ext_49394 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
kiyala.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
shannys_corner2010-10-31 10:38 pm
kiyala.livejournal.com) wrote in shannys_corner2010-10-31 10:38 pm
[fic] I Howl When We're Apart
Title: I Howl When We're Apart
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kiyala
Word Count: 8,246
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: R (sex, a little bit of violence)
Summary: In his dreams, Eames is a werewolf. And he has Arthur.
Disclaimer: Inception is the wonderful brainchild of Christopher Nolan.
Notes: Happy Halloween! :D Not a complete AU but here, have some werewolf!Eames <3
Also for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
500themes #37 - wake up, the day is dying
The wind is cold, and twilight steadily approaches. The sun sinks slowly, and the sky is pastel pink, orange, yellow, and purple. Beautiful. Even when it’s reflected against the metal panelling of the cage.
Then again, a full moon is rising. Tonight, everything will look beautiful. Especially things that are already so devastatingly beautiful that they shouldn’t be real.
“Do you have enough food?” Arthur asks. There is meat that has already been set aside, and they both know this. There’s ample water, bedding, and everything else.
“Yes. I’m sure.” This close to the full moon, and Eames’ voice is rich with something beyond human. His pupils are already blown and he feels like he’s seeing beyond this world. Shadows dance with shapes, and he sees things that he knows he cannot explain to anyone who isn’t of his kind; colours that shouldn’t exist, twisting themselves across his vision and superimposed over everything else he sees.
For each second that passes, the line between this and the spirit world blurs. They begin to merge into one, right where he can see the overlap, and he exhales slowly, quietly.
Humans look so amazing like this, he thinks, tilting his head to the side. The way their spirits reflect their complexities, like puzzles within themselves. He’s not so different to them, and it’s something he’s never allowed himself to forget. He is human, but tonight, he is stripped down to something raw. Tonight, he will become the embodiment of pure instinct. Passion, fury, madness; wild and unrestrained, incapable of fully controlling himself.
That is why he has the cage.
That is why he has Arthur.
Arthur, who is not a fool, who knows—has always known—exactly what he’s getting himself into. He doesn’t stay down here on the night of the full moon because he enjoys it, and he doesn’t stay because he must. He has a choice; always has a choice, as he is reminded, month after month.
This month is like any other and every time he is reminded that there are healthier hobbies than watching over his lover’s transformation, he shrugs it off. He is here because he wants to be, and this, to them both, is the most important fact in this world.
“Look at you.” The sun is slipping away faster, now, and the ethereal beauty of the approaching night is visible to only one of them. “You’re so beautiful like this. I wish you could see.”
A bittersweet smile touches Arthur’s lips, and he glances at his wristwatch. “Five minutes until proper night.”
The transformation isn’t always immediate; it doesn’t start at a set time, but it’s always safer to be prepared.
“Have you loaded your gun?”
Anybody else would be distressed by this—by the simple fact that if anything were to go wrong…
But this is Arthur.
“Yes,” he says, and takes the gun out of his pocket, loaded with silver bullets, and sets it on the table beside him. There are also four silver-bladed knives concealed on his person, but he leaves them where they are. Another glance at his watch, telling him what the growing darkness through the window already indicates. “One minute.”
“I love you.” They both know it, but there is always—always—the chance that only one of them will survive the night. “I love you, Arthur.”
Again, there is the bittersweet smile.
“I love you too.”
*
The sun is rising, and Arthur blinks his eyes open, squinting against the light. His limbs are stiff and he sits up, stretching. He hates sleeping on planes, but there’s work to be done when he lands, and he won’t allow jet lag to get in his way.
There are still two more hours until he lands in Paris. He hasn’t been there since the inception job, three months ago. Cobb is at home with his children, so Arthur has taken to organising his own jobs. Ariadne is longing to build more dreams, but can only spare hours here and there between her classes.
He isn’t sure why he left a message in Eames’ voicemail telling him to meet them. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that Eames has already shown that he’s good at planning jobs. Or perhaps it has something to do with the way Arthur can feel his heart pounding in anticipation of seeing him again.
Not that anything has ever happened between them, but perhaps that’s the problem. If he’d just given in, perhaps he’d be able to get it out of his system. He’d be able to put it behind him, instead of spending three months looking for the perfect job; risky without being too dangerous, challenging without seeming impossible.
He checks into his hotel an hour before their organised meeting time. He showers, changes into another suit, and eats something light before making his way to the university. He’s timed it so that Ariadne will have five minutes after her class finishes to make her way to the café, but when he approaches, he finds her standing there, with Eames, talking and laughing.
Arthur’s breath hitches. He tells himself that it has nothing to do with Eames. And definitely not the fact that by some stroke of luck, the shirt he’s wearing doesn’t actually clash with his pants for once, and the effect is—well, nice. In fact, Arthur’s mind supplies him with several adjectives that go far beyond nice, but he forcibly pushes the thought from his mind and walks towards them.
Ariadne’s face lights up when she sees him and she runs over to him, tackling him into a hug. He laughs, surprised and pleased, and hugs her in return. Eames joins them, walking with his hands in his pockets, and when they look at each other, Arthur raises an eyebrow.
“What, do you want a hug too?”
“Is that really you, Arthur?” Eames smirks. “Have you actually found your sense of humour?”
“It was behind the couch all along,” Arthur replies dryly as he is pulled into a hug, and Eames claps him on the back just a fraction too hard.
It is Cobb’s style to hire abandoned workshops as a base of operations. Arthur, on the other hand, has hired out an unused office; a narrow, two-story building wedged in between two larger buildings, small but with enough space for the three of them.
They relocate there, and Arthur tells them about their mark; a musician who has stolen his band’s works-in-progress and refused to return them unless he is made the front-man. They brainstorm a plan quickly, then come up with more as back ups, and they’re done in an hour, having an extra half hour to catch up before Ariadne needs to return to class.
Arthur drives her to the university and Eames ends up joining them. Somehow, this means that once Ariadne is back in class, the two of them find themselves in the same café they’d originally met in front of, for afternoon tea.
Eames watches Arthur across the table, and puts his fork down, beside his half-eaten slice of black forest cake. “Why am I here?”
Arthur looks up from cutting his own piece of cheesecake and raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you too sober to be getting philosophical on me?”
“Hilarious, Arthur, I’m holding my sides. We have five plans, each with two alternates because you’re neurotic that way—don’t give me that look, it wasn’t a complaint—but, you see, none of these plans require me to do any forging, so I’m just a little curious.”
“Cobb’s not working any more,” Arthur says. “Not for a while, anyway. If I take Ariadne into the dream for another job, I’m fairly sure Miles is going to murder me in my sleep. I’m a point man, Eames. I need an extractor.”
Eames nods slowly and looks back to his cake. “That’s all?”
Arthur hesitates, because he knows there are two ways for this to play out. One; he admits that no, asking Eames to join him here has nothing to do with extraction and everything to do with how badly he’s wanted to see the forger, Eames acts smug and knowing right up until they’re in Arthur’s hotel room, and they both finally, finally come undone. Two; he admits nothing, and nothing changes.
“That’s all,” he says with a small nod, and hates himself, just a little. Eames looks up at him and there’s a look in those dark, blue-green eyes that makes Arthur wonder if he hates him too.
Then he smiles. “Always a pleasure to work with you, Arthur.”
Arthur doesn’t hold his gaze, and his cheesecake doesn’t taste as nice as it did just a moment ago. He stares at his hands and replies, “Likewise, Mr. Eames.”
*
They call it the cage, but this time, it’s more of a glass box, reinforced here and there with steel. The glass is thick and bullet-proof. There are gouge marks across its surface, where the glass has been worn down by claws. There are smears of blood across the glass, where claws have shattered, and the glass has been beaten upon by limbs that are half human hands, half wolf paws.
Even if Eames’ mind remembers everything after he turns back, his body does not. It erases the pain, the broken bones, and torn skin, and the entire thing is like a dream.
Eames stirs when he hears the locks on the cage open. Arthur steps inside, holding a blanket, and Eames feels self-conscious at the smell of blood that hangs in the air, along with something he can only describe as animal. Arthur ignores it all, he even ignores the flecks of blood on Eames’ face as he kneels down in front of him, draping the blanket around his shoulders and kissing him softly.
Eames’ responding kiss is hard and he takes Arthur’s face in his hands, growling at the back of his throat. He’s always unbearably hard the morning following a full moon; hyperaware and hypersensitive, to be returned to his human body. Arthur slips his hand between their bodies, undoing Eames’ trousers and jerking him off, savouring the low moans and hot breath against his collarbone.
“Arthur,” Eames says, his voice husky. “Arthur. What would I do without you?”
“You would manage,” Arthur replies into Eames’ unkempt hair. “You wouldn’t enjoy yourself half as much, but you would manage just fine.”
“I had the funniest dream,” Eames murmurs, showing no inclination to move from Arthur’s arms. “We were brilliant mind criminals. I was a forger and you were a point man. We were mad about each other, but we never fucked.”
“Hilarious,” Arthur kisses Eames’ forehead. “I’m holding my sides.”
“You never gave in. I could see that you desperately wanted to, but you never did. Why would you do that?”
“I have no idea,” Arthur replies softly, doing Eames’ pants back up for him.
“Hmm.” Eames kisses Arthur’s shoulder. “Me neither.”
Arthur has breakfast waiting for them upstairs and he stays within arm’s reach, even when they eat. The world seems somehow bland in comparison to what he remembers from last night, but he has Arthur now, and that balances things nicely.
They shower after breakfast, together, and Eames drops to his knees, swallowing Arthur down and sliding his lips across the length. He smiles at the feeling of the long fingers twisting in his hair, and doesn’t stop until Arthur is screaming, Oh, fuck, yes, and coming in hot streams across his face.
“I’ve wanted this since yesterday,” Eames murmurs reverentially, smoothing Arthur’s water-slick hair back and kissing down his neck. He always wants Arthur, and they’re both well aware of it, but there’s something about the full moon that only intensifies this, turning it into something wild and animalistic. He doesn’t let himself touch Arthur, then, no matter how badly he wants to, and Arthur knows better than to ask.
It isn’t that Arthur needs protecting—they’re both well aware he can take care of himself—but Eames likes to think of it as proof that he does have some self-restraint.
The day following the full moon, however, Eames doesn’t bother pretending. His nerves are raw, he has Arthur right there, and so he doesn’t even try to resist. Arthur, wonderful Arthur, understands all of this without the need for words. He pulls Eames into a kiss, moaning at the feel of his lips, teeth, and tongue. Eames pushes him against the wall of the shower and Arthur turns, his forehead resting against the tiles as Eames prepares him.
“Fuck me,” Arthur gasps, and Eames does just that, with a low, guttural growl.
*
Eames is late in the mornings, as usual, and it’s much more noticeable when it’s just Arthur by himself, typing at his laptop, and waiting patiently.
When Eames does show up, anywhere from ten to thirty minutes late, he never apologises. He does bring breakfast and coffee, though, and that almost makes up for it.
Even if he is primarily a forger, Eames knows enough to fill any role he needs to. Despite this, Arthur insists on doing test runs. There’s a risk to allowing Eames to extract from his mind, because the man is brilliant, and quite possibly one of the only people who could successfully find Arthur’s deeper-buried secrets. Arthur tells himself that they’re doing this because he has no choice; that if Eames just so happens to find any secrets—secrets that have to do with him—then, well, at least Arthur won’t have to deal with the embarrassment of actually telling him.
Fortunately—or frustratingly—Eames sticks to the task at hand, and doesn’t probe any further than necessary. Arthur hides a variety of useless information, and Eames finds it every time, no matter the landscape of the dream, and the projections suspect nothing. Part of Arthur finds it distressing every time he is reminded of how good Eames is at what he does. The rest of him finds it incredibly hot.
Thankfully, Eames doesn’t question Arthur’s motives for having him here any more (though he should, Arthur thinks, and were their positions reversed, he most definitely would) and even without Ariadne there to take the edge off their interaction, the way they treat each other is smooth and strictly professional. It is nothing like normal.
Arthur finds himself ready to yell at Eames for neglecting to do something, only to realise that it’s been done. He tips his chair back on its hind legs as he reads, mostly out of habit but partly because he’s waiting for Eames to do something, and yet Eames ignores him, focusing on the files he’s reading.
It’s frustrating, and Arthur returns to his hotel room to jerk off in the shower angrily, wondering what the hell is wrong with him, that he is craving all the tension between them that’s suddenly disappeared somewhere.
He had to get bored eventually, he tells himself, and he’s convinced himself that Eames is no longer interested, right up until the next day when they’re running more tests and he finds Eames flirting with one of his projections for information. An entirely irrational jolt of jealousy twists in his stomach, and then the projection is leaning forward, pressing his lips to Eames’.
When Eames breaks away from the kiss and looks over at Arthur incredulously, the point man already has his gun resting against his temple. He pulls the trigger, and the dream begins to collapse.
Eames gives him a searching look once they’ve woken up, but Arthur ignores him, not even meeting his eyes, and silently sets about packing away the PASIV.
“Arthur?” he asks, standing and smoothing his pants (which, once again, even a blind man wouldn’t wear with that shirt), “What do you want me to do?”
Arthur’s hands still as he recognises it for the loaded question that it is. Eames means the job, and he means much more than that, too. He watches Arthur with an intense look in his eyes and it’s impossible to look away.
Fuck me, Arthur thinks desperately. He pushes it out of his mind angrily and sighs, turning away, and glancing unnecessarily at his watch.
“I’m going to pick up Ariadne. Her class will be over soon. Can you get us some lunch by the time we get back?”
Eames sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You’re the boss, Arthur.”
*
“I had a dream,” Eames says, a small, ironic smile tugging at his lips. “A nightmare, really. In which you were an emotionally stunted prick.”
Arthur looks up from his book. “I’m perfectly capable of showing emotion. You would know.”
“Oh, I do.”
“It was just a dream, Eames.”
“Was it?” Eames pauses, the pen in his hand stilling. He looks down as the ink dries on the page, reading over his words, of full moons and sharp claws.
Arthur rolls his eyes and looks up, at the ceiling of the large library. “Don’t pretend you can’t tell dreams from reality. You’re the most grounded person I know.”
“That isn’t saying very much.” Eames grins and continues to write. “You know Cobb.”
“He’s better now.”
“I know that.”
“You know everything, Eames,” Arthur says, going back to his book.
“Yes,” he says, considering this. “I suppose I do. How dull.”
*
After lunch, they go into Ariadne’s dream because Arthur doesn’t like the thought of letting his projections back into Eames’ mind. Eames makes no comment on this, and they perfect the landscape of the dream. Arthur has gotten used to going two layers deep, and so the first level is a smoky bar, where they’ll knock the mark out with a drink and Arthur will stand guard while Eames takes the mark another level down, into a concert hall.
Arthur changes his clothing accordingly when they go into the dreams, and Eames never tires of commenting on the leather jacket and skinny jeans, but this time, he says nothing. He walks through the empty bar in a black tank and ripped jeans, cigarette dangling between his lips, and changing into a toothpick when Ariadne coughs and glares pointedly.
“So here, we engage him in conversation,” Eames says, his arms folded. “Talk about how great his music is. Kiss his arse like shameless fans we’re pretending to be. We buy him a drink, Arthur slips a nice little sedative in, and he’s out like a light.”
Arthur nods, sitting on a stool and absently turning from side to side, decidedly not looking at the curl of black ink over each of Eames’ biceps. Ariadne notices and raises her eyebrows is question. He ignores it. He doesn’t need to look to know that Eames is watching him; he can feel the burning gaze, and it takes all of his self-restraint to keep himself from looking back.
“We’ll schedule the job for next Tuesday,” Arthur says. “We’ve got a good time window in the middle of the day.”
“Good,” Eames says. “How much longer do we have down here?”
“Three minutes,” Arthur says, checking his watch and turning to Eames for a moment, attention immediately captured by the tattoo on his right arm; a wolf chasing the full moon. It’s new, Arthur knows immediately, thinking back to one time in Mumbai when they’d all had to wear short sleeves because it was far too hot and he’d been enthralled by Eames’ biceps, unmarked by any ink. He hates himself for remembering.
The three minutes cannot end soon enough.
“Show me your tattoos, Eames,” Ariadne says suddenly, ignoring the incredulous look Arthur shoots her. Traitor.
Eames is only too happy to show off. He flexes for her to show the tribal pattern that spans across his left bicep and tells her the story behind it. Arthur tries valiantly not to listen, but finds himself cataloguing everything he hears. Purely out of habit, of course. The tattoo was designed by Eames’ closest childhood, before the military, before all of this, who dreamed of becoming a famous tattoo artist. Eames had always promised to be the first client. Then, he was bashed to death by a gang, and Eames had dutifully gotten the tattoo done anyway, in his memory. There’s a hard edge to Eames’ voice, and Arthur has no doubt that however long it had taken to track them down, said gang members are no longer alive.
The story takes up all three minutes, and Eames never gets around to mentioning the wolf tattoo on his other arm. It isn’t until several minutes after waking up, when they’ve all gone back to their own work, that Arthur realises he’d been waiting for that story.
He doesn’t allow himself to dwell on it, and when Eames announces that he’s heading off, even before Ariadne does, Arthur feels relieved.
It lasts for all of ten minutes after he leaves, and then Ariadne turns to him.
“Has Eames been acting odd, lately?”
Suppressing his primary reaction to be defensive, Arthur raises an eyebrow. “You mean to say there are times when he isn’t odd?”
She rolls her eyes. “Come on, Arthur. You have to have noticed how he’s been keeping to himself lately. He’s usually loud and friendly—and he was, at the start of the job, too. Then he changed. Did something happen?”
“No,” Arthur replies, and thinks perhaps that is the problem. “Nothing, as far as I know.”
“You didn’t… I don’t know, break up or something?”
“Ariadne,” he says disbelievingly. “What.”
“Okay, I’ll take that as a ‘don’t rush us, we’re still dancing around each other,’ then.”
“Is that what you think we’re doing?”
It’s Ariadne’s turn to look incredulous. “You mean it isn’t?”
“Is it?” Arthur sighs and drops his head into his hands. “I don’t know, Ariadne. I really don’t.”
*
“I think you’re beginning to develop an addiction to this,” Arthur murmurs, as Eames writes.
There’s a fireplace in the library. Only Eames would have a fireplace surrounded by ancient paper. It crackles quietly and warms the place nicely, and Eames knows that the only reason Arthur doesn’t complain is because it’s a better alternative to being cold.
He doesn’t look up from the passage he’s writing. “Hm?”
“An addiction, Eames. I don’t think this is healthy. For either of us.”
Eames looks up this time, and Arthur indicates the silver case resting by their feet.
“You have to stop this, sooner rather than later. You’re the most grounded person I know. I’d prefer if you stayed that way.”
Eames smiles a little, placing his pen down. “You’re far too close to the real thing to let me have any fun.”
“I let you have plenty of fun. More than you would otherwise. Isn’t that the entire point?”
“Oh Arthur,” Eames chuckles and leans across, pressing their lips together. “You know me far too well.”
“Yes. Funny how that works.”
*
The job goes without a hitch, to nobody’s surprise. Ariadne is in class, so Arthur and Eames report to the band manager with the information they’ve found. She is pleased with them and pays them more than originally offered, which is entirely thanks to Eames’ charm. They need to meet with Ariadne that afternoon, after her class is finished, to debrief. Arthur suggests they pass their time at a restaurant, and it is so rare for him to be the one to suggest that they spend time together that Eames actually stares at him in surprise.
He covers it up quickly with a smirk, “A sense of humour, and now social skills. Who are you and what have you done with my Arthur?”
His Arthur. Eames’ smile slips, and Arthur turns, pretending for both their sakes that he hasn’t heard it. “Come on before I change my mind, Mr. Eames.”
They sit in a booth towards the back of the restaurant and Arthur waits until their food has arrived before leaning across the table and lowering his voice.
“I noticed in the dream,” he says carefully. “…Your tattoos were different this time.”
It’s only half true; the wolf was still there, but the tribal pattern had gone, replaced by an elaborate design with thin lines and smooth curves. But Eames doesn’t need to know that he’s noticed that.
Eames simply shrugs. “I picked new ones this time. It’s not as complicated as forging, Arthur. Almost the same as changing the clothes you’re wearing.”
“Do you even have tattoos? Here?” Arthur frowns. “You—you told us the story behind that other one…”
“Of course I’d need a story behind it. I’m a forger. It isn’t good practice to change how I look and not invent a story to go with it.”
“Did that friend of yours—”
“Ever exist?” Eames smiles. “No. But it made for a good story, didn’t it?”
Arthur isn’t sure whether he’s impressed, or wants to punch Eames in the face. Perhaps both, he thinks.
And he still wants to know about the wolf.
He turns to his food, ignoring Eames as he eats. Eames watches him with a curious look, which Arthur also ignores, until it simply bothers him too much.
“What,” he snaps, “Is the matter with you, Eames?”
Unbothered by the irritation in Arthur’s voice, Eames rests his chin in his hand. “Tell me, Arthur. How do you feel about fireplaces in the middle of libraries?”
Arthur stares. “Is that a serious question?—Actually, no. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know what goes on in your head.”
Eames opens his mouth to reply, but Arthur takes his phone out, his thumbs flying over the keys as he punches out a message to Ariadne.
You’re right. There is something wrong with him.
He knows that she is in a lecture at the moment, but her reply is instant.
Something wrong with Eames? Maybe you should fix it by asking him out ;)
He pales as he reads. Before he can reply, he receives another message.
Hahaha kidding! :D
With a sigh, he’s about to type, Good, when he receives a new message.
its v rude 2 msg other ppl wen ur ignoring me
He looks up, to find Eames watching him with a strange look in his eyes; part jealous—possessive—Arthur thinks, but he isn’t sure. He can never be sure with Eames.
There’s something about the way Eames is watching him that makes Arthur’s mouth completely neglect to consult his brain before saying, “Dinner, Eames.”
“Noun,” Eames replies. “A main meal, usually eaten at night. Also referred to as—”
“Have dinner with me,” Arthur clarifies between clenched teeth, because he knows there is no turning back. “Tonight.”
“Are you asking me out on a date?” Eames asks with a smirk. “Over a late lunch?”
“I could change my mind,” Arthur warns, because it’s just what he says on the rare occasion that he does what Eames—what he—wants.
“But you won’t. Shall we meet at the office at seven? Make our way from there?”
“Fine.”
Arthur takes his phone out again and types out a quick message to Ariadne.
Asked him. Going out for dinner tonight.
He sets his phone down on the table and waits half a minute. He receives three messages in quick succession.
OMFG.
NO WAY.
!!!! !!! :D :D : D Grinning way too much for an architectural history lecture.
Eames laughs softly. “Ariadne?”
Arthur doesn’t even try to hold back his affectionate smile. “Yeah. I think she’s been waiting for this.”
“Well.” Eames leans back in his seat and smiles. “So have I.”
*
“You’re upset with me.”
Reaching out, Eames smooths Arthur’s hair back. Arthur keeps his eyes shut and doesn’t reply. With a sigh, Eames rolls him over so they’re facing each other.
“You’re jealous.”
Arthur sits up and glares down at him. “Did you come here just to tell me things I already know? To tell me you won’t be back?”
“I will be.” Eames says firmly. “You don’t share very well, do you?”
“I don’t know how long it’s going to last. If he’ll actually end up being what you want.”
“Shh,” Eames kisses his forehead and strokes his hair once again. “Don’t worry so much, Arthur.”
Arthur smiles, just a little. “You’re the one who shouldn’t be so worried.”
*
Ariadne beams at them throughout the debriefing. It’s quite disconcerting, Arthur thinks, that she can hold her smile in place without her cheeks hurting.
Except he doesn’t really mind, because whenever he looks up and catches her smiling at him and Eames, the dread coiled in his stomach eases into something lighter; something that resembles anticipation.
She has to leave half an hour later, having gotten them both to promise they’ll stay in Paris a little longer, and that they’ll keep in touch. She throws her arms around them both in turn, and when she hugs Arthur, she hisses, “Don’t freak out. Promise me.”
Arthur doesn’t make promises he knows that he will break.
The two of them are left alone once again, two and a half hours until the dinner reservation Arthur has made, and Eames clears his throat.
“I’ll be off. See you… soon.”
Arthur nods, waits for Eames to leave, and then heads to his own hotel room to read and try very hard to keep calm.
*
“Will you ever come here again?” Arthur asks, curled up in the chaise lounge with a thick hardcover that Eames remembers stealing.
“Why am I being treated like I’m going to up and abandon everything today?” Eames grumbles, sitting back in his chair, opposite Arthur’s. “I’ll be back. Based on tonight’s events, I’ll either be back to thank you and say embarrassing things I’d never get away with saying otherwise, or I’ll be back here with a mind to never leave.”
“You can’t stay here forever—”
“Oh, Arthur, don’t be such a stick in the mud. I know that.”
*
Dinner is terrible.
The food itself is superb, but there’s something fundamentally wrong with the way Arthur and Eames come together. There’s too much invested in this one night, and they’re both far too tense, too defensive because of it. Their habitual bickering turns into snappish remarks by the time they’ve finished their entree, and when the main course arrives, they’re sitting in stony silence.
They skip dessert, because they can’t stand to force themselves through this any longer. They both throw money down on the table, not bothering to count it out and argue over who is paying for what, and leave without waiting for the change.
They part without words outside, because they’re both seething and, more importantly, they’re both bitterly disappointed. Eames hails a taxi and Arthur walks to his car.
He drives back to his temporary home and waits until he no longer feels the urge to hurl breakable objects at the wall before reaching for his phone.
Disaster, he informs Ariadne, an hour and two drinks after returning home. The only good thing about this is that they’ve waited until after the job, and he won’t have to see Eames tomorrow.
Her reply is immediate:
Oh no!! You freaked out didn’t you :(
He likened me to a machine, Arthur explains.
In a good way?
Arthur sighs. There is no such thing as a good way to be like a machine.
Ariadne calls him this time.
“You need to go talk to him. Face to face. Not to make you sound like a creeper, but you know where he lives. ”
She hangs up before he can protest.
He sighs and pours himself a glass of water this time. The worst part is the fact that she is right.
He drains the glass with one gulp and grabs his car keys. Fine. A conversation with Eames. He can do that.
*
“I love you. I’m mad about you.”
“So you’re going for the embarrassing things you’d never get away with anywhere else,” Arthur says. He isn’t reading this time. “…But things didn’t go well.”
“No, they didn’t. Not at all.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Yes,” Eames sits in his chair. “So am I.”
Arthur squeezes Eames’ hand gently, and uncaps the cannula from the PASIV device already sitting open on the floor. “Go to sleep. Sulk all you want, but there’s a timer on this one. You won’t stay down there forever. I won’t let you.”
Eames nods, feeling the needle enter his wrist. He shuts his eyes, and when he opens them again, there’s something in the air that tells him that it’s the day of another full moon.
*
Eames doesn’t answer his door. Arthur sighs and knocks again. When that doesn’t work, he glances down the hall to make sure he isn’t being watched, and picks the lock.
Walking into the room, he sighs loudly. “Eames, the receptionist said she knows you’re in here—”
He stops in his tracks. Eames is here; stretched out on the bed, eyes shut and head lolled to the side. There’s an IV line running from his wrist to the silver case resting at his feet.
Arthur knows Dominick Cobb, and even if his mental health has drastically improved since returning home to his children, the two years preceding that have taught one very important lesson: a single person hooked up to a PASIV when there’s no work to be done is never good news.
And this is ignoring the fact that when asked, Eames had said that he didn’t have a PASIV of his own.
“You’re an idiot, and I don’t even want to know what the hell is going on in your head,” Arthur mutters, even as he shrugs his jacket off and folds it over the back of a chair. He checks the timer and frowns, realising that Eames has only just put himself under. If he’d just hesitated a little less… He shakes his head. There’s no point in dwelling over that.
“Why the hell do you have to be so damn difficult?” Arthur grumbles, rolling his sleeve up and pulling another line out of the case. “You’re not supposed to be this stupid.”
He sits down on the carpeted floor, leaning back against the bed, and inserts the needle into his wrist.
*
Arthur opens his eyes to a large library. Shelves upon shelves of books reach upwards until they vanish from sight, and he’s standing in front of two chairs and a low table.
In one of the chairs, Eames is reclined back, asleep and hooked up to another PASIV. In the other, Arthur finds… himself.
“Hello.” The voice is correct, right down to the inflection of the greeting. “I was wondering if you’d come.”
“You’re a projection,” Arthur realises. “Eames’ projection. Of me.”
“Good to know my deductive reasoning still works,” the projection says dryly. “I know why you’re here. If you’re going to follow him down the rabbit hole, you might want to take a look at this book, first. To understand.”
“What?” Arthur frowns, looking at the large book lying open on the table. He recognises Eames’ handwriting; the rare, neat script he uses when he actually wants his words to be legible.
Reason for waking: Death. (silver bullets)
Transformation: Not painful. But strange.
Emotions: Wild, impossible to control. Lust, for both blood and sex (at the same time?)
“What is this?” Arthur asks. His projected self indicates for him to keep reading.
Another werewolf night. Arthur is beautiful (always) but even more so like this. Seeing him when I’m just waiting for the moon to rise makes building this world entirely worth it. The details change, the house never looks the same in two dreams, but Arthur is constant. He watches me turn from man to wolf and back, he stays with me through the night, always armed, always ready, always there.
“Werewolf,” Arthur says, shaking his head in disbelief. “What is wrong with him?”
“I have many theories,” the projected Arthur says, sounding resigned. “I don’t know if you’ve realised yet, but this entire dream—and the one below—they’re about me. You. Us. Because he can’t have you up there.”
Arthur thinks about that, and massages his forehead against the anticipated headache. “And… of course, he uses the dream to indulge his imagination. I take it that the werewolf thing is a metaphor. Shape shifting. Forging.”
The projection gives him a smug smile. “He’ll be so pleased to know you’ve picked up on it. Now, if you’d like to proceed…”
Standing, the projection of Arthur offers his seat, already holding an IV line. “I’ll warn you now. If you hurt him, I will kill you. It will be slow and very, very painful. I’ve been informed that I have more of an imagination than you do.”
The last thing Arthur thinks, before he slips into the next level of the dream, is that he’s certainly mastered his threatening smile.
*
He’s in an armoury, or so it appears. There is an assortment of weapons on the walls; innumerable cases of bullets and knives with wicked looking blades, everything glinting a bright silver in the afternoon sun that filters in through the window.
Half an hour to sunset, Arthur suddenly thinks, and glances at the walls, wondering if he’s meant to arm himself.
“Oh, so you’re here.”
Arthur turns around to see himself again, except this version of him is not wearing a jacket or vest, and has solid black suspenders over a plain white button-down shirt.
“Hello,” he greets this projection, and sounds exactly like the one a level above.
“I was honestly hoping you’d come,” the projection says. “It’s about time you see what you do to him. He’s been insufferable all day.”
“Is this about dinner?” Arthur asks, already knowing the answer. “That wasn’t entirely my fault, so don’t even try pushing the blame to me.”
“I’m not saying it is. He just… desperately wanted it to work. And it didn’t. He isn’t taking that very well.”
Arthur’s eyes widen in realisation. “He… really is in love with me, isn’t he?”
“He wants you. He’s obsessed with you. He loves me.”
“What’s the difference? We’re the same damn person.”
“We are,” the projection allows. “The difference is that I love him in return.”
“And I… don’t?” Arthur balls his hands into fists. He hadn’t meant that as a question.
“Do you?” Arthur’s most sceptical look is directed back at him. “Because if you do, then Dan—”
“Dan?” Arthur repeats.
Arthur only catches the quickly-hidden look of surprise because it’s his expression. The projection’s voice is smooth as always. “His real name. Daniel. I’ve gotten used to calling him by it.”
“Daniel,” Arthur says quietly, testing the sound of it on his tongue. He smiles, without quite meaning to. “He never told me whenever I asked.”
“I didn’t have to ask,” says the projection, and Arthur knows he isn’t being smug, but simply stating a fact. It doesn’t stop the surge of jealousy.
He draws the gun that is always hidden beneath his jacket, holding it to his other self’s forehead.
The projection sighs quietly. “Dream up a silencer. If Daniel hears, he’ll worry. He has enough on his plate; it’s a full moon night.”
Arthur’s grip on the gun tightens. “Where is he?”
“He’s in the cage.”
“Where?”
“In the basement. Now hurry up and shoot. If you haven’t noticed, it’s almost sunset. I—one of us needs to be down there with him.”
“You really do love him, don’t you?” Arthur asks, and shoots before his projected self can even reply.
*
His cage is made of old, iron rods, built like a prison cell this time. There are gaps between the bars, and his arms can fit through them, but when he grabs hold and shakes with all of his strength, it seems solid enough.
He hears the door at the top of the stairs creak open, and his attention is immediately diverted from the structure of the cage.
“Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,” he murmurs, gripping onto the bars, watching his lover descend the stairs and step into the pool of warm, orange, afternoon light filtering in through the tiny window.
Arthur gives him a searching look, and ventures a smile. “Daniel.”
Eames sighs loudly, resting his forehead against a bar and shutting his eyes. “I worried that you wouldn’t come. I was afraid I’d lost you too.”
“Is that what you think?” Arthur asks. Before Eames can look up and respond, there’s a gentle hand on his face. Thin, long fingers stroke over his cheek and the stubble beneath. “I’m here now. I came, didn’t I?”
“Couldn’t stay away if you tried,” Eames murmurs with a small smile, turning his face into Arthur’s touch, holding the hand by the wrist and kissing it.
“Five minutes,” says Arthur.
“Do you have your gun?” Eames asks.
Instead of replying, Arthur reaches through the gaps in the cage and pulls Eames closer. They kiss through the bars, and Eames makes a low sound of approval; something akin to growl, that doesn’t sound quite human.
“Two minutes to sunset,” Arthur says breathlessly against Eames’ lips.
“You’d better step back,” Eames warns, though he doesn’t complain when Arthur doesn’t do so. Nothing matters to him when he is this starved for Arthur’s touch; when the full moon makes it feel so much better than it already does.
But the light is quickly fading and he can feel the change creeping up on him, so he reluctantly pulls away.
“I love you, Arthur.”
Arthur looks directly into his eyes. “…I love you, Eames.”
And right then, Eames knows something is wrong. Something is different, because his Arthur never calls him Eames. Not like the real Arthur.
Eames looks harder, and he wonders how he hadn’t realised sooner. This isn’t his Arthur at all. This Arthur is hard around the edges, a little bewildered by what he’s seeing, and still looks at Eames like he’s trying to figure him out. This Arthur is real.
“What the hell are you doing here—” he begins, but he’s out of time. The moon is rising, and he can’t form the words he wants when he can feel his entire body rearranging itself.
One moment, he is thinking clearly, if a little panicked, and wondering why Arthur is here, and why he hasn’t just left yet.
Then the lucidity disappears, and he is gripped by raw emotion. Instinct. Arthur is there; the real Arthur, and he hasn’t moved since moonrise. Eames can hear his heart pounding, but it isn’t fear he can smell in the air. Of course not. Arthur is never scared.
“Arthur,” he says, and his vocal cords protest. His voice is rough and grating even to his own ears.
Arthur doesn’t flinch. He watches Eames with a light frown, just as always, like he is a puzzle that hasn’t fallen into place yet. It’s an expression that Eames loves. It’s part of why he so desperately wants Arthur; because they are a pair of exquisite puzzles, just waiting to be solved by one another, and in his clouded mind, this thought is stripped bare to its very core. He wants Arthur.
Arthur is right there.
He lunges forward, and the cage rattles noisily. He growls in frustration and lunges again, but the bars don’t budge.
“Arthur,” he growls again.
Arthur blinks. Then, before Eames can realise what’s happening—before the rational side of his mind can tell him to stop—Arthur is moving forward, unlocking the cage, letting the door swing open.
Eames is upon him; teeth and claws and soft skin and blood. Arthur makes no sound. He places his hands on the sides of Eames’ face and keeps them there until they go limp, and he is no longer breathing.
It takes a moment for Eames to realise that he is the one still alive. No burn of silver, no bullet holes, no knife slashes.
His Arthur would never hesitate to kill him. To kick him up a layer, so he can write it down, consolidate his memories, and return later.
But Arthur… the real Arthur…
He doesn’t look down at his hands, sticky with blood that isn’t his. He shuts his eyes and howls.
*
Eames wakes, gasping and groping blindly. His hand knocks into something warm, and he feels familiar fingers wrap around his wrists.
“Shh. You’re okay. We’re okay.”
“Arthur,” his voice is panicked. One of the hands lets go of his wrist to smooth his hair back.
“It’s me, Eames.”
Eames sucks in a deep breath and exhales slowly. “Arthur. What the bloody hell are you doing here?”
Arthur doesn’t move away, like Eames expects him to. The hand resting on his forehead smooths his hair back, and Arthur sighs.
“You scared me. When I went to your hotel room to talk, and found you hooked up to a PASIV…”
“I’m not Cobb,” Eames says with a small grin. Arthur doesn’t look amused.
“You have projections of me, Eames. Projections that are so accurate that you could have fooled anyone. You’ve got me right, all the way down to my microexpressions… I can’t even imagine all the detail that would require.”
“I am a forger. I need to make flawless copies, don’t I?”
Arthur pauses, and considers his next words carefully. “…You don’t need a copy when you have the real thing.”
Eames shakes his head. “But I don’t, Arthur. I never did.”
“Yeah, well…” Arthur looks away. “That’s what you think. And if you don’t believe me, we can have this conversation topside.”
“I don’t need that,” Eames says, and he gives Arthur a small smile. “You were down in the other dream with me. You remember what happened just as well as I do.”
Arthur’s lips quirk upwards at the corners. “You know, I’d never imagined our first kiss to happen two layers down in a dream, just minutes before you turned into a werewolf.”
“Ah, but you have imagined it.”
“I did ask you out to dinner,” he says, and sits back in his chair. Eames notices it’s been pulled closer to his own. “I hoped things would go smoothly from there. But I was paranoid, I guess, that you weren’t being serious.”
Eames nods, considering this. “Well, then. Now that you know how I’m actually mad about you to the point of bordering on actual insanity…”
Arthur snorts quietly. “Going out to dinner twice in one night is probably not a good idea.”
“Probably being the key word. We never ate dessert though. I know a nice café.”
Not even trying to hide his grin, Arthur checks the time. “How much time before the somnacin wears off?”
“Too long. At least another hour down here.” Eames dreams up a gun, and it’s exactly the same as the one Arthur uses when he’s dreaming. “Forgive me for being impatient, but I’d like to spend time with you up there instead of here.”
“Double suicide,” Arthur says dryly as he picks up the gun and flicks the safety off. Eames already has another in his hand and they raise the muzzles to their temples in unison. “How romantic, Mr. Eames.”
“We’re special, Arthur.”
Arthur smiles broadly, his dimples showing. “Well. That’s one way of putting it.”
*
“Tell me, Eames. On what planet is it a compliment to be told you are a machine?”
Eames stares, and then bursts out laughing. “Is that what offended you so much? I was wondering.”
“You were calling me cold and emotionless.”
“No, Arthur,” Eames chuckles. “I was calling you sharp and efficient and perfect, every single time you do anything. It’s part of the reason I find you so amazingly attractive.”
“Then you could have just said that instead,” Arthur says, cheeks colouring.
“But where’s the fun in that?”
“Of course. You’ve got too much imagination to keep things simple, don’t you?” They’re sitting beside each other in a booth of a café that is open until late, and Arthur leans against Eames just slightly. Underneath the table, Eames’ hand settles on Arthur’s knee. Arthur glances sideways, and their faces are close enough that his breath ghosts over Eames’ skin as he speaks, “Tell me. Why a werewolf?”
“Well, vampires are just boring and unimaginative now, aren’t they?” Eames asks with a lazy grin. “And of course, you would have already seen the double meaning in the shape shifting, because you’re delightfully clever like that.”
“But there’s more to it,” Arthur says, not a question, finding Eames’ hand under the table and resting his on top of it.
“I couldn’t let things get boring now, could I? Even if I’m letting my imagination run wild, I needed a measure of realism. I know that being with you would never be easy; not when you consider our profession, and not when you consider our personalities. In my dreams, you’re always armed to the teeth with silver. I’d always be a threat to you, and you’d always be able to kill me in the blink of an eye.”
“You’re messed up,” Arthur decides, but he follows this with a light kiss on the corner of Eames’ mouth, so it isn’t all that bad.
“You’re perfectly welcome to turn and run if you want,” Eames murmurs, turning so he’s facing Arthur, their lips nearly touching. “I’d even let you have a head start before giving chase.”
“I think I’ve had enough of that,” Arthur confides, and closes the gap between their lips.
The kiss is soft, gentle, and unlike anything either of them have ever imagined their kisses to be. Somehow, this—the fleeting pressure of lips against lips, a brief, shared breath, and the quiet sound they make as they part once again—is even better.
Eames grins at him. “Good.”
x
Author:
kiyalaWord Count: 8,246
Fandom: Inception
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: R (sex, a little bit of violence)
Summary: In his dreams, Eames is a werewolf. And he has Arthur.
Disclaimer: Inception is the wonderful brainchild of Christopher Nolan.
Notes: Happy Halloween! :D Not a complete AU but here, have some werewolf!Eames <3
Also for
500themes #37 - wake up, the day is dyingThe wind is cold, and twilight steadily approaches. The sun sinks slowly, and the sky is pastel pink, orange, yellow, and purple. Beautiful. Even when it’s reflected against the metal panelling of the cage.
Then again, a full moon is rising. Tonight, everything will look beautiful. Especially things that are already so devastatingly beautiful that they shouldn’t be real.
“Do you have enough food?” Arthur asks. There is meat that has already been set aside, and they both know this. There’s ample water, bedding, and everything else.
“Yes. I’m sure.” This close to the full moon, and Eames’ voice is rich with something beyond human. His pupils are already blown and he feels like he’s seeing beyond this world. Shadows dance with shapes, and he sees things that he knows he cannot explain to anyone who isn’t of his kind; colours that shouldn’t exist, twisting themselves across his vision and superimposed over everything else he sees.
For each second that passes, the line between this and the spirit world blurs. They begin to merge into one, right where he can see the overlap, and he exhales slowly, quietly.
Humans look so amazing like this, he thinks, tilting his head to the side. The way their spirits reflect their complexities, like puzzles within themselves. He’s not so different to them, and it’s something he’s never allowed himself to forget. He is human, but tonight, he is stripped down to something raw. Tonight, he will become the embodiment of pure instinct. Passion, fury, madness; wild and unrestrained, incapable of fully controlling himself.
That is why he has the cage.
That is why he has Arthur.
Arthur, who is not a fool, who knows—has always known—exactly what he’s getting himself into. He doesn’t stay down here on the night of the full moon because he enjoys it, and he doesn’t stay because he must. He has a choice; always has a choice, as he is reminded, month after month.
This month is like any other and every time he is reminded that there are healthier hobbies than watching over his lover’s transformation, he shrugs it off. He is here because he wants to be, and this, to them both, is the most important fact in this world.
“Look at you.” The sun is slipping away faster, now, and the ethereal beauty of the approaching night is visible to only one of them. “You’re so beautiful like this. I wish you could see.”
A bittersweet smile touches Arthur’s lips, and he glances at his wristwatch. “Five minutes until proper night.”
The transformation isn’t always immediate; it doesn’t start at a set time, but it’s always safer to be prepared.
“Have you loaded your gun?”
Anybody else would be distressed by this—by the simple fact that if anything were to go wrong…
But this is Arthur.
“Yes,” he says, and takes the gun out of his pocket, loaded with silver bullets, and sets it on the table beside him. There are also four silver-bladed knives concealed on his person, but he leaves them where they are. Another glance at his watch, telling him what the growing darkness through the window already indicates. “One minute.”
“I love you.” They both know it, but there is always—always—the chance that only one of them will survive the night. “I love you, Arthur.”
Again, there is the bittersweet smile.
“I love you too.”
The sun is rising, and Arthur blinks his eyes open, squinting against the light. His limbs are stiff and he sits up, stretching. He hates sleeping on planes, but there’s work to be done when he lands, and he won’t allow jet lag to get in his way.
There are still two more hours until he lands in Paris. He hasn’t been there since the inception job, three months ago. Cobb is at home with his children, so Arthur has taken to organising his own jobs. Ariadne is longing to build more dreams, but can only spare hours here and there between her classes.
He isn’t sure why he left a message in Eames’ voicemail telling him to meet them. Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that Eames has already shown that he’s good at planning jobs. Or perhaps it has something to do with the way Arthur can feel his heart pounding in anticipation of seeing him again.
Not that anything has ever happened between them, but perhaps that’s the problem. If he’d just given in, perhaps he’d be able to get it out of his system. He’d be able to put it behind him, instead of spending three months looking for the perfect job; risky without being too dangerous, challenging without seeming impossible.
He checks into his hotel an hour before their organised meeting time. He showers, changes into another suit, and eats something light before making his way to the university. He’s timed it so that Ariadne will have five minutes after her class finishes to make her way to the café, but when he approaches, he finds her standing there, with Eames, talking and laughing.
Arthur’s breath hitches. He tells himself that it has nothing to do with Eames. And definitely not the fact that by some stroke of luck, the shirt he’s wearing doesn’t actually clash with his pants for once, and the effect is—well, nice. In fact, Arthur’s mind supplies him with several adjectives that go far beyond nice, but he forcibly pushes the thought from his mind and walks towards them.
Ariadne’s face lights up when she sees him and she runs over to him, tackling him into a hug. He laughs, surprised and pleased, and hugs her in return. Eames joins them, walking with his hands in his pockets, and when they look at each other, Arthur raises an eyebrow.
“What, do you want a hug too?”
“Is that really you, Arthur?” Eames smirks. “Have you actually found your sense of humour?”
“It was behind the couch all along,” Arthur replies dryly as he is pulled into a hug, and Eames claps him on the back just a fraction too hard.
It is Cobb’s style to hire abandoned workshops as a base of operations. Arthur, on the other hand, has hired out an unused office; a narrow, two-story building wedged in between two larger buildings, small but with enough space for the three of them.
They relocate there, and Arthur tells them about their mark; a musician who has stolen his band’s works-in-progress and refused to return them unless he is made the front-man. They brainstorm a plan quickly, then come up with more as back ups, and they’re done in an hour, having an extra half hour to catch up before Ariadne needs to return to class.
Arthur drives her to the university and Eames ends up joining them. Somehow, this means that once Ariadne is back in class, the two of them find themselves in the same café they’d originally met in front of, for afternoon tea.
Eames watches Arthur across the table, and puts his fork down, beside his half-eaten slice of black forest cake. “Why am I here?”
Arthur looks up from cutting his own piece of cheesecake and raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you too sober to be getting philosophical on me?”
“Hilarious, Arthur, I’m holding my sides. We have five plans, each with two alternates because you’re neurotic that way—don’t give me that look, it wasn’t a complaint—but, you see, none of these plans require me to do any forging, so I’m just a little curious.”
“Cobb’s not working any more,” Arthur says. “Not for a while, anyway. If I take Ariadne into the dream for another job, I’m fairly sure Miles is going to murder me in my sleep. I’m a point man, Eames. I need an extractor.”
Eames nods slowly and looks back to his cake. “That’s all?”
Arthur hesitates, because he knows there are two ways for this to play out. One; he admits that no, asking Eames to join him here has nothing to do with extraction and everything to do with how badly he’s wanted to see the forger, Eames acts smug and knowing right up until they’re in Arthur’s hotel room, and they both finally, finally come undone. Two; he admits nothing, and nothing changes.
“That’s all,” he says with a small nod, and hates himself, just a little. Eames looks up at him and there’s a look in those dark, blue-green eyes that makes Arthur wonder if he hates him too.
Then he smiles. “Always a pleasure to work with you, Arthur.”
Arthur doesn’t hold his gaze, and his cheesecake doesn’t taste as nice as it did just a moment ago. He stares at his hands and replies, “Likewise, Mr. Eames.”
They call it the cage, but this time, it’s more of a glass box, reinforced here and there with steel. The glass is thick and bullet-proof. There are gouge marks across its surface, where the glass has been worn down by claws. There are smears of blood across the glass, where claws have shattered, and the glass has been beaten upon by limbs that are half human hands, half wolf paws.
Even if Eames’ mind remembers everything after he turns back, his body does not. It erases the pain, the broken bones, and torn skin, and the entire thing is like a dream.
Eames stirs when he hears the locks on the cage open. Arthur steps inside, holding a blanket, and Eames feels self-conscious at the smell of blood that hangs in the air, along with something he can only describe as animal. Arthur ignores it all, he even ignores the flecks of blood on Eames’ face as he kneels down in front of him, draping the blanket around his shoulders and kissing him softly.
Eames’ responding kiss is hard and he takes Arthur’s face in his hands, growling at the back of his throat. He’s always unbearably hard the morning following a full moon; hyperaware and hypersensitive, to be returned to his human body. Arthur slips his hand between their bodies, undoing Eames’ trousers and jerking him off, savouring the low moans and hot breath against his collarbone.
“Arthur,” Eames says, his voice husky. “Arthur. What would I do without you?”
“You would manage,” Arthur replies into Eames’ unkempt hair. “You wouldn’t enjoy yourself half as much, but you would manage just fine.”
“I had the funniest dream,” Eames murmurs, showing no inclination to move from Arthur’s arms. “We were brilliant mind criminals. I was a forger and you were a point man. We were mad about each other, but we never fucked.”
“Hilarious,” Arthur kisses Eames’ forehead. “I’m holding my sides.”
“You never gave in. I could see that you desperately wanted to, but you never did. Why would you do that?”
“I have no idea,” Arthur replies softly, doing Eames’ pants back up for him.
“Hmm.” Eames kisses Arthur’s shoulder. “Me neither.”
Arthur has breakfast waiting for them upstairs and he stays within arm’s reach, even when they eat. The world seems somehow bland in comparison to what he remembers from last night, but he has Arthur now, and that balances things nicely.
They shower after breakfast, together, and Eames drops to his knees, swallowing Arthur down and sliding his lips across the length. He smiles at the feeling of the long fingers twisting in his hair, and doesn’t stop until Arthur is screaming, Oh, fuck, yes, and coming in hot streams across his face.
“I’ve wanted this since yesterday,” Eames murmurs reverentially, smoothing Arthur’s water-slick hair back and kissing down his neck. He always wants Arthur, and they’re both well aware of it, but there’s something about the full moon that only intensifies this, turning it into something wild and animalistic. He doesn’t let himself touch Arthur, then, no matter how badly he wants to, and Arthur knows better than to ask.
It isn’t that Arthur needs protecting—they’re both well aware he can take care of himself—but Eames likes to think of it as proof that he does have some self-restraint.
The day following the full moon, however, Eames doesn’t bother pretending. His nerves are raw, he has Arthur right there, and so he doesn’t even try to resist. Arthur, wonderful Arthur, understands all of this without the need for words. He pulls Eames into a kiss, moaning at the feel of his lips, teeth, and tongue. Eames pushes him against the wall of the shower and Arthur turns, his forehead resting against the tiles as Eames prepares him.
“Fuck me,” Arthur gasps, and Eames does just that, with a low, guttural growl.
Eames is late in the mornings, as usual, and it’s much more noticeable when it’s just Arthur by himself, typing at his laptop, and waiting patiently.
When Eames does show up, anywhere from ten to thirty minutes late, he never apologises. He does bring breakfast and coffee, though, and that almost makes up for it.
Even if he is primarily a forger, Eames knows enough to fill any role he needs to. Despite this, Arthur insists on doing test runs. There’s a risk to allowing Eames to extract from his mind, because the man is brilliant, and quite possibly one of the only people who could successfully find Arthur’s deeper-buried secrets. Arthur tells himself that they’re doing this because he has no choice; that if Eames just so happens to find any secrets—secrets that have to do with him—then, well, at least Arthur won’t have to deal with the embarrassment of actually telling him.
Fortunately—or frustratingly—Eames sticks to the task at hand, and doesn’t probe any further than necessary. Arthur hides a variety of useless information, and Eames finds it every time, no matter the landscape of the dream, and the projections suspect nothing. Part of Arthur finds it distressing every time he is reminded of how good Eames is at what he does. The rest of him finds it incredibly hot.
Thankfully, Eames doesn’t question Arthur’s motives for having him here any more (though he should, Arthur thinks, and were their positions reversed, he most definitely would) and even without Ariadne there to take the edge off their interaction, the way they treat each other is smooth and strictly professional. It is nothing like normal.
Arthur finds himself ready to yell at Eames for neglecting to do something, only to realise that it’s been done. He tips his chair back on its hind legs as he reads, mostly out of habit but partly because he’s waiting for Eames to do something, and yet Eames ignores him, focusing on the files he’s reading.
It’s frustrating, and Arthur returns to his hotel room to jerk off in the shower angrily, wondering what the hell is wrong with him, that he is craving all the tension between them that’s suddenly disappeared somewhere.
He had to get bored eventually, he tells himself, and he’s convinced himself that Eames is no longer interested, right up until the next day when they’re running more tests and he finds Eames flirting with one of his projections for information. An entirely irrational jolt of jealousy twists in his stomach, and then the projection is leaning forward, pressing his lips to Eames’.
When Eames breaks away from the kiss and looks over at Arthur incredulously, the point man already has his gun resting against his temple. He pulls the trigger, and the dream begins to collapse.
Eames gives him a searching look once they’ve woken up, but Arthur ignores him, not even meeting his eyes, and silently sets about packing away the PASIV.
“Arthur?” he asks, standing and smoothing his pants (which, once again, even a blind man wouldn’t wear with that shirt), “What do you want me to do?”
Arthur’s hands still as he recognises it for the loaded question that it is. Eames means the job, and he means much more than that, too. He watches Arthur with an intense look in his eyes and it’s impossible to look away.
Fuck me, Arthur thinks desperately. He pushes it out of his mind angrily and sighs, turning away, and glancing unnecessarily at his watch.
“I’m going to pick up Ariadne. Her class will be over soon. Can you get us some lunch by the time we get back?”
Eames sighs, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You’re the boss, Arthur.”
“I had a dream,” Eames says, a small, ironic smile tugging at his lips. “A nightmare, really. In which you were an emotionally stunted prick.”
Arthur looks up from his book. “I’m perfectly capable of showing emotion. You would know.”
“Oh, I do.”
“It was just a dream, Eames.”
“Was it?” Eames pauses, the pen in his hand stilling. He looks down as the ink dries on the page, reading over his words, of full moons and sharp claws.
Arthur rolls his eyes and looks up, at the ceiling of the large library. “Don’t pretend you can’t tell dreams from reality. You’re the most grounded person I know.”
“That isn’t saying very much.” Eames grins and continues to write. “You know Cobb.”
“He’s better now.”
“I know that.”
“You know everything, Eames,” Arthur says, going back to his book.
“Yes,” he says, considering this. “I suppose I do. How dull.”
After lunch, they go into Ariadne’s dream because Arthur doesn’t like the thought of letting his projections back into Eames’ mind. Eames makes no comment on this, and they perfect the landscape of the dream. Arthur has gotten used to going two layers deep, and so the first level is a smoky bar, where they’ll knock the mark out with a drink and Arthur will stand guard while Eames takes the mark another level down, into a concert hall.
Arthur changes his clothing accordingly when they go into the dreams, and Eames never tires of commenting on the leather jacket and skinny jeans, but this time, he says nothing. He walks through the empty bar in a black tank and ripped jeans, cigarette dangling between his lips, and changing into a toothpick when Ariadne coughs and glares pointedly.
“So here, we engage him in conversation,” Eames says, his arms folded. “Talk about how great his music is. Kiss his arse like shameless fans we’re pretending to be. We buy him a drink, Arthur slips a nice little sedative in, and he’s out like a light.”
Arthur nods, sitting on a stool and absently turning from side to side, decidedly not looking at the curl of black ink over each of Eames’ biceps. Ariadne notices and raises her eyebrows is question. He ignores it. He doesn’t need to look to know that Eames is watching him; he can feel the burning gaze, and it takes all of his self-restraint to keep himself from looking back.
“We’ll schedule the job for next Tuesday,” Arthur says. “We’ve got a good time window in the middle of the day.”
“Good,” Eames says. “How much longer do we have down here?”
“Three minutes,” Arthur says, checking his watch and turning to Eames for a moment, attention immediately captured by the tattoo on his right arm; a wolf chasing the full moon. It’s new, Arthur knows immediately, thinking back to one time in Mumbai when they’d all had to wear short sleeves because it was far too hot and he’d been enthralled by Eames’ biceps, unmarked by any ink. He hates himself for remembering.
The three minutes cannot end soon enough.
“Show me your tattoos, Eames,” Ariadne says suddenly, ignoring the incredulous look Arthur shoots her. Traitor.
Eames is only too happy to show off. He flexes for her to show the tribal pattern that spans across his left bicep and tells her the story behind it. Arthur tries valiantly not to listen, but finds himself cataloguing everything he hears. Purely out of habit, of course. The tattoo was designed by Eames’ closest childhood, before the military, before all of this, who dreamed of becoming a famous tattoo artist. Eames had always promised to be the first client. Then, he was bashed to death by a gang, and Eames had dutifully gotten the tattoo done anyway, in his memory. There’s a hard edge to Eames’ voice, and Arthur has no doubt that however long it had taken to track them down, said gang members are no longer alive.
The story takes up all three minutes, and Eames never gets around to mentioning the wolf tattoo on his other arm. It isn’t until several minutes after waking up, when they’ve all gone back to their own work, that Arthur realises he’d been waiting for that story.
He doesn’t allow himself to dwell on it, and when Eames announces that he’s heading off, even before Ariadne does, Arthur feels relieved.
It lasts for all of ten minutes after he leaves, and then Ariadne turns to him.
“Has Eames been acting odd, lately?”
Suppressing his primary reaction to be defensive, Arthur raises an eyebrow. “You mean to say there are times when he isn’t odd?”
She rolls her eyes. “Come on, Arthur. You have to have noticed how he’s been keeping to himself lately. He’s usually loud and friendly—and he was, at the start of the job, too. Then he changed. Did something happen?”
“No,” Arthur replies, and thinks perhaps that is the problem. “Nothing, as far as I know.”
“You didn’t… I don’t know, break up or something?”
“Ariadne,” he says disbelievingly. “What.”
“Okay, I’ll take that as a ‘don’t rush us, we’re still dancing around each other,’ then.”
“Is that what you think we’re doing?”
It’s Ariadne’s turn to look incredulous. “You mean it isn’t?”
“Is it?” Arthur sighs and drops his head into his hands. “I don’t know, Ariadne. I really don’t.”
“I think you’re beginning to develop an addiction to this,” Arthur murmurs, as Eames writes.
There’s a fireplace in the library. Only Eames would have a fireplace surrounded by ancient paper. It crackles quietly and warms the place nicely, and Eames knows that the only reason Arthur doesn’t complain is because it’s a better alternative to being cold.
He doesn’t look up from the passage he’s writing. “Hm?”
“An addiction, Eames. I don’t think this is healthy. For either of us.”
Eames looks up this time, and Arthur indicates the silver case resting by their feet.
“You have to stop this, sooner rather than later. You’re the most grounded person I know. I’d prefer if you stayed that way.”
Eames smiles a little, placing his pen down. “You’re far too close to the real thing to let me have any fun.”
“I let you have plenty of fun. More than you would otherwise. Isn’t that the entire point?”
“Oh Arthur,” Eames chuckles and leans across, pressing their lips together. “You know me far too well.”
“Yes. Funny how that works.”
The job goes without a hitch, to nobody’s surprise. Ariadne is in class, so Arthur and Eames report to the band manager with the information they’ve found. She is pleased with them and pays them more than originally offered, which is entirely thanks to Eames’ charm. They need to meet with Ariadne that afternoon, after her class is finished, to debrief. Arthur suggests they pass their time at a restaurant, and it is so rare for him to be the one to suggest that they spend time together that Eames actually stares at him in surprise.
He covers it up quickly with a smirk, “A sense of humour, and now social skills. Who are you and what have you done with my Arthur?”
His Arthur. Eames’ smile slips, and Arthur turns, pretending for both their sakes that he hasn’t heard it. “Come on before I change my mind, Mr. Eames.”
They sit in a booth towards the back of the restaurant and Arthur waits until their food has arrived before leaning across the table and lowering his voice.
“I noticed in the dream,” he says carefully. “…Your tattoos were different this time.”
It’s only half true; the wolf was still there, but the tribal pattern had gone, replaced by an elaborate design with thin lines and smooth curves. But Eames doesn’t need to know that he’s noticed that.
Eames simply shrugs. “I picked new ones this time. It’s not as complicated as forging, Arthur. Almost the same as changing the clothes you’re wearing.”
“Do you even have tattoos? Here?” Arthur frowns. “You—you told us the story behind that other one…”
“Of course I’d need a story behind it. I’m a forger. It isn’t good practice to change how I look and not invent a story to go with it.”
“Did that friend of yours—”
“Ever exist?” Eames smiles. “No. But it made for a good story, didn’t it?”
Arthur isn’t sure whether he’s impressed, or wants to punch Eames in the face. Perhaps both, he thinks.
And he still wants to know about the wolf.
He turns to his food, ignoring Eames as he eats. Eames watches him with a curious look, which Arthur also ignores, until it simply bothers him too much.
“What,” he snaps, “Is the matter with you, Eames?”
Unbothered by the irritation in Arthur’s voice, Eames rests his chin in his hand. “Tell me, Arthur. How do you feel about fireplaces in the middle of libraries?”
Arthur stares. “Is that a serious question?—Actually, no. Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know what goes on in your head.”
Eames opens his mouth to reply, but Arthur takes his phone out, his thumbs flying over the keys as he punches out a message to Ariadne.
You’re right. There is something wrong with him.
He knows that she is in a lecture at the moment, but her reply is instant.
Something wrong with Eames? Maybe you should fix it by asking him out ;)
He pales as he reads. Before he can reply, he receives another message.
Hahaha kidding! :D
With a sigh, he’s about to type, Good, when he receives a new message.
its v rude 2 msg other ppl wen ur ignoring me
He looks up, to find Eames watching him with a strange look in his eyes; part jealous—possessive—Arthur thinks, but he isn’t sure. He can never be sure with Eames.
There’s something about the way Eames is watching him that makes Arthur’s mouth completely neglect to consult his brain before saying, “Dinner, Eames.”
“Noun,” Eames replies. “A main meal, usually eaten at night. Also referred to as—”
“Have dinner with me,” Arthur clarifies between clenched teeth, because he knows there is no turning back. “Tonight.”
“Are you asking me out on a date?” Eames asks with a smirk. “Over a late lunch?”
“I could change my mind,” Arthur warns, because it’s just what he says on the rare occasion that he does what Eames—what he—wants.
“But you won’t. Shall we meet at the office at seven? Make our way from there?”
“Fine.”
Arthur takes his phone out again and types out a quick message to Ariadne.
Asked him. Going out for dinner tonight.
He sets his phone down on the table and waits half a minute. He receives three messages in quick succession.
OMFG.
NO WAY.
!!!! !!! :D :D : D Grinning way too much for an architectural history lecture.
Eames laughs softly. “Ariadne?”
Arthur doesn’t even try to hold back his affectionate smile. “Yeah. I think she’s been waiting for this.”
“Well.” Eames leans back in his seat and smiles. “So have I.”
“You’re upset with me.”
Reaching out, Eames smooths Arthur’s hair back. Arthur keeps his eyes shut and doesn’t reply. With a sigh, Eames rolls him over so they’re facing each other.
“You’re jealous.”
Arthur sits up and glares down at him. “Did you come here just to tell me things I already know? To tell me you won’t be back?”
“I will be.” Eames says firmly. “You don’t share very well, do you?”
“I don’t know how long it’s going to last. If he’ll actually end up being what you want.”
“Shh,” Eames kisses his forehead and strokes his hair once again. “Don’t worry so much, Arthur.”
Arthur smiles, just a little. “You’re the one who shouldn’t be so worried.”
Ariadne beams at them throughout the debriefing. It’s quite disconcerting, Arthur thinks, that she can hold her smile in place without her cheeks hurting.
Except he doesn’t really mind, because whenever he looks up and catches her smiling at him and Eames, the dread coiled in his stomach eases into something lighter; something that resembles anticipation.
She has to leave half an hour later, having gotten them both to promise they’ll stay in Paris a little longer, and that they’ll keep in touch. She throws her arms around them both in turn, and when she hugs Arthur, she hisses, “Don’t freak out. Promise me.”
Arthur doesn’t make promises he knows that he will break.
The two of them are left alone once again, two and a half hours until the dinner reservation Arthur has made, and Eames clears his throat.
“I’ll be off. See you… soon.”
Arthur nods, waits for Eames to leave, and then heads to his own hotel room to read and try very hard to keep calm.
“Will you ever come here again?” Arthur asks, curled up in the chaise lounge with a thick hardcover that Eames remembers stealing.
“Why am I being treated like I’m going to up and abandon everything today?” Eames grumbles, sitting back in his chair, opposite Arthur’s. “I’ll be back. Based on tonight’s events, I’ll either be back to thank you and say embarrassing things I’d never get away with saying otherwise, or I’ll be back here with a mind to never leave.”
“You can’t stay here forever—”
“Oh, Arthur, don’t be such a stick in the mud. I know that.”
Dinner is terrible.
The food itself is superb, but there’s something fundamentally wrong with the way Arthur and Eames come together. There’s too much invested in this one night, and they’re both far too tense, too defensive because of it. Their habitual bickering turns into snappish remarks by the time they’ve finished their entree, and when the main course arrives, they’re sitting in stony silence.
They skip dessert, because they can’t stand to force themselves through this any longer. They both throw money down on the table, not bothering to count it out and argue over who is paying for what, and leave without waiting for the change.
They part without words outside, because they’re both seething and, more importantly, they’re both bitterly disappointed. Eames hails a taxi and Arthur walks to his car.
He drives back to his temporary home and waits until he no longer feels the urge to hurl breakable objects at the wall before reaching for his phone.
Disaster, he informs Ariadne, an hour and two drinks after returning home. The only good thing about this is that they’ve waited until after the job, and he won’t have to see Eames tomorrow.
Her reply is immediate:
Oh no!! You freaked out didn’t you :(
He likened me to a machine, Arthur explains.
In a good way?
Arthur sighs. There is no such thing as a good way to be like a machine.
Ariadne calls him this time.
“You need to go talk to him. Face to face. Not to make you sound like a creeper, but you know where he lives. ”
She hangs up before he can protest.
He sighs and pours himself a glass of water this time. The worst part is the fact that she is right.
He drains the glass with one gulp and grabs his car keys. Fine. A conversation with Eames. He can do that.
“I love you. I’m mad about you.”
“So you’re going for the embarrassing things you’d never get away with anywhere else,” Arthur says. He isn’t reading this time. “…But things didn’t go well.”
“No, they didn’t. Not at all.”
“I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Yes,” Eames sits in his chair. “So am I.”
Arthur squeezes Eames’ hand gently, and uncaps the cannula from the PASIV device already sitting open on the floor. “Go to sleep. Sulk all you want, but there’s a timer on this one. You won’t stay down there forever. I won’t let you.”
Eames nods, feeling the needle enter his wrist. He shuts his eyes, and when he opens them again, there’s something in the air that tells him that it’s the day of another full moon.
Eames doesn’t answer his door. Arthur sighs and knocks again. When that doesn’t work, he glances down the hall to make sure he isn’t being watched, and picks the lock.
Walking into the room, he sighs loudly. “Eames, the receptionist said she knows you’re in here—”
He stops in his tracks. Eames is here; stretched out on the bed, eyes shut and head lolled to the side. There’s an IV line running from his wrist to the silver case resting at his feet.
Arthur knows Dominick Cobb, and even if his mental health has drastically improved since returning home to his children, the two years preceding that have taught one very important lesson: a single person hooked up to a PASIV when there’s no work to be done is never good news.
And this is ignoring the fact that when asked, Eames had said that he didn’t have a PASIV of his own.
“You’re an idiot, and I don’t even want to know what the hell is going on in your head,” Arthur mutters, even as he shrugs his jacket off and folds it over the back of a chair. He checks the timer and frowns, realising that Eames has only just put himself under. If he’d just hesitated a little less… He shakes his head. There’s no point in dwelling over that.
“Why the hell do you have to be so damn difficult?” Arthur grumbles, rolling his sleeve up and pulling another line out of the case. “You’re not supposed to be this stupid.”
He sits down on the carpeted floor, leaning back against the bed, and inserts the needle into his wrist.
Arthur opens his eyes to a large library. Shelves upon shelves of books reach upwards until they vanish from sight, and he’s standing in front of two chairs and a low table.
In one of the chairs, Eames is reclined back, asleep and hooked up to another PASIV. In the other, Arthur finds… himself.
“Hello.” The voice is correct, right down to the inflection of the greeting. “I was wondering if you’d come.”
“You’re a projection,” Arthur realises. “Eames’ projection. Of me.”
“Good to know my deductive reasoning still works,” the projection says dryly. “I know why you’re here. If you’re going to follow him down the rabbit hole, you might want to take a look at this book, first. To understand.”
“What?” Arthur frowns, looking at the large book lying open on the table. He recognises Eames’ handwriting; the rare, neat script he uses when he actually wants his words to be legible.
Reason for waking: Death. (silver bullets)
Transformation: Not painful. But strange.
Emotions: Wild, impossible to control. Lust, for both blood and sex (at the same time?)
“What is this?” Arthur asks. His projected self indicates for him to keep reading.
Another werewolf night. Arthur is beautiful (always) but even more so like this. Seeing him when I’m just waiting for the moon to rise makes building this world entirely worth it. The details change, the house never looks the same in two dreams, but Arthur is constant. He watches me turn from man to wolf and back, he stays with me through the night, always armed, always ready, always there.
“Werewolf,” Arthur says, shaking his head in disbelief. “What is wrong with him?”
“I have many theories,” the projected Arthur says, sounding resigned. “I don’t know if you’ve realised yet, but this entire dream—and the one below—they’re about me. You. Us. Because he can’t have you up there.”
Arthur thinks about that, and massages his forehead against the anticipated headache. “And… of course, he uses the dream to indulge his imagination. I take it that the werewolf thing is a metaphor. Shape shifting. Forging.”
The projection gives him a smug smile. “He’ll be so pleased to know you’ve picked up on it. Now, if you’d like to proceed…”
Standing, the projection of Arthur offers his seat, already holding an IV line. “I’ll warn you now. If you hurt him, I will kill you. It will be slow and very, very painful. I’ve been informed that I have more of an imagination than you do.”
The last thing Arthur thinks, before he slips into the next level of the dream, is that he’s certainly mastered his threatening smile.
He’s in an armoury, or so it appears. There is an assortment of weapons on the walls; innumerable cases of bullets and knives with wicked looking blades, everything glinting a bright silver in the afternoon sun that filters in through the window.
Half an hour to sunset, Arthur suddenly thinks, and glances at the walls, wondering if he’s meant to arm himself.
“Oh, so you’re here.”
Arthur turns around to see himself again, except this version of him is not wearing a jacket or vest, and has solid black suspenders over a plain white button-down shirt.
“Hello,” he greets this projection, and sounds exactly like the one a level above.
“I was honestly hoping you’d come,” the projection says. “It’s about time you see what you do to him. He’s been insufferable all day.”
“Is this about dinner?” Arthur asks, already knowing the answer. “That wasn’t entirely my fault, so don’t even try pushing the blame to me.”
“I’m not saying it is. He just… desperately wanted it to work. And it didn’t. He isn’t taking that very well.”
Arthur’s eyes widen in realisation. “He… really is in love with me, isn’t he?”
“He wants you. He’s obsessed with you. He loves me.”
“What’s the difference? We’re the same damn person.”
“We are,” the projection allows. “The difference is that I love him in return.”
“And I… don’t?” Arthur balls his hands into fists. He hadn’t meant that as a question.
“Do you?” Arthur’s most sceptical look is directed back at him. “Because if you do, then Dan—”
“Dan?” Arthur repeats.
Arthur only catches the quickly-hidden look of surprise because it’s his expression. The projection’s voice is smooth as always. “His real name. Daniel. I’ve gotten used to calling him by it.”
“Daniel,” Arthur says quietly, testing the sound of it on his tongue. He smiles, without quite meaning to. “He never told me whenever I asked.”
“I didn’t have to ask,” says the projection, and Arthur knows he isn’t being smug, but simply stating a fact. It doesn’t stop the surge of jealousy.
He draws the gun that is always hidden beneath his jacket, holding it to his other self’s forehead.
The projection sighs quietly. “Dream up a silencer. If Daniel hears, he’ll worry. He has enough on his plate; it’s a full moon night.”
Arthur’s grip on the gun tightens. “Where is he?”
“He’s in the cage.”
“Where?”
“In the basement. Now hurry up and shoot. If you haven’t noticed, it’s almost sunset. I—one of us needs to be down there with him.”
“You really do love him, don’t you?” Arthur asks, and shoots before his projected self can even reply.
His cage is made of old, iron rods, built like a prison cell this time. There are gaps between the bars, and his arms can fit through them, but when he grabs hold and shakes with all of his strength, it seems solid enough.
He hears the door at the top of the stairs creak open, and his attention is immediately diverted from the structure of the cage.
“Arthur, Arthur, Arthur,” he murmurs, gripping onto the bars, watching his lover descend the stairs and step into the pool of warm, orange, afternoon light filtering in through the tiny window.
Arthur gives him a searching look, and ventures a smile. “Daniel.”
Eames sighs loudly, resting his forehead against a bar and shutting his eyes. “I worried that you wouldn’t come. I was afraid I’d lost you too.”
“Is that what you think?” Arthur asks. Before Eames can look up and respond, there’s a gentle hand on his face. Thin, long fingers stroke over his cheek and the stubble beneath. “I’m here now. I came, didn’t I?”
“Couldn’t stay away if you tried,” Eames murmurs with a small smile, turning his face into Arthur’s touch, holding the hand by the wrist and kissing it.
“Five minutes,” says Arthur.
“Do you have your gun?” Eames asks.
Instead of replying, Arthur reaches through the gaps in the cage and pulls Eames closer. They kiss through the bars, and Eames makes a low sound of approval; something akin to growl, that doesn’t sound quite human.
“Two minutes to sunset,” Arthur says breathlessly against Eames’ lips.
“You’d better step back,” Eames warns, though he doesn’t complain when Arthur doesn’t do so. Nothing matters to him when he is this starved for Arthur’s touch; when the full moon makes it feel so much better than it already does.
But the light is quickly fading and he can feel the change creeping up on him, so he reluctantly pulls away.
“I love you, Arthur.”
Arthur looks directly into his eyes. “…I love you, Eames.”
And right then, Eames knows something is wrong. Something is different, because his Arthur never calls him Eames. Not like the real Arthur.
Eames looks harder, and he wonders how he hadn’t realised sooner. This isn’t his Arthur at all. This Arthur is hard around the edges, a little bewildered by what he’s seeing, and still looks at Eames like he’s trying to figure him out. This Arthur is real.
“What the hell are you doing here—” he begins, but he’s out of time. The moon is rising, and he can’t form the words he wants when he can feel his entire body rearranging itself.
One moment, he is thinking clearly, if a little panicked, and wondering why Arthur is here, and why he hasn’t just left yet.
Then the lucidity disappears, and he is gripped by raw emotion. Instinct. Arthur is there; the real Arthur, and he hasn’t moved since moonrise. Eames can hear his heart pounding, but it isn’t fear he can smell in the air. Of course not. Arthur is never scared.
“Arthur,” he says, and his vocal cords protest. His voice is rough and grating even to his own ears.
Arthur doesn’t flinch. He watches Eames with a light frown, just as always, like he is a puzzle that hasn’t fallen into place yet. It’s an expression that Eames loves. It’s part of why he so desperately wants Arthur; because they are a pair of exquisite puzzles, just waiting to be solved by one another, and in his clouded mind, this thought is stripped bare to its very core. He wants Arthur.
Arthur is right there.
He lunges forward, and the cage rattles noisily. He growls in frustration and lunges again, but the bars don’t budge.
“Arthur,” he growls again.
Arthur blinks. Then, before Eames can realise what’s happening—before the rational side of his mind can tell him to stop—Arthur is moving forward, unlocking the cage, letting the door swing open.
Eames is upon him; teeth and claws and soft skin and blood. Arthur makes no sound. He places his hands on the sides of Eames’ face and keeps them there until they go limp, and he is no longer breathing.
It takes a moment for Eames to realise that he is the one still alive. No burn of silver, no bullet holes, no knife slashes.
His Arthur would never hesitate to kill him. To kick him up a layer, so he can write it down, consolidate his memories, and return later.
But Arthur… the real Arthur…
He doesn’t look down at his hands, sticky with blood that isn’t his. He shuts his eyes and howls.
Eames wakes, gasping and groping blindly. His hand knocks into something warm, and he feels familiar fingers wrap around his wrists.
“Shh. You’re okay. We’re okay.”
“Arthur,” his voice is panicked. One of the hands lets go of his wrist to smooth his hair back.
“It’s me, Eames.”
Eames sucks in a deep breath and exhales slowly. “Arthur. What the bloody hell are you doing here?”
Arthur doesn’t move away, like Eames expects him to. The hand resting on his forehead smooths his hair back, and Arthur sighs.
“You scared me. When I went to your hotel room to talk, and found you hooked up to a PASIV…”
“I’m not Cobb,” Eames says with a small grin. Arthur doesn’t look amused.
“You have projections of me, Eames. Projections that are so accurate that you could have fooled anyone. You’ve got me right, all the way down to my microexpressions… I can’t even imagine all the detail that would require.”
“I am a forger. I need to make flawless copies, don’t I?”
Arthur pauses, and considers his next words carefully. “…You don’t need a copy when you have the real thing.”
Eames shakes his head. “But I don’t, Arthur. I never did.”
“Yeah, well…” Arthur looks away. “That’s what you think. And if you don’t believe me, we can have this conversation topside.”
“I don’t need that,” Eames says, and he gives Arthur a small smile. “You were down in the other dream with me. You remember what happened just as well as I do.”
Arthur’s lips quirk upwards at the corners. “You know, I’d never imagined our first kiss to happen two layers down in a dream, just minutes before you turned into a werewolf.”
“Ah, but you have imagined it.”
“I did ask you out to dinner,” he says, and sits back in his chair. Eames notices it’s been pulled closer to his own. “I hoped things would go smoothly from there. But I was paranoid, I guess, that you weren’t being serious.”
Eames nods, considering this. “Well, then. Now that you know how I’m actually mad about you to the point of bordering on actual insanity…”
Arthur snorts quietly. “Going out to dinner twice in one night is probably not a good idea.”
“Probably being the key word. We never ate dessert though. I know a nice café.”
Not even trying to hide his grin, Arthur checks the time. “How much time before the somnacin wears off?”
“Too long. At least another hour down here.” Eames dreams up a gun, and it’s exactly the same as the one Arthur uses when he’s dreaming. “Forgive me for being impatient, but I’d like to spend time with you up there instead of here.”
“Double suicide,” Arthur says dryly as he picks up the gun and flicks the safety off. Eames already has another in his hand and they raise the muzzles to their temples in unison. “How romantic, Mr. Eames.”
“We’re special, Arthur.”
Arthur smiles broadly, his dimples showing. “Well. That’s one way of putting it.”
“Tell me, Eames. On what planet is it a compliment to be told you are a machine?”
Eames stares, and then bursts out laughing. “Is that what offended you so much? I was wondering.”
“You were calling me cold and emotionless.”
“No, Arthur,” Eames chuckles. “I was calling you sharp and efficient and perfect, every single time you do anything. It’s part of the reason I find you so amazingly attractive.”
“Then you could have just said that instead,” Arthur says, cheeks colouring.
“But where’s the fun in that?”
“Of course. You’ve got too much imagination to keep things simple, don’t you?” They’re sitting beside each other in a booth of a café that is open until late, and Arthur leans against Eames just slightly. Underneath the table, Eames’ hand settles on Arthur’s knee. Arthur glances sideways, and their faces are close enough that his breath ghosts over Eames’ skin as he speaks, “Tell me. Why a werewolf?”
“Well, vampires are just boring and unimaginative now, aren’t they?” Eames asks with a lazy grin. “And of course, you would have already seen the double meaning in the shape shifting, because you’re delightfully clever like that.”
“But there’s more to it,” Arthur says, not a question, finding Eames’ hand under the table and resting his on top of it.
“I couldn’t let things get boring now, could I? Even if I’m letting my imagination run wild, I needed a measure of realism. I know that being with you would never be easy; not when you consider our profession, and not when you consider our personalities. In my dreams, you’re always armed to the teeth with silver. I’d always be a threat to you, and you’d always be able to kill me in the blink of an eye.”
“You’re messed up,” Arthur decides, but he follows this with a light kiss on the corner of Eames’ mouth, so it isn’t all that bad.
“You’re perfectly welcome to turn and run if you want,” Eames murmurs, turning so he’s facing Arthur, their lips nearly touching. “I’d even let you have a head start before giving chase.”
“I think I’ve had enough of that,” Arthur confides, and closes the gap between their lips.
The kiss is soft, gentle, and unlike anything either of them have ever imagined their kisses to be. Somehow, this—the fleeting pressure of lips against lips, a brief, shared breath, and the quiet sound they make as they part once again—is even better.
Eames grins at him. “Good.”
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And your Ariadne rocks so much. :-)
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And I'm glad that you think so! :D
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I love how:
1) Your Eames' first name is Daniel. I love that name for Eames and I find it has the most flow to it (unlike Jack or William)
2) I love jealous!Arthur (it's a kink of mine)
3) I love your symbolism and how everything tied into one another.
4) I fucking love this story and it is seriously epic, keep up the good work!
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1) I have a few names I like using for Eames, actually. I really like D names (Daniel and David, especially), I like James because I always like the name James (and it amuses me that it's a letter away from Eames because I'm easily amused that way) and Edward and even Robert and... yeah. There's a list xD
2) Jealous!Arthur = so much love, yes. <3 He's so fun, either to read or to write :D
3) Thank you! I'm glad to hear it
4) Again, thank you!! <3 <3 <3
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I admit to being incredibly confused until about three quarters of the way through, because I wasn't sure what was reality and what was the dream, but I thought it was confusing in a good way. I liked not knowing---more suspenseful that way.
This was really well written and so enjoyable to read. I loved the characterization of both of them and Eames' clinging to the symbolic. He's just pompous enough to do it, lol!
Loved this. Thanks for sharing!
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I'm relieved to hear that it was a good kind of confusion rather than bad, because that's what I was aiming for!
I'm glad you liked the way this was written, and the way they were characterised. I still have moments where I start wondering whether or not I'm getting their voices right, so that's a relief too.
Thanks for reading and leaving such a lovely comment! <3
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just...that's all I've got. awesome.
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Just a tiny note -- HTML fail about two-thirds down, you seem to have left an italics code open.
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Sorry I don't have anything more constructive to say but I really enjoyed it! :)
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Why am I here?”
Arthur looks up from cutting his own piece of cheesecake and raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you too sober to be getting philosophical on me?”
Oh, it actually WAS hilarious :DD
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(and I love the icon you're using! I can just imagine thought bubbles coming from them:
Arthur: He's so fucking awesome.
Eames: I'm so fucking awesome.)
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Oh, I really enjoyed this! A great Halloween story, with a sort-of AU twist but not really, just like you said, and such a fun read. :DDD Great work with this!
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I'm glad you liked it! Thank you so much for reading it <3
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♥
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