the mission, everything is in place. They park the car and make it to the woods behind his father's house with no problem. Mal and Dom are antsy; Dom keeps looking around with his eyes narrowed, like he thinks something is going to leap out at them at any second. The two of them carry the PASIV between them, its metal case bumping against their knees as they walk in sync. They have an older model, bigger than the streamlined one the military uses.

He and Arthur walk ahead. The mile-long runs they've been doing have helped, although he can tell that Arthur's leg feels stiff about halfway through the trek on uneven ground. Arthur says nothing about this, and doesn't ask to rest.

When they get to the clearing, they take a moment to look at the back of the house. The kitchen light is on. Eames sees his father's silhouette pass the window once, twice, and then disappear into the next room. He releases a breath and counts to five.

"The circuits are around the west side, like we went over," he says to Arthur. "Give me two minutes to get to the front door, into the house, and to get him talking. Two minutes, Arthur, got that?"

"Got it."

"Mal, Dom, wait here for Arthur to unlock the door and signal you. Don't come out of hiding until then."

They nod in unison.

Before he leaves, Arthur takes his arm and says, "Eames. Umm. Good luck." It's awkward and unnecessary, but something that Eames will remember later, and wonder if Arthur had some kind of gut instinct.

It goes well as he makes his way round the house and to the front door. He knocks, like he belongs there, and hears the old may say, "Coming, coming."

It even goes well when his father opens the door and says, "Ah, William." He doesn't seem too surprised, and that puts Eames on edge, but then he's never known precisely what to expect from his father.

"Hey," Eames says. "Can I come in? It's important. And I'd rather not stand outside," he adds, casting a paranoid glance around to acknowledge that he's a wanted man.

"Ah, yes," his father says, standing aside. "That mess you've gotten yourself into."

"You know about it," Eames says, part question, part statement. Of course his father knows about it. He's fucking part of it.

"I know some," he says.

So far, so good. By now Arthur should be cutting the CCTV, if his mental time-keeping is correct. He can't risk checking his watch.

"I could use a bit of help, actually," Eames says. He follows his father into the sitting room, which looks the same as it always did. Untouched cabinet full of high end alcohol. Startled looking dead deer head. Too tidy. This room fills him with loathing.

"And you thought you'd ask me?" his father says.

"We both know you've got more power than I do. You have connections. And I didn't come empty handed; I'm willing to offer you some information, if it will get me out of this shit mess."

"Ah. Well," his father says, "I've been reading a bit about your 'shit mess,' as you say. It's all on paper, here." He turns to his desk and opens it.

Eames thinks: of course the old man knows exactly what's going on. This charade with him having "documents" is ridiculous. He's orchestrated the whole thing. But, let him pretend, if that's what he's got to do.

Arthur should be coming in through the window now, so thus far, all is going well.

Until Eames's father turns around, not with a handful of papers, but with a rifle.

"Can't help you," his father says, and pulls the trigger.

Eames falls back with the impact, into the tacky glass lamp he's always hated. He takes it, and the table it was on, down with him. His entire side feels cold, and then extremely hot. And then wet.

He's got to try to get up, at least, before the old man gets in another shot. His father is leaning over him, aiming the rifle again.

Beyond him, Eames sees Arthur come running through the kitchen door. He makes the rookie mistake of shouting, "Fuck, Eames!" and thus alerting his father to his presence.

Eames groans and falls back, but not before catching a glimpse of his bloody shirt.

Eames's father turns toward Arthur, startled. He takes aim, but doesn't fire. Arthur must have been quicker. Eames can't see what's going on—realizes that his eyes are closed and he's losing consciousness—but he doesn't hear another shot.

The next thing he hears is Arthur's voice.

"Shit. Shit. Fuck. Eames, hang on. I've got you."

He opens his eyes and Arthur's face comes into focus. He feels Arthur's hands on him, prodding, tugging at his shirt. Arthur says "shit," and then slides an arm under his back.

Then, with strength that can only come from adrenaline, Arthur is lifting him, like he's a child, and carrying him.

Eames hangs on, twines an arm around Arthur's shoulders, and lets the darkness cover his eyes.

** ** ** **

Chapter Text

Arthur is in the pantry, opening the door, when he hears the shot. He doesn't check to see if Mal or Dom are following him. They're civilians, he has no backup. He doesn't check to see if the scene is clear; he realizes this a second after he gets into the sitting room.

He sees Eame's father with the gun, sees Eames down, shouts his name—mistake--and almost takes the next round.

But Eames's father is slow. Arthur gets a good look at blue eyes, strangely blank, a quick look at the weapon, and then he snaps his hand out to grab the barrel. The old man is startled enough that he doesn't pull the trigger. He keeps his grip on it, but Arthur uses the shotgun to pull him closer and turn him around. He gets an arm around the old man's throat.

Sleeper holds, he learns, are easier to do right on a sparring partner who isn't trying to kill you. His technique breaks down quickly; he knows he's crushing the trachea instead of knocking him out. He can hear it. Eames's father drops the weapon and throws his head back, hitting Arthur in the chin and making his teeth clack together.

Dom and Mal run into the room and he can read their faces: How did it go wrong so fast? The same way, Arthur thinks, that all of these situations do.

"Hold him," Dom says as he approaches.

"I am," Arthur grits out.

Mal, all wild eyes now, pulls out her needle and tells Dom, "Grab his legs!"

Dom does. Eames's father struggles, trying to kick, to headbutt, to reach back and claw Arthur's eyes. He gets a good scratch on Arthur's cheek before Mal manages to jab him with the needle.

Arthur eases up slowly. They need him alive. He holds on until he feels the other man's weight sag against him, and then pins his arms.

"Get him tied," Dom says, "just in case."

Arthur throws the zip ties to Mal. He has more important things to do now and they can handle it from here.

The sight of Eames covered in blood knocks him right back to the night of the car-bomb, and William—his William, their William—begging "Please, help me." For about ten seconds, Arthur just stands there, staring and shaking. Then he gets to his knees beside him and lifts the hem of his shirt.

The blood makes it hard to see the damage. His hands are shaking and he can't move fast enough, he knows he's babbling, "Shit, fuck, Eames, fuck, fuck," or something like that. He has to use the shirt to wipe some of the blood away. When he does, he sees not the large, gaping wound he'd expected to see, but rather a handful of small, round holes in Eames's side.

Eames's eyes are open, shocked, looking at him. He looks back, holds his gaze for a second. Shards of glass from the broken lamp stick to Eames's hair. He's probably lying in a pile of it, actually. And it's too fucking dark to actually see the wounds, see what he's got to do.

He mutters, "Shit," and gets his arms under Eames's body. He'd seen a long, wooden table in the kitchen, and bright lights. Good enough.

He lifts Eames awkwardly, and makes it about halfway to the kitchen before his arms start to shake and cramp up. "I've got you," he says anyway, "I've got you."

Dom comes up beside him and takes half of Eames's weight.

"Kitchen table," Arthur says.

Eames groans when they put him down on it. Arthur can't think, he needs scissors to cut the shirt off, a cloth to wipe the blood, disinfectant...

"We're ready to go under," Dom says.

"Fuck off," Arthur tells him. And then, immediately, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean... I'm sorry. I can't go under, someone has to stay topside with him. To help him. And he can't look out for us like this. I have to watch the house, make sure no one comes in. You have to do it without me."

Dom looks stressed, pale under the bright lights. He's shaking, too.

"Right. We'll try it for ten minutes, first. If we get kicked, we'll go back in."

"We're gonna have to get him out of here," Arthur says.

"We'll get it as fast as we can, Arthur. We didn't think this kind of thing..."

"Nobody can plan for things like this, Dom, of course we didn't expect it. It happened, and we still have to finish the job, or you and Mal pretty much have to go on the run for good. We're here to work, and we still have to do it. So go do what you do, and I'll handle Eames and watch the house."

Dom nods, eyes and mouth tight, before leaving them alone.

Arthur turns back to Eames, surprised to see him with his eyes open, watching him. "Arthur," he says, his voice faint.

"Hey, it's okay," Arthur says. He doesn't know where to put his hands now that Eames is looking at him. Awkwardly, he grips Eames's shin and gives it a squeeze. "It's okay, Eames, it's birdshot."

Eames strains to lift his head, trying to see. Of course he can't, but he gives a small laugh before dropping his head back to the table.

"Of course it is," he says. "Quail. He hunts quail."

"Right." Arthur is still in a quiet panic, his mind screaming things like 'septicemia' and 'peritonitis' if he doesn't get the pellets out, and the possibility of any of them being near a big blood vessel. "I need you to tell me where your Dad keeps a med-kit or something."

"Probably... bathroom 'round the corner, under the sink."

"Okay. Don't try to get up, okay? I'm going to sweep the doors real quick on my way. Just stay there."

Eames gives him a wave and closes his eyes, breathing shallowly.

Arthur checks the back door, then crosses the sitting room where he sees Dom, Mal, and Eames's dad on the floor, already in the dream. There's a very telling ring of bruises around the father's throat. Seeing them satisfies him in an unexpected way. He checks the front door, finds the bathroom, and gets the kit from under the sink.

It's a good kit, with antibiotics, sutures, painkillers, pretty much everything he thinks he needs. Arthur thinks the old bastard probably kept kits like this around for years, in case he fucked up his wife and kid too badly and was afraid to take them to the hospital.

He checks outside the windows before going back into the kitchen.

Eames looks pale, his lips bloodless under the bright lights. His blood has pooled on the table and is starting to drip onto the floor. Arthur will clean it up later. Eames opens his eyes and quietly tracks Arthur's movements as he sets the kit on the counter.

"Are you going to fish around in me for those pellets?" Eames asks.

"Umm, I think I have to."

"Are you a field medic? I didn't see that in your dossier."

"Well, no," Arthur says, "but I know a little. Enough, I think."

Eames laughs a little, again, and says, "Christ."

"Right, no pressure," Arthur says.

He tries not to look at Eames as he opens both sides of his shirt. The tiny wounds are oozing steadily at a quick rate, and already showing angry bruising around them.

"He was pretty far from me when he fired," Eames says. "And I turned. How many?"

Arthur wets a cloth and wipes the blood away for a better look. Eames remains quiet, but holds his breath. "Looks like about a dozen," Arthur says. "Mostly on your side. A few in your arm, I think. Eames. Sorry to tell you this, but your Dad is an asshole."

That earns him another small laugh.

"By far not the worst he's done," Eames says.

"I'll bet."

With the blood cleaned up for now, Arthur takes a pair of long, curved tweezers and wipes them down with Betadine. He's really not ready to do this. As soon as he gets close to Eames with them, he feels dizzy. He's had a little field training, but he doesn't know where all the arteries and veins are. Still, there's no way they can risk a hospital. He takes a deep breath and shakes his head to clear it.

"Ready?" he asks.

"Oh, never ask me that," Eames answers. He raises his hand and snakes it behind Arthur's waist, then grips his shirt tight and nods.

A weird, strangely intimate feeling surges up through Arthur at that, entirely inappropriate. It makes him want to take care of this, take care of the whole situation, take care of Eames. He can still hear William saying, 'Help me, Arthur,' and the sound of it in his head makes him sick. He's going to help Eames. He's not going to fail.

Eames tenses and grunts when he sticks the tweezers in, but holds perfectly still. Arthur murmurs "Sorry," and tries to be quick about it. The tweezers scrape against metal. It takes him a few tries to grab it. He plucks it out, and sets it on the counter.

"There," he tells Eames. "That's one down. Not so bad, right? Easy. Eggs in the soup."

Eames's hand tightens on his shirt even though Arthur hasn't gone back to the task yet. He glances up to see if something's wrong, and finds Eames frowning at him, looking perplexed and a little stricken.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Mmm," Eames says. Then, softly, "I keep trying to figure out where I might have seen you before all of this."

Arthur shrugs and goes back to the wounds on Eames's side. The question gives him pause. He's never thought about it before. There is something familiar about Eames, but it's unlikely that they would have run into each other.

"If you were in Mal's head," he says, going for the next pellet, "maybe you saw her projection of me. And maybe I saw her projection of you, too."

Eames doesn't answer. Arthur gets the next pellet out and puts it aside. When he leans over Eames again, Eames's hand leaves his shirt and slides up his back, to his shoulder. It's distracting. Arthur doesn't know what that's about. And then, a moment later, Eames's hand skims up his neck, to the side of his head, and brushes his hair behind his ear.

Arthur glances up at Eames, flustered and really fucking confused. He can't be dealing with this while he's digging birdshot out of him. He can't deal with it ever, really.

Eames's eyes look far away, soft, regretful. "I can't fall in love with you," he whispers. "I just can't."

Arthur ducks his head and goes back to focusing on his task, cheeks burning. The blood is easier to look at than Eames's eyes. "Didn't ask you to," he says. "I said I was sorry about the other day."

"Don't be," Eames tells him. His hand goes to the back of Arthur's neck and twines in his collar, gripping hard as Arthur goes looking for the next pellet.

"You are a lovely man," Eames says. "And I'm sorry that I can't--"

"Just forget it," Arthur says. No one has ever called him "lovely" before. Well, apart from Mal. And anyway, he knows British politeness when he hears it, and 'you are a lovely man, but...' is the epitome of it.

"Yes," Eames says, his voice soft. "Let's forget it."

Arthur gets back to work, digging a few more pellets out. He's quicker about it now, a little more confident. He hasn't hurt Eames so far, or accidentally plucked out any major blood vessels, so maybe this will be okay.

Then Eames says, "I hate to tell you this, Arthur, because it's incredibly awkward, but I think there are some in my thigh, as well."

Arthur looks up at him, down to Eames's pants, then back to his face.

"Rotten luck," Eames says.

"Do you want me to..." Arthur gestures at his pants.

"If there was any other way, believe me," Eames says.

He feels his face heat up again, which is ridiculous. He's been to war, he's been stripped down and "interrogated," and people have been inside his memories, watching him get laid during his leave. There should be nothing left in the world that can make him blush. Eames somehow manages.

"I can put something over you," Arthur says. "I'll get a towel or something to cover you up and then..." The first thing he grabs is a dish towel off the oven rack.

Eames laughs and says, "Arthur, really. Perhaps something bigger."

"Jesus Christ," Arthur mutters, exasperated with himself, and with Eames for laughing about it.

"Cupboard in the pantry," Eames says. "There are blankets in there."

For a second, Arthur considers saying, 'You need an entire blanket?' but he thinks better of it, and goes to retrieve it.

When he gets back, Eames has his belt and his pants undone, and is struggling—painfully--to wiggle them down his hips.

Arthur is quick to cover him up. "Let me just... Hang on. Just let me." He sticks his hands under the blanket and hooks Eames's pants and underwear. Eames lifts his hips as much as he's able, biting his lip. Arthur tries to focus on anything but his face, but he doesn't miss how pale he goes when Arthur gets the pants down over his thighs. He mutters an apology as he pulls the pants off of him.

He peels the blanket back from Eames's thigh, and sure enough, there are some blackened, bloody wounds there, too. Mostly on the side, and a few on the front.

"I think one of them is deep," Eames says. "Might have hit the bone."

"Shit," Arthur says. "That's got to hurt like hell."

Eames nods, grabs hold of the blanket this time, and braces himself.

Arthur gets back to work. Eames stays quiet throughout, aside from taking deep, steady breaths. He gets them out, one after the next, and starts to feel hopeful. Mal and Dom should be done soon. Then they can leave.

"I think there's just the one left," he tells Eames. "It looks pretty gross."

"I think that's the one that's on the bone," Eames tells him. "Mind the blood vessels, please."

"Your mother is going to kill me," Arthur says. That gets him another soft laugh. "Taking you out here and getting you all shot up. Probably already past your curfew."

He's talking to keep Eames calm now, and keep himself calm. He can do this. He did the other ones, his hands are still steady, and the tweezers are pretty slim. It's not like he's going to go pulling his arteries out of his leg or anything.

"Last one," he says. "Easy."

Eames closes his eyes and Arthur places a steadying hand on his thigh. It'll be over soon.

That's when he hears footsteps behind him. Before he can turn, a man tells him, "Freeze."

The muzzle of the gun at the back of his neck convinces him to do so.

** ** ** **

Arthur doesn't even have a gun to drop, although if he had, he would have dropped it. He knows when someone's got the jump on him. And the guy behind him is good; he even backed away so that Arthur couldn't turn and knock the gun out of his hand. He puts down the tweezers and raises his hands.

"Step aside," the man tells him.

Arthur glances at Eames, who just nods, weary. When you're caught, you're caught. He moves to the side. He's just about to turn, to get a look at the guy when Eames says, "Clement?"

Clement, saw him briefly, one of the men in the dream room before they put me under. He's holding a gun in one hand, and Eames's father's rifle in the other. He must have come in the front, already seen Dom, Mal and the old man on the floor, and taken the weapon.

"Eames," Clement says, and he shoves Arthur out of the way to stand at the side of the table.

Eames lifts himself onto his elbows, his eyes wide and unbelieving.

"Jesus Christ, mate," Clement says, "what the fuck have you done?"

"Err, escaped with the mark and then returned to extract from my father," Eames says. "And then he shot me with birdshot, which Arthur here has been digging out."

Clement looks at Arthur, who still has his hands up and is trying to figure out what to make of the situation, since Eames doesn't seem too concerned. Clement looks like Arthur feels: confused as hell.

"You look a damn sight better than when I last saw you," he says to Arthur.

"That's because people haven't been kicking the shit out of me."

Clement holds his hands up, pulling his finger away from the trigger. "Hey," he says, "I'm no more responsible for that than Eames was. Might have even gone along with you if Eames had fucking told me what he was planning on doing."

"I wasn't planning on anything," Eames says.

"No? Just decided to scarper all of a sudden, no reason? Just had enough, had you? Fuck everyone else and..."

"William's dead," Eames tells him.

Clement raises his eyebrows, but doesn't look too shocked. If anything, a little angrier. "So that's it, then? The years we wanted out, it was always 'No, we mustn't, my father has me on a leash,' and then once you have nothing to lose, then it's as I said: Fuck everyone else."

"I'm sorry," Eames says.

"You're sorry? You fucking wankstain, you left me in that shithole without a word, you just..." He stops, rubs his hand over his face and puts the gun on the table beside Eames's leg. "What a fucking mess," he says.

Arthur doesn't know how to intervene, and decides it's better to just see how this plays out.

"Dare I even ask what you're doing here?" Eames asks.

"Your father's personal security since everything went to shit," he says. "There are five of us and we take it in turns, come through every half hour. You're lucky it was me, you stupid bastard."

"So," Arthur says, "if we're lucky, does that mean you're going to let us go?"

Clement looks from Eames to Arthur, like he just can't believe Arthur has the balls to ask him that. "Oh yeah, that'll work," he says. "I'll just let you run out of here, shall I? Tell them I was a bit too late? That'll cause me no problems whatsoever."

"Sorry," Arthur says.

"Look," Eames begins, contrite, and Clement tells him to shut up, shut up, let him think.

Arthur watches Clement pace the kitchen, watches his panic rise now that the shock of finding them is wearing off.

"Just what the fuck are you hoping to accomplish?" Clement asks. "What are you doing here, using Miles and Cobb to, what, extract information from him? Is that what's going on in there?"

"Yes," Eames says. "He's got the information that can shut down the military dream torture program. That's what Mal and Dom found out, and that's why they were—are—wanted. If we could find the hard copies of the documents, we could shut it down and my father would be tried, and maybe locked up."

"That's a dream, mate," Clement says.

"Not if we can prove it," Arthur says.

"And then what? Have you thought past that? Were you just going to stay here and upload it all to Wikileaks or something?"

"I do know how to run an operation," Eames tells him.

"Apparently not! Because you're lying in a pool of your own blood on a kitchen table, full of buckshot!"

"Birdshot," Eames corrects. "Are you letting us go, or not? Time is running out. I'd like to get out before the next watch."

"You sure as hell do," Clement says. "The next watch is Jenkens."

"Fuck," Eames says.

Jenkens. Arthur remembers hearing that name, and once he concentrates a little, he can put a face to it. A jarhead (or, he thinks, a boot-head since he was obviously British.) The point man on his case. Not nice. Well, not that any of them had been nice.

"Yeah, fuck," Clement says. He paces some more, then turns on his heel and points to Arthur. "You. Get your associates awake." He points to Eames. "You. I'm going to finish digging pellets out of your sorry arse and actually clean you up with Betadine, which your young partner here forgot to do, then bandage you up the correct way and we're all leaving together."

And that is possibly the last thing Arthur had expected to hear. He looks at Eames, who is looking back at him, eyebrows raised. He still looks a little bleary, but seems to be considering it.

Behind Clement, Mal walks into the kitchen, silent as always. She's holding a gun, which she must have gotten from the house, because he knows for damn sure she hadn't left with one. Arthur schools his features to show no surprise, to not give her away.
"Sorry," she says, "but no."

Clement grabs his own gun off the table and turns to her. Before Arthur even decides on the right plan of action, he's stepping between them, both hands held out. Eames starts to get up, but Clement says "Get back down there, Eames," without taking his eyes off Mal.

Arthur says, "Now wait a second, everyone. Let's just think about this for a minute."

"Apparently," Dom says as he enters the kitchen, "we don't have a minute."

"No, we do," Arthur says. "If we leave now, we'll have about, what, a twenty minute lead? We can spare another two or three to figure this out. And Eames still has a few pellets to get out. So why don't we finish that up, and talk while we wait?"

Slowly, Clement lowers the gun. Mal lowers hers, too.

Arthur lets go of the breath he was holding. "Right. Good. So here's the way I see it. Clement could have already turned us in. I'm sure it would have been easy enough to do while he had a gun on us. But he didn't." He looks at Clement to confirm this.

Clement nods. Then he picks the tweezers back up and braces a hand on Eames's leg.

"He could also call it in after we leave," Arthur says. "If we were to leave him here, there would be nothing to stop him."

Dom says, "But say we take him with us. What if it's a trap, Arthur? What if he leads them to us? Or leads us to them? Or has a tracker?"

"But why?" Arthur says. "It would be easier just to call them down on us right now. It's not like Eames can run out of here, and you and Mal are probably not finished up anyway. Did you get the location of the documents?"

Dom and Mal glance at each other, considering what to say. Arthur already knows they got as much as they're ever going to get.

"What if he's waiting for us to give up the information?" Mal asks. "Then once he knows what we know, he takes action."

And as always, Mal has a good point. But either way, they don't have time for this.

"I could turn you in," Clement says, still bent over Eames's leg. "But I'm not going to."

"I believe him," Eames says, his voice a little faint – unsurprising, since Clement isn't as hesitant about digging in as Arthur had been. "We'd always talked about cutting out." The next thing he says quietly, to Clement. "I would have told you if I'd made a plan."

Clement answers with a grunt, before holding up the last pellet and then ditching it. Then he starts cleaning Eames up, and he's not gentle about that, either. He hasn't got the time to be gentle, and Arthur considers how lucky they are that they broke in exactly when they did. They must have just missed the last guard, and the next one is coming soon.

"The information is on a laptop," Dom says, relenting. "The laptop is in a safe. We got the code for the safe, and the password for the laptop."

"It's in the cellar," Eames says. "Trap door in the pantry."

While Clement is busy taping gauze over Eames's side, Arthur takes his gun off the table. Clement sees him do it, rolls his eyes and says "For fucksake."

"Forgive me for not trusting you right away," Arthur says.

"You trusted Eames right away."

Arthur wants to deny that—he didn't have much of a choice--but he has no time to argue. Mal already has a gun, so he hands Clement's to Dom. "The three of you, then, go downstairs and get it. Me and Eames will stay up here and get ready to go."

Clement cuts him a glance that looks part annoyed and part knowing. But knowing what, Arthur doesn't care to wonder.

"Come on, then," Clement says. "Let's move."

Mal gently touches Arthur's shoulder as she passes by. The three of them disappear into the pantry, leaving him alone with Eames again.

"Are you sure about him?" Arthur asks.

"As much as I can be. We've been partners since we started. If it's a con, it's the longest one I've ever heard of."

Pushing himself up onto his arms, Eames swings his legs off the table. He holds on to the blanket still covering his hips. The blood drains from his face and Arthur gets an arm around his back to steady him. When Eames is sitting up on his own, Arthur gets him a glass of water. No use worrying about fingerprints and DNA now, with Eames's blood all over the place, and the fact that Dom and Mal have obviously been inside his father's head. He's not going to forget that.

While Eames drinks in silence, Arthur tidies up as much as possible anyway. There's just something about leaving that much blood on the floor that doesn't sit right with him.

"My trousers, please," Eames says.

"Oh. Right." They're lying in a bloody heap on the floor. Arthur picks them up and straightens them out. "Uhh. Do you need, you know, any help?"

"Maybe a bit."

Awkwardly, Arthur gets to one knee. He guides Eames's foot into one leg, and then the other, before hiking them up a little. He's not sure where to stop, but Eames takes matters into his own hands when the trousers get to his knees. Painfully, he pulls them up over his thighs while Arthur stares at the floor.

"Thank you," Eames says. "For everything."

"Thank you for saving my ass in the first place."

"Guess we're square."

Not exactly, Arthur thinks. Eames definitely had more at stake when he rescued Arthur.

Eames slides off the table and limps out of the kitchen, toward the sitting room. Arthur waits alone for a few minutes. Hearing nothing from the next room, he peers out of the doorway to see what Eames is doing, which ends up being nothing more than looking down at his father.

Unsure of what to do, Arthur shifts uncomfortably. Maybe this is a private moment, but he doesn't want Eames falling over, hurting himself, accidentally waking his father. Then a thought occurs to him.

"Eames," he says softly, "you know, Mal has a sedative she can give to him. I mean, something she usually brings along with her. It's a little unstable."

Eames turns to face him, questioning.

"What I mean is, sometimes it drops people down further. She could, you know, give him that if you wanted. To keep him under for a longer time. Much longer."

It's so difficult to tell if Eames is considering this or not. His eyes are suddenly sharp again, and inscrutable.

Finally: "No. No, I don't want him living out a dream. There are no real consequences down there. Let him wake up and face it. His ruin."

Arthur nods.

After a moment, they hear the other three coming back up the stairs. Eames takes one more look at his father, then they both go back to the kitchen.

"Got it," Dom says, with the laptop tucked under his arm.

"I trust you've all got a car somewhere," Clement says. "Doesn't look like Eames is up for a run."

"We got one," Mal says, "but it is quite a distance away."

"I'll manage," Eames says.

The four of them go out the pantry door and into the night. They've got maybe ten minutes to spare, and it's going to take up half that time to get to the car.

Arthur slips his arm around Eames's back, placing his hand high up to avoid the wounds. "Ready?" he asks.

Eames looks him in the eye and smiles. "Ready."

** ** ** **

Chapter Text

The five of them settle down together in an anonymous motel room for the night. It's not safe to go back to Rhossili yet, not until after they've used their information and gained a little freedom. So in the meantime, Eames is bleeding all over the bathroom as Clement changes his bandages without much finesse.

"Arthur wasn't bad as a medic," Clement says, poking around at some of the wounds. "Not good, but not bad."

"Damn sight gentler than you," Eames tells him.

"I should have left you there to bleed."

Clement is still stroppy with him, and Eames can't blame him. When he goes back to the day he ran, it's all a blur. He can't believe he did that and doesn't remember giving it much thought. Or really any thought.

"Perhaps you should have," Eames says.

"Don't be stupid."

"I have been stupid," Eames says. "All my life, I did everything under a sociopath's threats, and came away with nothing."

Clement tapes the last of the gauze across his side. "Wouldn't say that. You got a rare set of skills out of it. That's the thing about special ops going rogue, isn't it? They trained us not to get caught."

"I am sorry that I left without you," Eames says. "I just didn't have time. I saw things in Arthur's head, I knew he had information and that I could prove my case if I could get his help, and... Christ, Clement, the things they were doing to him."

"We knew about all of that, Eames, come on. You needed what he had in his head and you had nothing left to lose."

"I'm a selfish man."

Clement gives him the same exasperated look he's always given him, the one that says, 'You're so fucking ridiculous.'

"You need to stop using that as an excuse," Clement says. "What are you going to do with that kid when you're done with him?"

"He's an adult, not a kid and not some pet I picked up. He's a Marine, for fucksake. He can take care of himself."

"It wouldn't hurt you to have people on your side, is all."

Eames refrains from grinning a cheesy grin and saying 'But I've got you.' That bullshit doesn't work on Clement. So he keeps his mouth shut, and helps dispose of his old bandages and tidy up.

When they leave the bathroom, Arthur and Mal are lying side by side on the bed, attached to the PASIV. Cobb is sat on the opposite bed, frowning at Eames's father's laptop. But he's got it open and running, so the password must have worked. He looks up to acknowledge Eames and Clement.

With a nod toward Mal and Arthur, Eames says, "Everything all right?"

Cobb huffs out a short laugh. "They're talking."

Eames looks them over, searching for a family resemblance. Dark, curly hair, and long, slender bones. That's about all he can see.

Clement takes a seat at the small table that never houses anything aside from hastily tossed luggage and says, "Find what you need yet?"

Cobb doesn't answer Clement directly, but the look he gives to Eames in return is dark. "There's some documents, yeah. They're good - detailed, with names, dates, places, orders, hits and stuff. It's exactly what we need to wrap this up. But there're a few more files, too."

Eames takes a seat near Cobb on the bed and Cobb turns the screen so he can see.

Among the documents, there's a folder of video files called "Sessions." Each video is titled with what appears to be a name. With the sound down, Cobb clicks on one file called "Greene_L."

The man—presumably Greene—stands in the center of a cell, with both arms shackled to the ceiling, one ankle bolted to the floor, and one leg suspended by a chain behind him. His head hangs on his chest as he struggles to breathe. A bright light suddenly shines on him, showing sweat, blood and filth streaked down his bare arms and legs. He jerks his head up in response to something that Eames can't hear. Next, another man, a soldier, comes into view. He speaks to Greene. Greene shakes his head 'No.' The soldier slaps him across the face a few times, and then leaves the room again.

The file is over an hour long.

"That's enough," Eames says.

Cobb shuts the video off, looking like he might be sick.

"What is it?" Clement asks.

"Torture videos," Eames says, unable to manage anything above a mutter.

"We have to weigh the cost of making these public," Cobb says. "I mean, I've got it all on a jump drive as of right now, and we have to make the entire operation public, but we also have to consider the privacy of these people and their families."

Eames takes another look at the list of videos. The name "Calloway_A" catches his eye before he decides he's seen enough, and closes out the entire folder.

"What about the rest of it?" Clement asks. "Can't you upload those now?"

Cobb says, "I could do it pretty quickly, since they're mostly documents and photos. There's information in here that can—that will--dismantle the entire operation. I mean, this stuff goes deep. It's not just dream tech, it's everything that's connected to it, stuff that involves entire nations. There's stuff in here about air strikes, hits on civilians, car bombs..."

"Then we'll release that information," Eames says quickly, "and then notify the families of the people in the videos. They'll probably want to testify at some point."

"Aren't you concerned at all," Clement says to Cobb, "about how you'll be exposed, too, once this gets out? All of your research and your work will go public."

"I haven't done anything wrong," Cobb says. "I have nothing to be ashamed of."

Eames senses a little smugness in him. It's not quite obnoxious – yet.

Clement gives Eames a look that says he'd be rolling his eyes right now if he gave a fuck about how innocent Cobb is in all of this.

"Then let's..." Eames begins.

Clement holds up a hand and says, "Shh."

Eames grabs the gun Mal had taken from his father's house, and Clement draws his own. Cobb's eyes go wide and nervous; his mouth forms an unspoken, 'What?' He glances over at the bed where Mal and Arthur are still sleeping. His fingers hover over the keyboard.

"Go on," Eames whispers to him, "get started."

"Wake them up," Cobb says.

While Clement goes to stand by the side of the door, gun drawn, Eames takes his position in front of the bed. He leans behind him without taking his eyes off the door, grabs Arthur by the front of his shirt, lifts him, and then drops him back down.

Just as Arthur flails awake, the sounds of a lock being picked open come from the other side of the door.

** ** ** **

The treehouse is exactly as it only was, only bigger. Mal's legs stretch out longer, though not by much, and she still curls them under her as she sits on the beanbag chair. Arthur crosses his legs and leans back against the wooden slats.

Motes of dust dance in the sunlight. The angle of light changes depending on which time of day they decide on. Today, they've decided on mid afternoon. It's always summer.

Mal smokes a cigarette, which she only does in dreams now. Arthur fiddles with his water bottle.

"Do you know what's on the computer?" Mal asks, exhaling.

"Not exactly," Arthur says. "When I agreed to help, I figured you guys would just extract the information and then we'd have to look for a way to prove it without getting killed. I mean, we're still not in the clear for that. Even after we get the documents we're not out of the woods."

She nods in agreement, but seems unfazed.

"Why?" Arthur asks. "What did you see in his head?"

She takes a drag before answering, turning it over in her head. "I saw many horrible things. I saw some of the things he did to his son, which I will never tell Eames."

"No," Arthur agrees, "he wouldn't want you to be thinking of that when you look at him. But I guess he had to know that you'd see some of it when you went down there."

"He must have thought it worth it," she says, "for the rest of the information. It was his father who had William killed. I thought you would need to know that, Arthur. Perhaps knowing who was responsible might give you some clarity. That it was a specific murder and nothing you could have prevented. I don't know if that helps or not, but I thought you had the right to know."

Arthur takes a sip of his dream-water, swallows hard, and nods. He doesn't know if it helps or not, either. "Eames should know, too."

"I suspect he already does," Mal says. "Finding out about William was the trigger to his breaking ties with the military, and also going after his father. I would bet that Eames knew about it the moment he knew about William."

Arthur thinks back to when he met Eames in the dream the first time. Eames had asked him to freeze the memory in his mind, let him look around. Searching for clues. Which he had likely found.

"I have always liked Eames," Mal says. "He's very clever."

"Yeah," Arthur says, feeling like he's ten years old all over again. This, here, is much more like the conversations they used to have in the actual treehouse. He knows she's waiting for him to go on. Arthur doesn't, choosing instead to stare down at his water bottle.

Mal leans forward from her beanbag and smacks him on the thigh.

"What?" Arthur says. "Quit it." There's just something about being here with Mal, even as adults in a dream, that turns him into who he was before the war.

"You went running to him like he was a damsel in distress, Arthur. It was sweet, but careless. We had a job to do and you got emotional."

"He saved my life," Arthur says. "I mean he literally did, even after he got me out of captivity and I was really sick, he went out of his way. It was because he needed something, but still, you don't let that go unpaid. And now it's paid."

"And that's it?" she asks. "Is that really all? Because we're dreamers, Arthur. We have to be aware of our own depth and we mustn't lie to ourselves about it. Knowing yourself is the key to doing this work. Don't let that knowledge out of your sight."

"I won't," Arthur says, and silence follows, slightly uncomfortable. Then: "I did kiss him, though."

Mal laughs. "Of course you did, idiot. I would, too, if I could get away with it."

"Yeah, but it was a mistake. He didn't... you know, I was just confused. I shouldn't have done it."

"Well," Mal says, "you're both adults in a very intense situation. Perhaps the future holds something different. Perhaps not. Perhaps we all die before we find out."

"You've always been such a romantic," Arthur says drily.

"Romance can be fun," Mal says, "but we have to be realistic. Necessities first, wine and roses after, if there's room in life for them. And then in moderation."

Arthur can't help thinking how different she is from Dom, who walks around with stars coming out of his ass when Mal is around. Maybe that's why they're good together: they balance each other out, and dull each other's sharp edges to something more bearable. Mal, in their dream treehouse, is to Arthur the same girl who described how she stabbed a boy who pushed her too far. The same girl who said, "It felt good, hurting him." She's outgrown some of her anger, and she no longer lashes out, but the edges are still there.

Mal says, "Shall we try again? Falling?"

Arthur sighs and gets up. "Sure, why not."

He goes to the doorway and looks out. This treehouse differs from the actual one not only in size, but in height. It's about three stories off the ground. Enough time for him to try to get it right after he jumps.

"Remember," Mal says, "you're not going to feel it. Just breathe and tell yourself that it's okay to let go."

"Right." They've done this a hundred times and he still can't do it. He's jumped forwards, backwards, with his eyes open, with them closed, in a diving position, really every way they can think of, and it never works. Today, he's going forward again.

Arthur takes a deep breath and jumps. The ground rises up to meet him, but he doesn't feel the sensation that's supposed to wake him.

"Let go!" Mal shouts, and Arthur tries to.

But as soon as he nears the ground, he swoops back up and then he's flying – or really just treading air. He can never soar in the lucid dreams, he just kind of floats, walking through air like swimming through water.

Mal peers out from above, shaking her head. "Oh, Arthur. It would save you so much trouble if you could just wake up this way."

"I know." He climbs up through the air as if he's walking up steps in a pool. Mal gives him a hand up when he reaches her.

"Try again. One more time, then we'll quit for now."

Quit. Arthur hates leaving the dream early, having to die like that. It's unpleasant for most (though Mal never seems to struggle as much as anyone else,) but for Arthur, it's awful. He can't ever shut the dream-logic off. In the past, he's tried to shoot himself and then moved out of the way of the bullet, even when the gun is pressed right to his head. It's just, you can die in dreams, and not wake up. Or at least Arthur can. The only sure things for him are the timer running out, or an external kick. In dreams, his brain knows that his actual body is stationary, and there are no actual bullets going into him. He can even breathe underwater, because after all, it's dream-water, and his brain knows that.

But before he can worry about any of that, he feels a tug in his body that he knows comes from topside. Something pulls him forward, hard. Arthur stumbles into the treehouse, toppling Mal as he goes.

"What is it?" she asks, shoving him off of her. "Is someone...?"

Before she can finish, Arthur is tumbling backwards, out of the treehouse. He can't control the fall, flailing on the way down. He knows this is it; he's going to hit the ground.

Arthur jumps awake, gasping. His first thought is that he's finally done it, and all he needed this entire time was some external help, synchronized with his own intention. Even a slight sensation of actually falling backwards.

He looks up to see Eames above him, eyes focused, too alert. He's holding his gun, and handing another one to Arthur.

"Shit," Arthur says.

Beside him, Mal awakes with a lurch.

"It's Jenkens," Dom says.

Clement is beside the door, gun drawn. "The computer," he says. "It must have a tracker. Fuck!"

Arthur turns to Dom. "Are you uploading the information now?"

"Yeah," Dom says. "It's going to take a few minutes though." He brings the laptop to the next bed, clutching it in shaking hands, and stands next to Mal.

"Not sure we have a few minutes," Eames says, placing himself in front of both of them.

Arthur gets up and stands beside him.

They wait, motionless, and listen to the sounds of the lock being opened. Motel doors are child's play for special ops. Arthur glances at Eames, then at Eames's gun. The safety is off; he's ready to fire. Arthur is, too.

The door creaks open a crack and Jenkens's voice comes through, soft: "I'm unarmed."

No one believes him, but Eames says, "Come in," anyway.

The door swings open. Jenkens is so tall and so broadly built, he damn near fills the doorway. His face is still as impassive and cold as Arthur remembers it. His hands, however, are raised.

"Prescott's a minute behind me," he says. "If I'd known you were going to make a run for it, I would have helped."

It's a trick,, Arthur thinks. That's his first reaction, born of fear. In the second it takes him to access his gut feeling, and his logic, he knows it's not.

Dom and Mal hesitate. Clement has already stepped aside to let him in. Eames tucks the gun into his trousers.

"Then let's go," Clement says.

"How do we know he's..." Dom begins.

"Because," Arthur tells him, grabbing the PASIV, "if they wanted to take us all in right now, they could have. There's no need for this. Now come on, move."

It takes them a second, like it does with most civilians. They just don't respond to orders right away; they have to think about it first. No one's ever shot at them when they moved too slowly.

Arthur's got the PASIV, Eames grabs his go-bag, which has a few licenses and passports in it. Dom has the laptop, still open and running, and Mal grabs the go-bag that she and Dom share.

"I'll go first," Arthur says, and isn't surprised when Eames joins him.

Clement looks to Jenkens and says, "We'll take their six."

They hustle out of the room towards the car, a few yards away. Jenkens turns to close the door. It clicks shut, then a second later, a bullet tears through his chest.

"DOWN! DOWN!"

Arthur isn't sure who's yelling that, but he's not getting down, he's getting his team out. He grabs Mal and covers her, running, feeling Eames and Dom running beside them. Peripherally, he sees Dom still holding onto the laptop, almost curled around it as he runs. Eames is covering him.

More shots are fired and Arthur's not sure which side is firing. Then he hears Eames yell, "Fuck, FUCK!" just as he gets to the car.

Mal opens the door and slides in the back, followed by Dom. Arthur turns to return fire and cover them, but then he sees Eames running back toward the room.

Jenkens is down. So is Clement.

Prescott and a few other men, in full gear, are taking cover behind another car, some around the side of the motel.

"Eames!" Arthur shouts. He knows it's useless. Eames is going back for his partner and that's all there is to it. All he can do is wait, and cover him. Arthur fires a few times just to keep them in hiding while Eames picks Clement up.

It doesn't look good even from where Arthur is crouched behind the car. Clement is covered in blood, like Eames had been, but this time it isn't birdshot.

Prescott fires off a few more rounds, and so does Arthur. He's not feeling right now, not even really thinking. This is just the way it is. People shoot at him and his team, he covers them and shoots back until they can get out.

Eames makes it to the car and says "Jenkens is dead," before tossing Clement into the back with him.

Arthur gets behind the wheel, and Mal scrambles over the divider to the front of the car, giving Eames, Dom and Clement more room.

A few more shots are fired, and one hits the car, but Arthur speeds away into the night.

Dom says, "It's done," and throws the laptop out the window.

Arthur wants to turn back and see if Clement is all right, and ask where they should go for help. But then he hears Eames say Clement's name softly, twice. Clement doesn't answer. Eames doesn't say his name again.

** ** ** **

Chapter Text

It's been ten months since the trials. Ten months since Arthur has seen Eames. It's August again, late in the month when the angle of the sun starts to change, and Arthur is with Mal and Dom in California. These days they work together, just the three of them, trying new compounds and new techniques.

Eames had sat behind him during the trail, next to his Mom and Dad. They'd all left the room—Arthur included—when it came time to show the videos. Arthur didn't need to see it again, and he certainly didn't want his family or his friends to see them, either. The humiliating, pitying looks he'd gotten coming back into the hearing room had been bad enough.

And yet, Dreamshare had not gone entirely public. The courts had used terms like "dream therapy" and "dream training," and implied that soldiers had trained (and been tortured) by combinations of drug-assisted lucid dreaming and sleep deprivation. They had kept the PASIV technology largely under wraps. It helped that people did not, simply could not understand how it was possible.

But the trials had ended eventually, and that had been the last Arthur had seen of Eames.

Earlier today, as the three of them sat at a little outdoor cafe, Dom and Mal had announced their engagement. This had come as no surprise to Arthur, although he pretended it had. They had told him first, because, they said, he was important to them, because he was their family and they loved him and wanted him to be a part of their lives. All of which was quite nice. Arthur smiled, and congratulated them, and hugged them both. Mal had taken Arthur's chin in her hand and given him one of her knowing looks, under the pretense of rubbing her lipstick off his bottom lip.

When Dom excused himself to go to the restroom, Mal had told Arthur, "Go back to Rhossili."

"I did," he'd told her. "A few months ago. It's fine, Mal. I'm fine, you know that. You have more important things to think about."

"Try again," Mal said. "I'd like to work with him again, if you can find him."

After their lunch date, Arthur had gone back to his little apartment in California, opened a beer, and thought about what it would mean to go back again.

He had gone back to Rhossili, in fact, in the Spring. It hadn't really gone well.

Eames's mother hadn't looked surprised when she answered the door and saw him there. Instead she sighed, held the door open, and said, "Come in for tea."

Her hands were stained with ink, nails short and dry. He could remember them lingering on his forehead. She was wearing paint-splattered smock over her jeans and soft sweater. A few new paintings sat propped up against the floorboards. He wondered how many of them Eames had done, if any.

"You're looking well," Elaine said, as she led him into the kitchen.

"Thanks. That's due in part to you."

She tutted like it was no big deal – just his life, after all. But, that was her way, he guessed.

She put the kettle on and turned to him. "He's not here."

"I know," Arthur said. "I just wanted to see if he was all right."

"Of course he's all right. You know that."

"I just thought, you know, after what happened. His partner and everything."

She waited for him to go on. He didn't know what to say.

"He's not much for company," she said. "Always been a loner, you know, even as a child."

"Yeah, I just... Well, I thought I'd come by to see if he needed anything, or if you did. I owe you both a lot."

"Your debt is paid," she said. "Eames needed you to bring him a team and do a job. You did it."

"It didn't really end that well."

"And that's not your fault. Very bad men were after all of you, and Eames's partner put himself in the line of fire. You all did, but he was unlucky. Eames knows that, too." She poured the tea and sat down.

Arthur stared down at his tea cup. "That doesn't really make it any easier."

She reached across the table and patted his hand. "He will be all right, and so will you. But you've got to know, when my son doesn't want to be found, he's not going to be found. If he wants to see you, he knows where you are. I'm sorry, darling. He'll find you when he wants to."

So Arthur had left for home, and then months had gone by, and Eames hadn't found him.

Fuck it, Arthur thinks, lying on his sofa after his third beer and watching TV with the sound down. He's bored, restless, and doesn't know what to do with himself. But he knows he needs to do something about all these knots in his brain.

Go back to Rhossili, Mal had said.

Probably won't help anything. But can't hurt.

The next day, Arthur books a flight.

** ** ** **

The sun isn't as warm as it was the last time he'd stood here. He doesn't hear voices singing Rock Of Ages. Eames is not standing beside him. But the biggest difference is that Arthur isn't in pain or struggling to catch his breath. These days, his knee gives a twinge once in a while, and sometimes he has a shooting pain from his hip to his ankle, but it's not unbearable and it never lasts long. Maybe when he's seventy or eighty it'll be a big problem for him. Even the scars on his shoulder and hip will have wrinkles on them. He wonders idly what kind of man he'll be then, if he lives that long.

But the air in Rhossili still smells as sweet and soft as it always did to him, and the colors still look as bright. Eames had told him that Rhossili was his prison, that Arthur was just happy to be alive, and would get over its loveliness. But he hasn't.

It's early September, a few weeks shy of Autumn. Arthur has been here for three days, and he walks down this way every morning. If he walks far enough, he'll see Eames's Mom's house, but he's not going to. He already bothered her once, and she'd told him to basically chill out and leave Eames alone, and shooed him off. He's not going to bother her again.

It's enough to just be here again. Maybe this was all he needed, just to revisit this place with a clear head and a clear heart. It's more than two years now since William was killed, and almost a year since he'd seen Eames, or even heard of his whereabouts. After the trial, he'd followed the fate of Eames's father half-heartedly, glad that he would pay for his crimes, but not really interested other than that. He was only paying for what he did to the soldiers in dreamshare, and to William, not for the things he'd done to his wife and son. And even as Arthur had read the articles and followed the story, there had been no mention of Eames.

Maybe that's it, then. Maybe he's just disappeared for good, taken another name, and is off doing his own thing. That's probably how he wants it. Too many memories otherwise. Arthur was there when William died, and he was there when Clement died, and he probably knows too much about Eames's past for him to be comfortable around him anymore. He understands. He can let it go.

Arthur exhales the breath he'd been holding and sits down on the soft grass, looking out at the water. Yes. It was enough just to come here. He's letting himself be lulled by the waves when he hears the sound of someone jogging towards him. He glances up and sees a tall, lanky man in running shorts coming his way. He nods in acknowledgment and goes back to looking at the water. But then the footsteps halt beside him.

"Hey," the man says, "you Arthur then?" His accent is Welsh, long vowels and hard consonants.

Arthur stands up. He's got a gun under his jacket. "Yeah?"

"Right, was told to give you this, mate." He hands Arthur a small piece of paper. "Cloak and dagger shit, like."

Arthur unfolds the paper. He doesn't know Eames's handwriting, but who else could it be from? "Who's gave you this?" he asks. Because he's not in the clear yet and probably never will be. There will always be people after him—and Dom, and Mal—for their involvement in bringing down the military's rogue dreamshare program.

"Dunno mate, he asked me to give it to Arthur, described your look, and then he took off."

Arthur scans the horizon where the jogger had come from and thinks about giving chase. "What did he look like?"

"Girly lips."

Arthur just laughs. "And what did he say I looked like?"

"Like yourself," the jogger says. "Go back the way I came and maybe you can catch him, yeah?"

"Yeah," Arthur says, although he has no plans to do that. "Thanks, man."

With a nod, the man jogs off, down toward the water. Arthur looks at the note, hastily scrawled out in big, looping letters. It's a location and a time: A cemetery in London, tomorrow, at noon.

** ** ** **

The cemetery is not what Arthur thought it would be. When Arthur thinks of London, and graveyards, he thinks of slightly overgrown places, with ancient grave-markers, statues, and, well... style. Instead, this place is just made up of tidy rows of entirely uniform headstones. It looks sterile, factory-made, and cold. Some graves have flowers on them, but aside from that, there is nothing to distinguish one from the other. Strangely, that depresses him.

He'd spent the night giving some thought to why Eames would chose a cemetery, of all places, to meet with him. He can't come up with anything. The other option is that it's not Eames at all waiting for him here, that someone else had paid the jogger to tell Arthur he'd gotten the message from a guy with "girly lips." Which is why Arthur's got his gun in his holster, and the holster unclipped. However, there's nowhere for him to take cover, not unless he wants to be ridiculous and crouch down behind one of the graves.

Then he sees Eames walking up the long walkway. Even in casual jeans, jacket and a ridiculous baseball cap, he's easily recognizable. He stops when he sees Arthur, stares for a second, and then beckons.

And just like that, Arthur thinks, I'm over it.

He'd waited almost a year to see him again, just to see if he was all right, if he needed anything, even just to talk. And now Eames is a few yards away from him, walking in the other direction, and Arthur realizes this was all he needed. Just to know he was still alive. By all rights, Arthur should walk away. Eames's mother was right: his debt is paid. He doesn't owe Eames anything.

Still, he didn't come out here for nothing and he doesn't want to be a bastard, so he follows.

He's only a few feet behind, when Eames comes to a halt in front of one of the graves. Arthur stands behind him, waiting for him to say something, when he looks down and sees the name "WILLIAM ASHFORD."

Oh.

And with that, he's right back at that night, with William in his arms, William with fire creeping up his skin, bleeding, saying 'Arthur, help me.'

And then, something in him settles. That night was only one moment in time, a moment that is over and can never return. The man responsible for it was caught. Arthur did his job.

"Just wanted you to see," Eames says. "In case you wanted to say farewell, or felt a need to visit from time to time." When he turns to face Arthur, there are no tears. He looks calm, maybe even peaceful. "Clement's over on the other side, a few rows down." And there – that's the look of a man who's lost someone. William might have been Eames's first love, but that had been ages ago. Clement was his partner, his best friend. Probably his only friend.

"I just wanted to make sure you were okay," Arthur says. "That's all."

"And I am." Eames gives him a small smile. "Well, aside from one detail."

Arthur raises his eyebrows expectantly, but finds he's not dreading the answer.

Instead of telling him directly, Eames walks a few rows over, toward the back of the cemetery. He's leading Arthur to another grave. Maybe Clement's. Maybe he wants to say something.

But the grave he stops at doesn't say Clement. It says:

WILLIAM EVEREST MANWARING III

The old man, Arthur thinks, but it's a fleeting thought, because the dates don't match up, and it's the third, and that's...

"Eames?"

"I had to do it," Eames says. "It was the only safe way. Obviously my father will never believe that I'm really dead, and I know I haven't heard the last of him, either. He'll only serve some of his time and then he'll walk away. But he wasn't the only one involved, and I had to go underground." He laughs a little at his choice of words. "It took some time, and a lot of work. No one in the world knows, aside from my Mum, and you. And probably the Cobbs, when you get back to the states, am I right?"

"Not if you tell me not to."

Eames waves his hand. "Nah, that's all right. Who are they going to tell?"

Arthur stares at the headstone. William might be no more than blond curls and long bones a few rows over, (and that makes his guts clench for just a second; he'd had sex with him, William had... God, no, stop,) but Eames is right here, looking down at his own empty grave. Alive.

"You all right?" Eames asks, probably picking up on Arthur's dark thoughts.

"Actually, I am," Arthur says. "I'm good."

Surprising him, Eames takes his hand and turns to face him. Then, he takes his other hand and brings them both up to his lips. Arthur stands there, dumbfounded, as Eames kisses both of his hands, lingering, and then rubs his cheek against his knuckles.

"I'm sorry," Eames tells him. "I'm really sorry for the way things turned out."

Arthur's palms are starting to sweat already, the sun feels too hot on his back all of a sudden, and this is all so awkward. "No, don't be, it's—it's fine, it's..." He doesn't know what's fine because he's not even sure what Eames is sorry for.

But then Eames drops his hands and instead cups Arthur's face in his palms. When they kiss, it's slow, supremely gentle, and nothing like the first time. This time, Arthur's the one who is surprised. Arthur's the one who is pulling away first. Arthur's the one putting a stop to it, because he knows exactly what kind of kiss this is.

"You are so lovely," Eames says.

Arthur smiles, almost laughs, and says, "Yeah. But."

Eames searches his eyes for a moment too long, frowning. Then he backs away a step, rubs at his forehead, and says, "Yeah."

"It's okay," Arthur tells him. "You don't owe me any excuses. You were right, last year. I was in a bad place. I shouldn't have put you on the spot."

Eames stares down at the ground. "No, that's quite all right. I understand. I just wanted to tell you..."

"You don't have to tell me anything," Arthur says. "You're off the hook. We both are. Okay? It's all cool."

"Good," Eames says. "I just – I'm not ready for anything. I don't want anyone to... Well, that's just the thing. I don't want anyone. You understand."

Arthur does understand. Perfectly.

"I'm not leaving dreamshare," Eames says. "I might lie low for a while. You might not hear from me. But I'll come back to it sometime."

"I hope you do," Arthur says. "Mal talks about you a lot. She wants to work with you again, says you were the best. I never got to see what you can do in the dream."

"Oh – yes you did," Eames says. "The only time we were down together, that day we broke free. You saw what you thought was your projection of Mal. That was me."

For a second, a small spark of rage ignites in his chest. It's just as quickly extinguished. It's no secret that Eames went in to trick him and then changed his mind.

"Right," Arthur says. "Yeah, that was good. I didn't see much, but."

"Right. Sorry about that."

They both look at the ground for a few seconds, before Arthur realizes that he's got nothing to feel awkward about.

"We'll work together sometime, Mr. Eames," he says. "Whenever you're ready to return. We've got a place in California and we're making some advancements. I think you'd like it."

"Yes, of course. I look forward to the day."

"Me too."

"Right. Well. I suppose I should let you go."

You already did, Arthur thinks.

"Thanks," Eames says, "for coming all the way out here."

"Well, thanks for letting me know of your demise."

Eames smiles at that. "I'll see you again, yeah?"

"Yes, of course."

Eames reaches out his hand. Arthur takes it. It's less a handshake, more a grip that doesn't seem to want to let go. On either side, maybe. But Arthur releases Eames's hand first. And it's Eames who turns to leave first.

Arthur watches him walk through the rows of graves, hands stuffed into his pockets. Then he turns back again and calls, "Arthur?"

"Yeah?"

Eames hesitates. Then: "Goodbye, Arthur."

"Take care of yourself, Mr. Eames," Arthur says.

When Eames turns to go this time, he doesn't look back. Arthur watches him go down the walkway, until he disappears behind the row of hedges by the entrance. He waits until he's sure Eames is gone, and then Arthur leaves, too.

 

--End

 

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