Archive of Our Own ^beta

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“What about planting an idea? Do you think it's possible?”

Eames had to think about that one. Sure, it might be possible in theory. People gave ideas to others all the time, awake. You didn't need a PASIV for that. Wasn't that the basis of hypnotism? When people tried to quit smoking, or sleep better? Letting someone else into your subconscious to change some essential part of you.

“Sure,” Eames said. “But.”

“Always a but,” Jonah said, smiling. He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, holding two mugs of tea, one of which he brought to Eames.

Eames couldn't help but smile back. “Thank you. Yes, but, the subject would know where the idea came from. I think it would be tricky – not impossible, but tricky – to do it in secret. And even tricker if the person was an unwilling participant, which I'm assuming is the case.”

“Nevertheless,” Jonah said, “we did get an offer. And our team would be the first ones to try it. If we succeeded – imagine?”

“Hmm.” Sneaking into a subconscious to extract information was one thing, and Jonah was good at extraction. Stealing thoughts that were already there wasn't a simple process, but those thoughts at least already existed. To generate one in someone else, in secret, was an entirely different animal. And if the subject was militarized, they would have to fight their way in. “We'd need to use two levels,” Eames said.

“Yes, and it would be incredibly unstable. But the payout would make it worth a shot. Minimal physical danger, but no pay if we don't succeed.”

“No, those terms are ridiculous,” Eames said. “We'd need half up front because we would still be doing the work. And then the client wouldn't necessarily know if it worked unless they went down with us, which would jeopardize the entire thing. Planting the inception of an idea into someone's mind would be a subtle thing. Its effects wouldn't show up right away. Maybe not for years, depending on the idea. Which, by the way, you haven't told me?”

Jonah took a seat next to him on the sofa. “Ah, you'll like this. The client is a man named Joseph Engleston. He wants his wife to cheat on him.”

“Err. Why?”

“Because he's cheated on her.”

Eames rolled his eyes. “People are monstrous.”

“They are,” Jonah said. “But who are we to judge, if they're paying us? Let them be monstrous and we profit from it, yeah?”

“Sounds about right. I'm not very keen on two-layer dreams without a good chemist, mind. And I'd like to run this past some colleagues first.”

Jonah scooted closer and slung one leg over both of Eames's. “Oh, dear. Arthur, isn't it?”

“He is the best. And he can put me in touch with the Cobbs. They know a lot about multi-level dreams.”

“Every time you talk to Arthur, you go back to that place in your head that I don't like. You dream badly.”

“We saw a lot of shit, early on. And he's bloody-minded and dry as the desert, but he is still the best.”

And I slept with him once, Eames did not add, and then ran the other way. Not that it mattered, because that had been over a year ago, and Arthur had moved on. Eames had heard he was living with some girl by the name of Ellie, or Nellie or something. There were rumors that they had gotten serious. The word “fiancee” had been dropped around dreaming circles once in a while.

It wasn't like he'd expected Arthur to wait around for him to make up his mind. In fact, even if they were both still available, Eames was fairly certain he couldn't give Arthur what he wanted. He didn't desire anything permanent. Apparently Arthur did. It was better for both of them this way.

And Jonah was good to him. They were nice together. Neither of them clung to the other, there was mutual respect and affection, and the sex was reliably good. It was right, this way. Everything worked out fine and he and Arthur still had a decent working relationship. They had only worked together once this year, but the few times they spoke on the phone, everything was fine. Civil. Cordial, even.

“Right, then,” Jonah said. “You give him a call, and I'll call up my chemist. He's the best, too. It'll be a tight team. And if we pull it off, just imagine. We'd be the first to perform inception. Everyone will hire us after that.”

Eames waited a few hours before ringing Arthur, to make sure he'd get him at the right time. He couldn't wait to tell him about this idea, and have Arthur scoff at it. He would probably never believe it could be done, but he would also be invaluable for pointing out the flaws in their plans. His kind of asshole-ish, detailed oriented behavior was essential to getting this right.

He also felt a little conflicted about talking with him on the phone. The last time he'd called, he'd heard a girl in the background, asking, 'Who is it, hon?' Arthur hadn't answered her, which gave Eames a small, righteous feeling that felt ugly when he really dissected it. It wasn't that he didn't want this new girl to know who he was. He was just happy that Arthur was keeping secrets from her. She couldn't be that special, after all. Eames might lie to other people, but he was honest with himself. It was the only way to protect one's mind in this line of work.

Eames kept his secrets from Jonah, but that was how he did things. It was different. He wanted to get a handle on his stupid, useless jealousy. It had no place in his working relationship with Arthur. And anyway, he was happy with Jonah.

Eames called Arthur in the evening. He went into the kitchen for some privacy, which he knew was stupid, because he was only going to talk about the job that Jonah had brought to his attention. Still, he liked being alone when he talked to Arthur. The phone rang four times and almost went to voice mail before Arthur picked up. When he did, he sounded clipped and short.

“Yes, Arthur speaking.”

“Hello, Arthur.”

“Eames?”

“The same. It's good to hear your voice. How have you been?”

A pause. Eames listened hard, trying to discern any sound in the background.

“Yeah, fine,” Arthur said, in a voice that broadcasted the fact that he was not currently fine. Arthur was shit at dissembling.

“Yeah?” Eames said.

“Yeah, great. What's going on?”

“Actually, I've got news of a job that is extremely interesting. I wanted to run a few things by you, and also the Cobbs, if they are available. We're assembling a team, but we might need a point...”

“No,” Arthur said.

“No? Without even hearing the details?”

“No, Mal and Dom... no, the Cobbs are busy. They can't, uhh... they're not working right now.”

A deep, unsettling feeling slithered through him. “Arthur...”

“I have to go, Eames. Sorry. Take care of yourself.”

And with that, he disconnected. Eames stared at the phone for a good thirty seconds before shutting it down.

Jonah came into the kitchen. “Call your mates?”

“Yeah,” Eames said, trying not to sound troubled. “Unfortunately, they're not able to help out. The Cobbs are involved in something else at the moment.”

“And Arthur?”

Was that a sly tone that Eames heard? He checked Jonah's face for any hint of a smirk. No, of course not. Just his usual open look, the one that worried Eames sometimes when Jonah turned it on him. You shouldn't trust so much.

“He goes where the Cobbs go,” Eames said. “If they need him for a job, they're his priority.”

“He couldn't throw you a few ideas?” Jonah pressed.

Eames went to him and pulled him into his arms. That was always the best way to stop someone from questioning him. “We're on our own,” he said.

 

** ** ** **

When Arthur's phone rang these days, his stomach bottomed out, heart churning with anxiety. And every time it was Dom's cell, as it was now, he was sure his fears were confirmed: Something had gone wrong.

Two weeks ago, Dom and Mal had called him over to help with something they were working on. Dom had said, “We want to see how deep it goes. The dreaming and the time dilation.”

Arthur shot them both down with a succinct, “Too dangerous.” He appealed to Mal in times like these. But this time, she seemed neither totally invested in the idea, nor opposed. To her, it was just another experiment. Her compounds were stable. She was sure it was possible.

It was possible, Arthur said. That wasn't his argument. But to go under for that long was unheard of. No one knew what happened to the psyche after something like that. He talked about brain damage, about psychotic breaks.

“We've been working towards this,” Dom said. “We've gone three levels down already.”

Arthur knew this, because he'd gone with them. Three levels was hard, but doable. He'd spent weeks in a dream, just creating, building. Eventually it got tedious and he had longed for reality. Dreams were the best thing he'd ever done, and he didn't want to stop. He probably couldn't stop. But he wouldn't forsake reality for it.

“I'm not going under with you,” he had told them.

Mal had put her hand over his. “We're not asking you too.”

“Miles is taking the kids,” Dom had said. “We just need you to stay in the house if anything should go wrong. We'll be under for about eight hours.”

Arthur had done some quick mental math, or at least tried to. Time dilation was never an exact thing, because reality and time-keeping were subjective even in real life, but more-so in dreams. There were no indicators of the passage of time except the ones you gave to yourself. Still...

“That's ages,” Arthur had told them. “Decades. You'll...”

“Grow old together,” Mal said, covering Dom's hand with the one that wasn't on Arthur's. “Yes. That's what we want.”

So, he had stayed in the house, anxiously checking their vitals every hour. He'd kept the house quiet, read a book, eaten quietly in the kitchen and mostly left them alone. Then he'd watched them wake up disoriented instead of exultant. He had tried to look them over, check their reaction times, their reflexes. When he'd gone to check Mal's eyes, she'd tiredly pushed him away, refusing to look at him.

And then Dom had told him, “We need some time,” and sent him away.

Since then, he'd gotten calls from Dom, but not from Mal. When asked how they were doing, Dom would say, “It's different,” but wouldn't elaborate.

So every time Arthur's phone rang, he felt anxious, convinced that this time Dom would tell him “It's different” and mean something very bad.

Arthur answered on the second ring. “Dom?”

“Yeah, hi Arthur.”

“How's everything?”

Instead of answering, Dom said, “Can you come over? I need to ask you a few things.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Come over."

Arthur thought that was a bastard thing to say, the worst possible way to answer the question 'Is everything okay?' It was a simple yes or no question. Still, he hung up and went over.

Arthur let himself in, like he always did. The house was darker than usual, as if their eyes still hadn't adjusted to real light. Arthur took a few steps in and didn't like the feeling he got. It felt wrong in here, like something had gone off and no one had found it yet. He found himself wishing, wistfully, that he'd taken the job that Eames had offered him a week or so ago. He pictured Eames setting up his whiteboard, scrawling ideas in his sloppy handwriting, rolling his eyes when Arthur questioned him. The image made him smile in spite of himself. From there, his mind wandered to Eames's grey eyes, his smirking mouth. God, how much better it would have been to take that job. Not that he could actually leave at a time like this, when the Cobbs needed him for something, but it was a nice thought. Better than this dark, quiet house.

"Dom?" he called out.

"Yeah, in here."

Arthur followed his voice to the kitchen, which was also unlit. The afternoon light filtered in, an Autumn slant that Arthur usually liked, but now just felt dreary. Dom was staring out the window, watching Phillipa play in the grass. James was probably napping.

"You gonna tell me what's going on?" Arthur asked. "Where's Mal?"

"Sleeping. Sit down. I need to ask you some things."

Unnerved by the fact that Dom hadn't turned around yet, Arthur took a seat at the table. It was afternoon, why was Mal sleeping? And was she sleeping sleeping, or using the PASIV? Had she gotten addicted to it or something?

Before he could ask, Dom took the seat opposite him and said, "Something went wrong."

"Yeah, I gathered that, Dom. You want to maybe tell me what it is? What are we dealing with here? Amnesia? Aphasia? Addiction?"

Dom waved his hand. "No, it's... I think it's something temporary, that's the thing to remember. Just one of those things that will work itself out, but in the meantime..." He scrubbed his hand across his forehead. "That day we went under. It was a day to you. But to us it was a lifetime. It seems so unreal now. I still can't believe we did it. Mal, she's- she's stuck in a loop or something. I can't get her to understand. She thinks she's still dreaming."

Arthur let go of the breath he was holding. Okay, so it was a long time for her to keep thinking that, but he'd seen that before, once or twice. He would never have expected that to happen to Mal, but there were ways out of it. He wondered why Dom hadn't tried them yet.

"Well, her totem..." Arthur began.

"No, that doesn't work for her anymore. She thinks she's in her dream. Or rather, our shared dream. We shared a totem. It would only tell her if she was in someone else's. We both know that it topples in real life. She thinks that I'm so convinced this is reality, I'm the one toppling it."

"You guys told me never to share totems," Arthur said. "See, this is why – I mean, why can't you take your own goddamn advice, Dom?"

"It's different between me and Mal," Dom said. "We have kids together, Arthur, there's nothing like having the kind of relationship we have, you wouldn't understand."

Dom was fucking well right, he wouldn't. Maybe that comment would have hurt someone else, but that kind of co-dependency was something that Arthur feared, rather than desired.

"A lot of good it did you," Arthur said. Dom didn't answer, he just glared at him. "All right," Arthur said. "All right, so this thing happened, and Mal thinks she's still dreaming. We've both seen this happen before. It can fade on its own, or there are things to do if it doesn't. There are behaviors to watch out for in the meantime."

Dom nodded, but didn't look at him.

"Like trying to wake up?" Arthur prompted. "Trying to get rid of people she thinks are projections? Dom, has any of that happened?"

"She... she's a mother. She can't hurt her children, even if she thinks they're not real. She wouldn't even dream of it. She literally can't."

"And you?"

"She wants me to do it myself. She gave me a gun and told me to... I hid the gun." Dom got up and went to the window again, to check on the Philippa.

"Jesus Christ," Arthur whispered. "So what should we...?" He stopped talking when he saw Dom's shoulders shaking.

Arthur was never good with these kinds of situations, but then, he reminded himself, who was? He went to Dom and put a hand on his shoulder, intent on telling him, 'Hey, it's all right, we'll fix this.' But before he could, Dom turned to him and grabbed hold of him. Stunned, Arthur stood there while Dom sobbed into his shoulder. He patted Dom on the back awkwardly. Sudden dread filled him. Obviously, Dom thought there was reason enough for this level of panic. It really was that bad.

Still. "We'll fix this," Arthur said, to convince himself as much as Dom.

"I know." Dom's fingers eased up on the back of Arthur's shirt. He pulled away and wiped his eyes. "Yeah, I know we will. It's just, I've never seen her like this and, Mal, you know, without me she's still Mal, she's herself. But me without her, that's different. I'm no one without her."

Arthur didn't know what to say to that. He was trying to come up with something when Mal appeared in the kitchen doorway.

Arthur almost didn't recognize her. Her eyes were beyond tired, dark patches underneath, her eyelids almost purple. Her hair was a mess and her mouth was slack as she stood watching them. She was wearing a bathrobe and sweatpants.

"Mal," Arthur began, "what..."

She reached into the pocket of the robe and pulled a gun, the one Dom had "hidden."

Arthur could have dove right at her and disarmed her, but it was Mal. Mal. He couldn't. She wouldn't. And he was starting to think it was a dream anyway. He backed up until the small of his back hit the countertop.

"What is this?" Mal asked Dom. "Is this your projection? I think it must be. My projection of Arthur isn't anything like yours. I've known him longer. You always get him wrong. His hair is shorter, topside."

"Mal," Dom said, "we are topside, it's been weeks, I've told you..."

"And my Arthur doesn't stand there staring when someone pulls a gun." She came a few steps closer, still out of reach, and aimed it at Arthur's head. "This will prove it to you," she said.

Arthur felt his knees go weak. Mal was going to kill him, he could stop her if he dove at her now, he had a second...

"Mal," Dom said. He approached her from the side, his hands held up, cautious. "Mal, don't do this. Please. Please. This is Arthur. I know you don't believe me, but consider for a second, you might be wrong. Just think about what if?"

"I know my Arthur," she said.

"Mal," Arthur said. His voice was a shaky whisper. "Mal I swear, it's me. The treehouse when we were kids."

"Dom saw that in a dream as well."

"You told me you got in trouble because you hurt a boy. You said it felt good to hurt him. I told you when I had sex for the first time, I didn't tell anyone else... Mal, come on. It's me. Please."

She narrowed her eyes. "Then you are my projection. I brought you in for a reason." Her face crumpled. Slowly, she lowered the gun, but she didn't let go of it. "It's because I miss you. Arthur, I miss you so. I can't even get you right anymore."

Dom took the gun out of her hand. And Arthur, who, no matter the circumstances, couldn't bear to watch Mal cry, went to her on shaky legs that barely held him up. He took her in his arms and she clung to him the way Dom had just a moment ago.

"I'm right here," he said, giving her arms a little shake. He felt wetness on his cheeks and realized it was his own tears.

"I miss you, that's why I brought you today. Arthur, why won't you come into the dream and wake us both up? I know you're up there." She pulled back and pushed her fingers into his hair, gripping hard and looking into his eyes. "Why won't you come down and get us out?"

"Mal, Jesus, it's me. I am right here, I'm real. How can you say I'm not real?"

"None of this is real," she said. "I miss you. And I grieve for my children. It has been years since I've seen their faces."

"Then why haven't you aged?" Arthur asked her.

"Because this is a dream and we choose not to. Don't you see how that just proves it?"

Arthur couldn't listen to any more of this. He pulled her to him again, just to stop her from talking. It was worse than anything he could have expected.

Later, after Mal had gone back to her room (where she spent most of her time these days,) Dom had given Arthur the gun—Mal's gun-- for safe-keeping, and the kids had gone to bed, the two of them sat on Dom's back porch.

"I have an idea," Dom said.

Which was what he'd said when he decided that he and Mal were going to go into limbo. Arthur glared at him.

"Two ideas, really. One I can do by myself. The other, I'd need a team, I think."

"I don't know, Dom. It sounds complicated. Maybe she should just get professional..."

"I am a professional," Dom snapped. "And what are we supposed to do? Call a shrink? Have her committed, try to explain that we were using dreamshare technology, which they don't even know about? No, my plan will work. At least one of them will."

Arthur sighed, relenting.

"First," Dom went on, "when she's asleep, I can just set her up on the PASIV without her knowledge. I'll construct a dream that's identical to real life, then we'll both wake up. Her dream will be over. That's my first idea."

"Well," Arthur said, "Dom, that's not going to work."

Dom narrowed his eyes. "Why not?"

"Because of the kids, or at least Phillipa. She's old enough to understand that her mother is sick, or going through something. All it would take was a comment from her about the time that Mommy thought she was asleep, to let Mal know that she was still in the same reality as before."

Dom glared at him this time, for a few moments, before giving up. He released his breath in an audible sigh and rubbed his palm across his forehead, looking so dejected that Arthur said, "Well, your second idea, let's..."

"We go into her mind and plant the idea that she's awake. An inception."

The last thing Arthur wanted to do was shoot him down again so quickly. So he kept his mouth shut and thought it over. First of all, it was highly unlikely that true inception was possible. In fact, he had learned that from Cobb himself. Ideas weren't always self-generated, but if they were ideas that needed to define who you were, your place in reality, or your perception, they needed to be self-generated. That was the only way they would work.

Second, and perhaps more important: what if it did work? What else would an inception change about a person's mind? To take something out of a person's mind was one thing. To plant something, like a virus—no matter how well-intentioned—that seemed criminal.

But then he thought of Mal earlier today, pointing a gun at him. Her tears on his collar, her hands like claws in his hair and the back of his shirt.

"We'd need a team," Arthur said, quiet. "Like Miles and Sylvie."

"And Eames," Dom said. "I'd need him to forge the kids."

"Oh, Eames – he's on a job. I don't know when he's finished."

"Well, call him," Dom said. "See if you can get him to leave the job and tell him we'll pay double."

"Dom, I don't think you..."

"I don't have the fucking money, but I'll figure it out. I'll owe him."

Arthur, who respected Eames, and liked him, also knew what it would mean to be indebted to someone like him. Arthur might be able to get away with it. They'd slept together, once, and Eames seemed to have a soft spot for him. Dom, though, whom he didn't know as well, wouldn't get so easy a pass.

"Just see what you can do," Dom said. Then he got up, took their two empty glasses, and went back inside.

Arthur sat on the porch alone for a few minutes, trying to figure out what he should say to Eames.

 

** ** ** **

 

Eames set up the whiteboard in their workspace, which this time was a large, heated warehouse that their client had paid for. Jonah had checked for cameras and bugs. Once he left, Eames had re-checked. It wasn't that he didn't trust Jonah, just that he knew he didn't have as keen an eye for hardware as he could have had. Arthur would have swept the room in half the time and not missed a thing. With that little frown on his face, as if the entire thing annoyed him. Eames spared a few minutes to think about him again.

It was time now to concentrate on the job, but he kept going back to the brief conversation he'd had with Arthur on the phone a week or so ago. Arthur had brushed him off, without a doubt. But there was something in his voice when he said that the Cobbs were busy. Arthur could be a prat and he could be brusque, especially on the phone, but Eames had sensed something else, perhaps even panic. It nagged at the back of his mind.

Well, no matter. He would catch up with Arthur after this job.

Jonah had gone to pick up their new chemist at the airport, and Eames kept setting up while he waited on them. When that was done, he looked over the folders of information they'd collected on their client, this Joseph Engleston, who wanted his wife to be unfaithful to him to level the playing field. He was fifty-four, a CEO, and had had an affair with his young assistant. His wife, Marguerite, was forty-nine and, as far as Eames could tell, had never cheated. Although, it was early in the research, still, and those things could be hidden. This job might turn out to be as simple as discovering she had already been unfaithful. It was so common.

He sat alone for an hour or two, reading, and sometimes just considering. Perhaps he'd forge an old flame of hers. No, that wouldn't do. It would have to be someone she knew currently, who was in her social circle. Someone she had a chance with.

Or perhaps not? There were reasons other than desire to cheat on someone. It could be anyone, maybe. Secretly, Eames didn't think this was going to work. But since they were getting half of the payout up front, it was worth it to try. Also, he'd do it for the same reason he did a lot of jobs: just for the hell of it.

He was lost in his musings when the doors creaked open and Jonah stepped in with their chemist.

"Bloody hell," were the first words out of Yusuf's mouth, "it's unbearably cold out there. It's downright arctic."

"Welcome back home," Eames said. He hadn't met this Yusuf, but the accent gave him away.

"This is precisely why I left," Yusuf said. "The weather."

Eames had looked over his dossier, and knew well enough that he hadn't left because it was too cold. It was because he was a brilliant chemist who'd had some trouble with the military. Eames had forged him a passport to get him over here.

In person, he was a little older than the photos Eames had seen, and his hair was longer. It fell in bushy spirals down past his ears. His clothing looked almost Swahili. He'd been in Kenya for a while and it showed.

Eames got up to shake hands. "Welcome aboard, mate. Thanks for coming."

"It was inception," Yusuf said, as if his reason was the most self-evident thing in the world. His hands were firm and rough. There was a small burn scar on his palm, probably chemical.

"Well," Jonah said, "we don't know yet if it will be an inception."

"Still," Yusuf said, "one must try new things."

Eames sensed that his morals were soft around the edges in the face of intellectual curiosity, and he liked him for it.

"I'm afraid I'll have to set up my works somewhat close to you. Do try to keep your voices down if I'm concentrating on my mixtures. We don't want any mistakes. And of course, I'll need to test the compounds on either or both of you."

"Don't you test them yourself?" Eames asked.

"Honestly, Mr. Eames. If I tested every compound on myself I'd be doing it all day. And how would I observe impartially?" He tapped his finger to his temple as if to say 'Think a little.'

Eames smiled. What a bastard.

Yusuf set up, clinking glass vials and rustling papers around, hanging goggles negligently from his IV lines and generally making a ruckus. Eames sat down with Jonah and began to go over the notes he'd taken.

"You're going to have to read them to me," Jonah said. "Your handwriting gives me a headache." He punctuated this with a small kiss.

"Can we not?" Yusuf said, without looking up from his papers. "It's bloody distracting."

Something about that made Eames feel squeamish. It never felt completely right to show affection in public in the first place—and perhaps he had his father to blame for his feelings on that—but to have it done to him and then be called out and shamed for it, well. Perhaps he had his father to blame for that feeling, too. Nonetheless, it stayed with him.

It was Jonah who said, "Sorry, mate. We'll keep it to a minimum." He turned back to Eames. "I have to say, this is the strangest thing I've ever been asked to do. Inception is tricky enough to begin with, but to make someone want to be unfaithful? We'll have to find someone for her to desire in the waking world, first."

"Not necessarily," Eames said. "People are unfaithful for a variety of reasons. Often, desire for another person doesn't even play a part."

"It can. If there was someone that she couldn't resist."

"But then," Eames said, "we'd have to incept that person, too."

Yusuf chimed in, "I'm game to try an inception, but I don't see why your client going through all of this. Why won't he just hire a model to seduce her or something?"

"Because," Eames said, "I suspect that even then she wouldn't do it. As I said. Cheating isn't always about desire. Aren't there people you desire?" He began pacing, as it always helped him think. "Haven't you ever been in a situation where you were so overwhelmed with desire for someone, and yet did nothing about it, for whatever reason? Or even actively gotten them out of your lives? Perhaps you were already in a relationship, or you felt they were out of your reach. Or you just didn't want the involvement. Or perhaps it wasn't the right time, and you pushed the other person away. We see desirable people all the time, and yet so often, for reasons either societal or personal, we don't act on it."

"Except in Hollywood," Yusuf said.

Eames waved him off good-naturedly.

"So," Jonah said, "if we put into her mind, not desire for a specific person, but the desire to cheat, then we'd have a chance. And then it wouldn't matter who the other person was."

"Exactly," Eames said. "In a case like this, it really isn't about the other person. What we have to think about, is what makes people decide to be unfaithful, when often, it's easier and often more convenient not to be."

"Why do people cheat?" Jonah said.

"Yes. And everyone's reason is different. In a case like this, we have to stop thinking, 'Why would I cheat,' and really get into the mark's head. What is her nature? What would make her do something contrary to her nature? You see, I think that inception is a lot like hypnotism. You can ask a person to act a certain way under hypnotism, but you can't change their nature. Eventually their inhibitions will kick in and stop them."

"You couldn't, for example," Jonah said, "incept someone into say, leaping off a building to their death. Their survival instinct would kick in."

"Yes, precisely," Eames said. "Although." He paced back and forth again, pivoting on his heel when he reached the whiteboard. "Although if it were possible to alter someone's reality enough that they would no longer believe in their inhibitions..."

"I think that crosses a line," Yusuf said. "I'm in no position to moralize, but an inception like that could define a person's existence. Getting someone to shag another person is one thing. Changing who they are to the core is something else. I think that could only end in tragedy."

"Yes," Eames said. "Perhaps. It would help if we could go into her mind first, have a look around, like. See if she's got any natural inclinations that we can work with, instead of against. Jonah, put a call in to Mr. Engleston, would you? See if we can arrange that. Meanwhile, I'll..."

Eames's phone interrupted the conversation. The ringtone was Bruce Willis saying "Yipeekayay, motherfucker."

Jonah, who knew that Arthur had swiped Eames's phone and changed his own ringtone the last time they'd seen each other, looked away. He went about looking at Eames's notes, frowning.

"Excuse me a moment," Eames said, as he answered. He walked a few feet away. "Yes, hello, Arthur."

The line was silent for a few seconds. "Hey," Arthur finally said.

"Everything all right over there?"

Another silence. "Yeah, fine. Umm, listen, Eames. Me and Dom, we have this, this job, kind of thing. It's sort of delicate. It's... I can't really talk much over the phone, at the moment, but we could – I mean we could really use some help. If you..."

"Sorry, old thing," Eames said. He glanced over his shoulder at Jonah, who was no longer looking at the notes, but picking at his nails, pretending not to listen. Eames thought about how Arthur had shot him down when he'd called him to ask for help. "I'm right in the middle of a job as we speak. It's quite the complicated mess, and I'm afraid I've already committed to it."

"I see," Arthur said. "Well, when do you think you might wrap up?"

"I'd say not for at least a fortnight."

Another pause. Eames thought he heard some muffled sound in the background. A man's voice, maybe. One he didn't recognize. He found himself hoping it was a man, only because that would mean that Arthur wasn't, for whatever reason, with that alleged fiancee of his.

Then Arthur said, "That's, what, like two weeks?"

Eames smiled in spite of himself. "Yes, Arthur, that's two weeks. And I did say 'at least.' It's not an emergency, is it? If the job can wait until then, I'll free up some time. But this takes precedence."

"Yeah," Arthur said. "Yeah, no, that's fine. We can wait. In the meantime we'll try a few... Yeah, two weeks is fine. Or whenever you can get here."

Eames turned away and said, in a lower voice, "Darling, are you sure you're all right?"

"I'm fine," Arthur said. "And look, I'm really sorry that I snapped at you over the phone when you called. It's just a little hectic here, sometimes."

"And where is 'here'?"

Another noise in the background. This one sounded like a door slamming shut. "Eames, I have to go. I'll be in touch. Thanks." And the line closed.

"Yes," Eames said anyway. "I'll talk to you then."

With a deep breath, he turned back around.

"Everything all right?" Jonah asked without looking up. He had his impatient look on, like he expected Eames to go running. Which was ridiculous, because Eames had never given him any reason to suspect that.

"Yes, they've got some sort of job lined up. But it can wait. Now, back to the subject. Where were we?"

"Infidelity," Jonah said.

Yusuf looked up from where he was setting up rows of glass beakers. He looked from Jonah to Eames, as if he'd just become aware of something else going on. Which was ridiculous, and Yusuf should mind his business.

"Yes, right," Eames said. "Well, back to it, then."

Later that night, Jonah made his calls to Mr. Engleston before joining Eames in bed.

"Bad news," he said. "Marguerite will be out of town until the day he scheduled us for the inception. She's in St. Martin for the next twelve days. So unless we traveled down there to dig around in her brain, we don't get two chances." He pulled back the duvet and slipped beneath it, rolling over to put his hand on Eames's chest.

"Will Englethorp pay for our trip, if we did that?"

"Engleston," Jonah corrected. "And no."

"Then I suppose we'll have to do what we can do topside, in terms of research, and then just rely on instinct when we go under with her."

Jonah went still. "There's another option."

Eames tried to sound casual. He already knew what it was. "Yeah? And what's that?"

"We go into her mind for a look around when she comes back, and postpone the actual inception until the next time we can get her."

"And when might that be?" Eames said.

"That's indefinite. But probably no more than another two weeks. That job of yours in the states, with Arthur. Could it wait a month?"

"It's with the Cobbs," Eames said, even though he hadn't even spoken to either of them. "And I don't think so. They move fast. If I don't grab it, someone else will."

Jonah leaned up on his elbow to look down at him in the dim light. "Well, what is the job, anyway?"

"I haven't got the details yet," Eames said. "Arthur said it was sensitive. He couldn't discuss it over the phone, which means it's probably something big." Something big, he thought. Or something very dire. Both, was what his gut told him.

 

** ** ** **

 

Dom had decided that he and Arthur would try to go into Mal's dreams once before Eames even got there. Who knows, Dom had said, maybe we can work it out and we might not even need him.

Arthur wasn't keen on the idea of sneaking into Mal's head without her knowledge. He argued that they should ask her if she would go under with them, first. Dom had said no. Not while her sanity was in danger the way it was. She would never agree.

Arthur thought she would agree, but that didn't mean they would accomplish anything. Mal was crafty. Dom didn't see that in her, but Arthur had known her since childhood. It was easy for her to say 'yes' to things, because she would find a way around them anyway. She had never turned that cleverness against him, and Arthur knew, if she was in her right mind, she never would. But they were dealing with a woman desperate to return to her real life. And when someone wanted something that devoutly, all bets were off.

The day before Dom planned to bring her into the dream, Dom called him. Again Arthur's stomach dropped. He never expected good news.

"Good news," Dom said, when Arthur picked up the phone. "Mal has agreed to see a psychiatrist."

Arthur was skeptical. "To accomplish what, exactly?" he asked. He knew right away that Dom didn't approve of his pessimism, and probably of his dismissive tone, either, but he couldn't help it.

"Well obviously she can't tell him about the dreaming," Dom said, "but she can at least discuss her feelings of disconnection from her life."

"But how is that going to help, if those feelings are from a source she can't explain? She's not crazy."

"I know she's not crazy," Dom said. "God damn it, Arthur, I know that, better than anyone. I just think that even if a psychiatrist can't actually solve her problem, it's a good sign that she's willing to see one. Maybe she's turning it around herself."

"Yeah," Arthur said. "That could be." It wasn't, but he was tired of fighting.

"So, we're not going under with her just yet. I want to see where this goes."

For which Arthur was profoundly relieved, even if he didn't believe for a second that a shrink was going to help, nor did he believe that Mal was doing it to convince herself of reality. She had another motive, one that she most likely thought would help everyone involved. He just didn't know what it was.

"It's our anniversary next week," Dom went on. "We'll see how that goes and take it from there."

"Do you want me to tell Eames not to come?"

"No," Dom said. "No, keep him on the schedule. If there's some kind of major breakthrough, we'll cancel and I'll pay him for lost time, somehow. But just in case."

"Fine. You doing the same anniversary thing as always?"

"Yeah. And if things are still up in the air, we'll go ahead with the plan, take her under, try to plant the right idea in her head. Then after that, Miles and Sylvie are coming down to stay with the kids, and we're going to take off somewhere. Just a vacation, for the two of us."

Dom said it as if he just knew it was going to work. He wasn't even admitting into his mind the notion that it might not.

"We'd like to see you before then," Dom went on. "Just for a visit. If you'd come over for dinner, hang out... we'd just have a normal time, Arthur. Like it always was."

A normal time. Right. "I'll do that," Arthur said. "Umm, we're expecting Eames in about a week. I'll stop by before then."

So a few days later, he went to see them. Dom's estimation of "like it always was" went well enough for the first few hours. They talked easily while the three of them cleaned up after dinner. It almost was sort of like old times. Mal looked good, like she had slept, and showered, and eaten for a few days straight. And Dom was practically glowing again.

Arthur almost bought it, too. Until he went outside into the warm evening air to have a drink with Mal on the porch while Dom put the kids to bed. Then, outside, Mal lit a cigarette. Arthur almost physically felt everything come crashing down. Mal had quit for the kids.

She saw the way he was looking at her and rolled her eyes.

"I just thought that you quit, that's all," Arthur said. "Or are you still... Mal, where are you right now?" He believed in being direct. Some people called it blunt, but he didn't know any other way to be.

She took the beer bottle from him. "Arthur, I'm getting help. This relaxes me. Let me have this one thing until I feel like myself again."

"You didn't answer my question."

She took a long swig and then handed the bottle back to him. Then she took a drag of the cigarette and leaned back on her elbows, blowing smoke out in a sigh. "I miss our treehouse," she said.

Why would Mal be thinking, now, of the treehouse they had shared as children? Really it had been Arthur's, but over their many summers together, they had spent so much of their time up there, telling secrets or just sitting in silence.

"Let's use the PASIV," she said, "and dream it up."

"I don't think that's a good idea," Arthur said. "Dreaming is what got your head messed up. Maybe we should just hold off until, like you said, you're yourself again."

She ground out her cigarette. "And what if I'm never myself again, Arthur, what then? Sometimes I wake up in the morning, and Dom tells me I'm awake, and for a few moments, I believe him. My totem tells me I'm not in some unknown person's dream, and you tell me I'm awake also. But the day wears on, and I think—no, I believe--that Dom is confused and you're just a projection. And in the night, that is all I believe. I wish I wasn't causing Dom this pain. But in those times, I miss my children and I don't care how much Dom believes in this reality. So tell me, Arthur, should I just choose to believe Dom and live out the rest of my days in what feels, to me, like a false world? What kind of mother would I be? Growing old and dying, watching my children grow up, only to wake up young again, with toddlers?"

"Mal, but that's exactly what did happen. In the dream, when you and Dom went all those levels. He told me. The two of you, you spent decades down there and grew old and, what, it was only a few hours topside when you woke up. I mean, even if you really never believe that this is reality, couldn't you just pretend? For a few hours, Mal?" Arthur banged his fist on the wooden porch. "For me, for Christsake, couldn't you do it for me?"

"But if you're a projection..."

"But if I'm not? If I went down to look for you guys, and I'm just as real as you are?"

She looked at him softly in the dying light. "But Arthur, you are a projection. It becomes more clear to me as each day goes by. I know the real Arthur, just as I know my real children. Those two are projections. A mother knows. And a friend knows, too." She put her palm against his cheek, stroked her fingers through his hair. "My Arthur had short hair."

"I leave it long because I got sick of looking like a Marine after what they did to me."

"My Arthur smiled, and laughed and had cute dimples and liked boys."

"Yeah well, I'm not smiling because I'm pissed off that you think I'm not real; do you have any idea how insulting that is? And I still like boys."

"My Arthur sometimes fooled himself into thinking he liked anyone other than pretty British boys with grey eyes and beautiful mouths, and he burned and burned inside while trying to pretend that he wasn't burning, and then he foolishly almost got engaged to an American girl."

Arthur pulled away from her hand, stung. "Stop," he said. "I don't want to talk about that."

"Ah. There he is. For a moment I almost believed."

"You want to talk about burning," he said, and unbuttoned his shirt. He pulled the sleeve down to show her the scar that ran from his neck to his arm. "Your Arthur got blown up by a car bomb, and he watched people die, and even killed a few of them, and for all of that he got hauled in by his own people and interrogated for a few weeks about the dream program, while trying to protect you. So please, Mal, don't give me shit about how I'm not real to you anymore."

She ran her fingers down the scar, gently. "Let's dream together for a while," she said. "We'll go back to the treehouse. Then we'll jump out of it, and we'll wake up. Then we'll be together."

"No," Arthur said. He pulled his shirt back up and buttoned it. "Dom doesn't think dreaming's a good idea. I don't think we should."

Still, he couldn't push her away, no matter how badly she hurt him. She was hurting, too. It wasn't her fault. He sat with her on the porch until the stars rose.

When he said goodbye to her that night before leaving, it was for the last time.

 

** ** ** **

 

The inception didn't work, but then, Eames could have told anyone that it wasn't going to. Did, in fact, tell his team, although he didn't say anything to the client. Money was money, after all, and he was still spending his time and effort on this useless venture.

They had gone down into Marguerite's dream after her husband had slipped her the sedative in her afternoon tea. Which Eames thought was fairly vile, but again, who was he to argue with getting paid?

Jonah had asked for three layers, and both Eames and Yusuf had shot that idea down. They'd discussed it two days before the job.

"Far too unstable," Yusuf said. "It would collapse within seconds."

Eames had agreed. "Besides," he told Jonah, "something like this isn't really about adding more layers to the dream. All that would give us would be time – which, yes, we do need. However, I'm not convinced that depth would make it any easier."

"I just think," Jonah said, "that if we went deeper, she would be less likely to trace the idea. It would be so far in her subconscious..."

"That she might never act on it," Eames said. "We're not even certain what motivations we're working with in her mind, yet. And if we did that, we'd have to construct a three-level dream that somehow all connected to the other parts. We just don't have the resources for that."

"Nor the compounds," Yusuf said. "Perhaps in the future we might, but that time isn't here yet."

So Jonah had agreed to two levels. Marguerite was already out when they got there. Seeing her lying on the sofa of her opulent home made something inside Eames twist up in regret. Her husband had done this to her. For essentially nothing. This was what people did to each other.

Jonah laid a hand on his arm. "Ready?"

"Sure, of course," Eames said.

Yusuf stayed topside and kept an eye on Engleston. Eames and Jonah fell into her dream.

The dream dropped them into what Eames imagined as a middle-America suburb, with rows of neat, cookie-cutter houses, paved roads, and dull-colored gardens. Her mind was mild, with muted colors and soft, drifting sounds – half-words, unintelligible. This probably had to do with the sedation; it was a new type, designed to make the mark more amenable to intruders. Eames wasn't fond of it. It dulled the dream perhaps too much.

Or maybe it wasn't all the sedation. Maybe it was just who Mrs. Marguerite Engleston was. Her projections were sedate, going about their subconscious business. One of them tended some roses from behind a white fence. She smiled at Eames as he passed. He wasn't forging. It gave him the eerie feeling that she knew he was there, and didn't mind at all.

Two levels down, Jonah reconstructed the same setting she'd given them above, but with adjustments. Hidden places, nooks where she could hide secrets. They found nothing that they could use to incept her. No past love to tempt her with, no long-buried desires bubbling to the surface. No contempt or regret. As if her entire subconscious was resigned to her life.

Jonah found him in a little park, where projections of adults swung on swings and went down the slide like children.

"She knows about his affair," he told Eames. "She's known the whole time. It was in the diary I found. She doesn't care, Eames. It doesn't bother her."

"I'd had a feeling," Eames said. "Most people do know, even if they don't realize they know for a while. And there's no discord down here. She knows, fully."

"So what do we do?"

"We try to plant the idea anyway," Eames said. "It's what we're here for."

"It's never going to work. She doesn't love him enough to want any kind of revenge. She doesn't desire anything."

"I know. But we'll give it a go, because we said we would."

"He doesn't have to know if we don't do it." Jonah's conscience was giving him grief again. This woman was harmless. "I'd rather lie to him, actually."

"Whether we plant the idea or not," Eames said, "she's not going to do it."

"So let's just..."

"No, let's plant an idea."

Jonah stared, unsure.

"Not, 'you're unhappy, therefore cheat on your husband,' but something else. Perhaps, 'Go and find someone better.' Yeah? Same idea, really."

"So this way, instead of incepting her into being the guilty party, so that he can leave her without remorse" Jonah said, catching on, "she'll just get it in her head to leave him first. Because she deserves a better life."

People had a way of repeating Eames's ideas back to him, explaining it to themselves as their minds caught up with his. It was irritating. "Precisely," he said.

"So we'll go and, what? You could forge someone to tell her this?"

"Hmm." An idea occurred to him. One he'd never tried before. "No, not exactly. I'll write it into her diary. But I'll do it as her."

"You're going to forge the mark? In the mark's dream? It'll never work, the mind realizes... there are self-images..."

"And they're always a little off," Eames said. "Haven't you ever had a dream where you watch yourself do something? You're an outsider, witnessing your own self-image going about its business?"

"Yes, but... It's different. This is completely untested."

"What better mind to try it in?" Eames said.

So he did exactly that. He forged Marguerite in her own mind, writing in her diary as her projections looked on passively.

It wouldn't take. He knew this. Why should she leave a life where she was perfectly content? She didn't long for anything more. He understood how a person could feel that way. Many people were like that.

Eames wasn't.

When they job was over, they took their pay and left the Englestons behind. Eames was glad it was over with. The whole thing had made him feel blue. He thanked Yusuf and said he hoped they'd work together again. A good chemist was a rare find.

That night, Jonah walked in on Eames as he was packing his suitcase. A moment of alarm crossed his face before he remembered that Eames had another job lined up. Then, briefly, alarm once more. And then resignation.

"So," Jonah said, leaning against the door frame, his arms folded across his chest, "I guess you're leaving for that other job in the states? With Arthur?"

"With the Cobbs, yes," Eames said, irritated, glancing over his shoulder. He'd gone to university with Mal and they were old mates; there was no reason to assume he had any other motive for taking this job. Aside from which, he knew something as going on there, something that needed his attention.

Jonah's look softened. "No," he said, "with Arthur."

 

** ** ** **

 

Arthur had grown so accustomed to Dom's ring tone that he recognized it, and his own reaction, at the first note. He jumped to answer. Would Dom sound happy this time; would he say he had a breakthrough? That Mal was getting better? Or would this be the call where he was in tears, saying she was in the hospital, he was trying to get her committed for her own good?

Arthur picked up. "Hey, Dom."

"Arthur, hi."

He sounded normal. Arthur let go of the breath he was holding.

"Umm, so, today is a little challenging. Mal's fine," he hurried to add, "she's okay, but I can tell it's on her mind again. She's, you know, trying not to let on, with the anniversary coming up. I can tell she's really making an effort."

"That's good," Arthur said. "It's good that she's trying." It wasn't. She wasn't trying in order to make herself or Dom feel better. She was trying so that she could hide what was going on.

"Miles and Sylvie are here, so they're going to stay with the kids while Mal and I are away. We're not taking the whole week this time, just two days. We thought it would be better that way."

"Okay," Arthur said.

"So once we come back, we'll, uhh... it looks like we'll maybe try something with Mal. You and me, I mean. And Eames, if he can make it."

"Yeah, he can," Arthur said. His throat felt dry. It was going to happen. They were going to sneak into Mal's mind. That was how real shit had gotten.

"Good. So you can fill him in on the details."

"Yeah, I'll do that." The details. Sure. The thing was, Arthur didn't know the details. Mal and Dom had spent an age in limbo. Mal thought she was still sleeping; Dom didn't. They were keeping something back from him, something that had happened down there. He'd have to get those answers before he went in. But he'd wait until they came back. Let them have their two days of happiness.

"All right," Dom said. "I'll call you to check in when I get to the hotel."

"Okay. Hey, Dom."

"Yeah?"

Arthur didn't know what to say.

"Take care, okay? Give my love to Mal and just tell her for me, you know. Happy anniversary."

"I will. Thanks," Dom said. And then, before he hung up: "You know what, Arthur? I really think it's going to be okay. I'm not as worried as I was. Mal's trying. We're going to be fine."

"Yeah," Arthur said. "Yeah, Dom, of course you will. We'll talk when you get back."

Arthur hung up, thinking how nice it would be if he believed that. He went to the window of his little apartment and looked out. The sun set early, but LA winters were still warm. He longed for a chill, suddenly. Or maybe just for home. Or for something to drive out the dark feeling he was getting, of something inexorable closing in over him. He'd never been prone to depression, but he'd been in enough shitty situations to recognize when they were dragging him down. He needed, desperately, something to distract him. He wanted to get out. Anywhere would do.

Then his phone rang again. It was Eames, probably giving him his flight information. Arthur felt a stupid, pointless flush of warmth in spite of himself and of the situation. Or maybe it was because he believed that Eames could help them. Eames was a good dreamer; he thought around the corner and had unique problem solving skills.

"Yeah?" Arthur answered.

"Hello, Arthur," Eames said, in that way he had of drawing out Arthur's name.

"Hey, Eames, how's everything? How did your job go?"

"A dismal failure."

Arthur's chest tightened. Of course there were things that Eames couldn't accomplish. Maybe helping Mal would be another one of those things - and Arthur really needed to get his shit together and stop flying from one thought to another before it started affecting his work. "Sorry to hear that," he said.

"Not important. What is important is that I'm in town and waiting to be detailed on what I'm doing here."

"You're in already? I was going to pick you up at the airport."

"I got in at 4 AM. I knew if I told you, you'd insist on coming to pick me up and it wasn't necessary. I've just been sleeping off some jet lag."

"Well... let me get you dinner to make up for it," Arthur said.

"There's no need for that."

"Oh. No, of course, I didn't mean to presume..."

"No," Eames cut him off, "I meant, of course we can get dinner, but you don't need to make anything up to me."

Arthur glanced at his reflection in the darkening window. He needed to shave. "Okay, let's do that. I can pick you up in maybe two hours? Would that be all right?"

"Yes. And I'll expect you to tell me everything, yeah?"

"Yeah, of course. Maybe we could go somewhere private to discuss... Yeah, I mean. I'll tell you as much as I know."

"Are you all right?" Eames asked. "Is this something that concerns you?"

"Well, it concerns me, but I'm all right. It's about Mal. I'd rather tell you in person, if that's okay. Pick you up in two hours?"

"I'll text you the address," Eames said. "It's not far. See you then, Arthur."

Once they were off the phone, Arthur hurried to take a quick shower and shave. It was always a good idea to turn up anywhere looking professional, and after all, this was a job. When he got to his hair, he stopped. Eames had remarked once that he liked it when it was natural. Well, it was the way Arthur usually left it anyway. He put a little smoothing product in it to kill the frizz. Got dressed, and looked himself over.

Not too bad, was his assessment. He never struggled with self esteem, but realistically he knew that everyone looked plain next to Eames. There wasn't anything remarkable about Arthur, and usually, that suited him just fine. But Eames liked his hair, so he left it natural.

A short drive later and he was at Eames's hotel. He took a seat in the lobby, and found himself wishing that there was nothing else going on that needed his attention. No troubles with Dom or Mal, no "job" that meant he'd have to go crawling through his best friend's disturbed mind. Just a normal night, in which he was meeting up with a friend.

He killed that train of thought as useless. He'd had similar thoughts during his last tour years ago, stuck in an internet cafe, listening to gunfire and longing desperately for home, for normalcy, for kinship. It was pointless. Wishing for what wasn't had never done anyone any good.

Arthur didn't know what made him look up, but there was Eames, coming out of the hallway where the elevators were. His hair was cropped close and he was clean-shaven, making him look younger than his twenty eight years. He wore dark slacks and a dark blue shirt, open at the collar. Arthur had seen him many times, but had never gotten used to that first look after a long absence. Other people in the lobby took secret looks at him, double-takes. It was bad business, probably, for a man of Eames' station to attract so much attention, but it couldn't be helped.

"Hello, Arthur," Eames said as Arthur stood to meet him.

They shook hands. The last time they'd seen each other after a long absence, Eames had taken him by surprise and kissed his cheek, leading to awkward physical miscalculations. This time, Arthur expected it and he leaned forward a little. But Eames was already drawing back from Arthur's space. Arthur moved quickly to cover up his intention, already feeling like an idiot because there was no way Eames hadn't noticed that.

"How've you been?" Eames asked. "You look exhausted."

"Thanks," Arthur said. The last time, Eames had told him he looked good. Arthur knew that his perpetually-sleepy eyes looked that much worse with the purple smudges under them, but it would have been nice not to have this pointed out.

"I only meant... Well, never mind. Off we go, then?"

"Yeah," Arthur said. His voice came out lower than he wanted it to. Maybe it would have been better for him to stay in tonight, get over his morbidness and dark thoughts by himself. "I've got my car out front," he said. "I'll tell you everything there, before we get to the restaurant."

"Quite right," Eames said. "Best to talk about work in privacy."

'Pri-vacy', Eames pronounced it, with a short 'I'. Arthur had always liked the way Eames spoke.

Arthur turned to lead the way, acutely aware of Eames at his back.

 

** ** ** **

 

So it was going to be Arthur misunderstanding everything he said or did, Eames thought. That was how this entire job was going to go and he wasn't looking forward to it already. He knew to spread the blame for awkwardness equally between them, but at least he was making an effort. He just hadn't been sure if Arthur had wanted any more contact than a handshake, considering the last he'd heard, Arthur was with someone else. And Arthur really did look tired – that hadn't been a judgment, but an expression of concern.

Then they got into the car, and Arthur, with his eyes on the road, told him why he was here.

Dom and Mal had gone too far into the dream and stayed for too long. Mal thought she was still asleep. It was unclear if she thought she was in limbo, or if they just hadn't gone back up the last level.

Eames asked what her behavior had been like. Had she tried to wake herself up?

"Umm, I'm not sure," Arthur said. "I don't think so, because Mal tends to succeed at what she puts her mind to. And I think the fact that she can't get Dom to go with her is stopping her. But as far as her behavior, it's pretty erratic."

"Has she tried to... to do away with anyone she considers a projection?" Has she hurt anyone, was what Eames wanted to ask, but couldn't.

"Again, not that I know of," Arthur said. "She thinks I'm a projection. And her kids, too. But she says she can't even dream of hurting them."

"And you?" Eames asked. "Can she dream of hurting you?"

"No," Arthur said. "No, she hasn't tried to hurt me."

The relief he felt surprised him. He studied Arthur's profile by the light of passing cars. Arthur's hair curled softly around his ear and the back of his neck. Eames wanted to touch it, but knew that would be unwelcome.

"You're all right, then?" Eames asked.

"How many times do I have to tell you?" Arthur said. "I'm okay. I've just been up doing a lot of research, I can't help it if..."

Eames went ahead and touched him anyway, awkwardness and possible fiancees be damned, and Arthur's protests died on his lips. He swallowed hard and cut his eyes towards Eames, suspicious.

"Let's talk more about this tomorrow," Eames said. "Yeah? Tonight, let's just have dinner and catch up. Dom and Mal won't be back for two days, so that gives us a bit of time to think, right?"

"Yeah," Arthur said. "That's right."

When they arrived and were finally seated, Arthur looked everywhere except at Eames. It was clear his mind was elsewhere, and maybe he wanted to be elsewhere, too.

"I, erm," Eames began, unsure if this was a good idea or a bad one, "I've heard a rumor that congratulations are in order?"

Arthur finally looked at him, perplexed. "Why, what happened?"

"Well, for your engagement, I meant."

"Oh. What? No, that's not... that wasn't ever a thing. We just roomed together for a while and she wanted to and, I don't know, I thought about it, but it wasn't right. I'm too young. And anyway, that whole thing isn't really for me. Marriage, settling down, you know."

"Oh, I know," Eames said, somber. But inside, he was bursting. It irked him a little to think that Arthur had considered marrying anyone at all, but he supposed he had no room to be jealous, when he was living with Jonah. Or had lived with him. He hadn't actually moved out, but Jonah had made it clear that he knew Eames' mind was on someone else. "I'm the same."

"I thought you had settled down, Eames," Arthur said, smiling vaguely.

"No, that didn't work out," Eames said, as if it were a done deal, when he hadn't officially ended anything.

"I'm sorry," Arthur said. "I heard he was nice."

"Yes. Very nice." Eames thought of Jonah's smile, his smooth skin, his unwillingness to harm. Then he looked at Arthur. "Doesn't matter now."

Arthur gave a small laugh and looked away. "Well. Now that we have that out of the way."

"Quite."

They talked through dinner, not about Dom or Mal or ex lovers, but about themselves. The tension drained visibly from Arthur's shoulders and mouth. He smiled, crinkling his eyes, showing dimples, and he tilted his head back when he laughed.

So of course, when dinner was over and Arthur drove him back to the hotel, Eames asked him if he wouldn't mind coming back to his room for a while, ostensibly to continue talking while they had the time.

Of course Arthur went along with this.

And of course, Eames took him to bed.

The first time they'd kissed, Arthur had initiated it, taking Eames completely by surprise, and Eames had pushed him away. The second time, Eames had kissed Arthur, and they had both gone with it. This time, it just happened, and Eames would never be sure who had leaned in first. They never even considered talking. Once they were inside the hotel room, they were kissing, and Arthur's hands were tugging Eames' shirt out of his trousers.

Just like the last time he'd gotten Arthur out of his clothes, over a year ago, Arthur was eager but not rushed. And, like last time, he tensed when Eames got to his shirt. Arthur had probably gotten used to the two burn scars—one on his right shoulder and arm, and one on his hip—but he still guarded them. Eames wondered, briefly and selfishly, if he'd been so cautious when he was with his somewhat-not-fiancee.

But Arthur did his best to hide his discomfort, pulling Eames along towards the bed, so there was no question where this was going. Eames climbed to the side of him, careful not to cage him in. No matter how badly they both wanted it, they'd seen their fair share of combat, and personal space was important. Eames wouldn't breach it until Arthur asked him to.

They kissed like that for a while, side by side on the bed. Eames let his hand roam carefully down to Arthur's trousers and slipped one inside, running his fingers along his hip. He could feel the smooth ridges of the scar under his fingers, but paid it no mind. Arthur helped by unbuttoning his own trousers.

"Hey, wait," Arthur said, when Eames started to move his hand towards the front of his pants.

Eames stopped abruptly. "All right, Arthur?"

"Yeah." Arthur shook his hair out of his flushed face, and looked down on the pretense of watching his fingers scratch through Eames' chest hair. "It's been a while for me," he said, finally. "Not with sex itself. I mean, with a man. Like, a few years I think." The flush on his face wasn't from arousal now.

"Oh," Eames said, trying not to sound too surprised. He'd figured that Arthur would have picked up a few easy dates here and there between commitments. "Well that's no problem. We can do whatever you want. I don't mind bottoming, if that's better for you."

"No," Arthur said. "I mean, yeah, maybe some other time, but I'd rather get this out of the way. No! I didn't mean it like that," Arthur corrected before Eames even had a chance to react. "What I mean is, I want to, and it'll be better if it's with you. It'll be good, if you do it. That's what I want."

Eames leaned forward to kiss him again. "No pressure on me, then," he murmured, laughing against Arthur's lips.

"Well," Arthur said. His breath stuttered on a gasp when Eames nudged his jaw aside and kissed his neck. Arthur's fingers tightened on his biceps and his toes curled against Eames' calf. "Just-just do it right and there's nothing to worry about," Arthur managed.

"I'll try. I'll try."

He did try, and he got it as right as he could. He took his time and waited patiently, happily, biding his time with kisses and Arthur's hesitant encouragement. And Arthur was sweet, and open, and eager, and utterly, maddeningly familiar. Eames felt like he had him memorized already. The press of Arthur's legs around his waist, Arthur's hands in his hair, blunt nails leaving indentations in his hips – these were all things he already knew.

At some point he got onto his knees and pulled Arthur up to straddle his thighs, Arthur giving a choked off cry and a breathless little laugh. This made it easier for him to touch everywhere, to run his fingers down Arthur's spine, to tilt his face up when Arthur cupped his hands around his jaw to kiss him, and to slide his fingers through Arthur's hair like he had always wanted to.

He wondered why he had denied himself this for so long. All the years behind them, all the balking and the games and half-arguments and jealousies seemed pointless.

At some point he let himself be pulled up against Arthur's chest, just breathing and tasting his skin, and his mind went blank except for, Arthur, and my love.

Later, after Arthur had gone for a shower and then unabashedly returned to his bed, Eames watched him sleep. He indulged himself by running his knuckles over Arthur's cheekbones, skimming the pads of his fingers over a cluster of freckles beside his nose. Arthur twitched but didn't wake.

This is right,Eames thought. And tomorrow, he would do the right thing: call Jonah and tell him. Well, he would belatedly do the right thing. Even though Jonah already knew. It seemed everyone knew except for Eames.

Eames meant to call Jonah first thing the next day, but he put it off so that they could have breakfast. And then Arthur asked him to come back to his place so that they could maybe work on some levels, formulate a plan of action if possible. Arthur hated to go into things without knowing exactly what he was doing, and Eames also sensed that this was a way for him to hold onto the illusion of control. He couldn't fix Mal, from the sound of it. Only Mal could fix Mal – or, if Eames's gut was right, possibly Cobb could help her. He had an idea that he wasn't getting the entire story. Cobb had something to do with this, though Eames didn't know what. Arthur probably didn't know, either.

But Arthur felt better taking action and making plans, and Eames was too stupidly smitten to tell him exactly what he thought.

Not that it would have mattered. That evening, Arthur's phone rang, and everything changed.

** ** ** **

 

This is right, Arthur thought, as he stood in his kitchen, heating up leftover lasagna.

Eames sat in his living room, putting the PASIV away. They'd just finished a few practice-dreams together. Arthur built basic, simple cities and landscapes, and Eames embellished, ad-libbed, changed his face and mannerisms, tried on different people.

Arthur had taken an hour in the dream to explain what little he knew about what was happening with Mal. He told Eames (though he didn't want to) how she had threatened him with a gun. How bad it was, on some days.

Yet in the end, he felt reassured, even happy. He and Eames dreamed together so well, and had such different—sometimes opposite—ideas about what could be done, that anything they came up with could only help. He felt, for the first time since this had started, that they could succeed.

He opened the oven door to check on the lasagna. It wasn't done yet. When he turned around, Eames was standing in the doorway to the kitchen, watching him. The look on his face was almost a startled one, like he had just realized something as he watched Arthur.

Looking at him standing there like that, the two of them in the kitchen together, waiting for dinner, rattled something in his mind. Arthur couldn't figure out what it was, except that something about this felt familiar. He thought about last night, how easily they had fit together. How he had traced the contours of Eames's face with his fingertips. And how Eames had looked, flushed and wanton, his mouth red, hair and skin slick with sweat, the grey of his eyes just rings around black pupils.

Eames kept staring, and frowned as if confused.

Arthur went to him and slipped his hands into the crooks of Eames's arms. "Everything all right?"

"Yes," Eames said. "Yes, of course. Only for a moment I thought... Arthur, have we ever...?" He shook his head and smiled, showing crooked teeth that Arthur wanted to lick over.

"Ever what?"

"Never mind, of course we've had dinner together. Just, watching you for a moment there, I had a bit of deja vu. Which is to be expected after dreaming together, of course. All that time in each other's minds, we're bound to pick up stray memories and incorporate them as our own."

"Yes, that's pretty common," Arthur said. He leaned in to kiss Eames again, just because he had always wanted to, and now he could, whenever he felt like it.

"But," Eames murmured into the kiss, "have you ever felt, I don't know, sort of profoundly, that we've..."

Arthur's phone rang. It was Dom's ring tone, and for the first time since this all began, Arthur's blood pressure didn't skyrocket when he heard it. They would think up a plan of action now. With Eames's help, it would be fine.

"I gotta take this," he said to Eames. "Check the lasagna for a sec?"

This is what Arthur would remember:

Eames sticking his head in the oven. Arthur taking a quick, leering glance at the curve of his ass as he bent to check their dinner. The smell of backed pasta and cheese, a pang of hunger. That last moment of normalcy, of well-being. And his own stupid, cheerful voice when he answered the phone and said, "Hey, Dom!"

"Arthur." Dom's voice sounded sluggish, wet and hoarse.

Arthur turned away from Eames, his palms already sweating. "What's the matter?"

"Mal."

"What? What about her? Dom?"

"She's gone."

Arthur felt sick. He sat heavily on the sofa. Peripherally, he saw Eames close the oven and turn it off, before striding over. "What do you mean?"

"Gone," Dom repeated. "She's gone, she left me, Arthur. She left me. She's..." He started crying.

Arthur took a breath, held it, and let it out. All right, so she had left Dom. Completely unexpected, but still workable. He held up his hand to Eames, silently asking, Wait. Don't bother me. Let me think. Eames hung back.

"She left you? Where did she go? Did she say?"

Dom sobbed into the phone but offered no answer.

"Shit," Arthur said. "Okay, stay there. We'll be right over. Don't go anywhere, Dom. We'll figure this out."

"No." Dom took a deep, shaky breath. "Nothing more to figure out. I'm gonna go now, Arthur. I need you. Come down."

"All right," Arthur said. "Just stay calm, okay? I'll be right there."

When he hung up, Eames just raised his eyebrows.

Arthur got up and grabbed his jacket, slipped his shoes on. "He says she left him, but he's in total hysterics. I need to go down there."

"I'll drive you," Eames said. His tone was final. His face was drained of color and devoid of any discernible emotion. That look frightened Arthur more than Dom's hysteria. He wanted to ask, 'Do you know something that I don't?' But instead he grabbed his keys while Eames got his jacket on.

The ride to the hotel was quiet and tense. When Arthur glanced to his side, he saw Eames looking distant and strangely clued in. He wanted to reach over and shake him, and ask, 'What? What are you thinking?' It angered him, that grim, knowing look.

Before they turned the corner to the hotel, Eames put his hand on Arthur's forearm and squeezed.

"Jesus, what?" Arthur snapped.

"I feel as if this is going to go badly," Eames said. "I want you to be prepared."

"You're psychic all of a sudden?" It came out more sincerely than he'd meant it to. Earlier, Eames had said he'd felt a strange sense of deja vu. Arthur knew he was being ridiculous, but Eames was scaring him. He pulled his arm away, and firmly gripped the steering wheel as he made the turn.

Flashing lights greeted them. Arthur's first thought was, Dom. Dom did something stupid.

He pulled to the curb and was out of the car without checking to see if Eames was behind him. Because it wasn't too late. Dom had done some crazy thing like start screaming for Mal to come back. The presence of the ambulance confused him, though. So did the overwhelming smell of blood, and the panicked voices of what could only be bystanders.

When he came around the side of the ambulance, he saw a covered body on the sidewalk. A river of blood crept away from it on the pavement. He couldn't see a face, but the hair still stood out. Dark and curly, like his.

"No," Arthur said. To his own ears, he sounded more confused and annoyed than anything else. "That's not right," he continued, to no one.

He was dreaming, obviously. If he didn't think too hard, he couldn't come up with how he had gotten here. The smell of blood overwhelmed him, Mal's blood, and someone was chattering to a cop, saying, And then she just jumped, and the guy started screaming and I saw her land, it all happened so fast... It was all so unreal, obviously it was not real. So Arthur just said "No," again.

"Jesus Christ," said a voice behind him. "Jesus Christ."

He turned to see Eames, scrubbing his hand over his face, shaking his head as if to clear it of the sight he was seeing. Eames was real, wasn't he? Maybe they were in the dream together. Arthur reached into his pocket for his totem. He could usually tell just by feeling it on his fingertips if he was in his own dream or someone else's. He wasn't in someone else's, but that didn't make this reality.

Eames's reaction somehow did, though. Arthur looked back to the trail of blood, the matted hair sticking out from the top of the blanket they'd used to cover her. Color drained from the world, and dark grey smudges started eating away at the edges of his vision. The joints of his knees felt watery. Arthur leaned down and breathed, quick, short breaths, bracing his hands on his legs until he could see again.

Eames's hand slotted into the crook of his arm and then he was being pulled gently away. "Come on, now," Eames said. "Come away."

His vision cleared a little and Eames led him to the back of one of the ambulances. He exchanged a few quick words with a paramedic, explaining that Arthur knew the victim, and could he sit down for a moment? And then he sat on the back of the ambulance and someone asked him if he was all right.

"Yeah, I'm okay," he said. "I'm fine. How's Dom?"

No one could answer him. A few seconds later, he got his reply when he heard Dom's voice yelling out from the front of the hotel. Dom was saying, "Mal!" and "No, please, Jesus Christ!" Two police officers were holding him back from running to Mal's body.

It roused Arthur to action. Eames was beside him as he ran to Dom, but he barely registered his presence.

"Arthur," Dom said when he saw him. "Arthur please, help me, help me, wake me up!"

Arthur reached him and took him by both arms, even as the cops told him to clear the area, stand back.

"Fuck off, I'm not a civilian," Arthur snapped. It was the first time he'd ever used that line. It worked, though. The two officers stood down, though one still held onto Dom's arm as he fell to his knees.

"Let me see her," Dom said. His fingers scrabbled at Arthur's shirt, bunching it up. "Let me see her, she's topside, just let me wake up beside her."

"Get him to the ambulance," one of the cops said. "Come on, you can help. Arthur, right? We need you to answer a few questions."

Numb, and moving on autopilot, he helped them get Dom to the ambulance. Eames trailed behind now, not quite a part of the proceedings. That was okay. Arthur had this.

But when Dom saw Mal's covered body, and the blood, he lashed out, struggling to get away. His elbow came up and caught Arthur in the mouth. He felt the bright, hot sting of blood. It braced him, cleared his mind.

"Dom!" he shouted, giving him a shake. "She's gone." The words sunk like stones in his chest as soon as he said them. He bit back the tears. They weren't his to shed right now.

As Dom crumpled Arthur went with him. He held on while Dom sobbed into his shirt, hot hands clutching the back of his jacket.

"I did this to her," Dom said. "I did this."

At that, one of the police officers looked over at them.

They took Mal away. They took Dom, too, in a separate ambulance. They'd sedated him. Not the best idea, but Arthur didn't have the right to fight them on that.

All that was left afterwards were a cluster of onlookers who were ready to go their own way, with their new, horrific story to tell at work and dinner parties. Cop cars with their lights still flashing, officers interviewing witnesses. And the blood stains on the concrete.

And Eames.

As the ambulances pulled away, Arthur stared at the blood on the ground.

And this, he thought, is love. This is what happens. This is how it ends.

No one had been as in love as Dom and Mal. They'd wanted so much time together that they had invented a way to spend more than one lifetime with each other. Dom had loved Mal so much, he'd brought her with him to a fantasy world. And Mal had loved Dom so much, she'd died to try to bring him into hers. They had given each other all they had to give. And now Dom was alone and their children had no mother. That was how destructive love could be, especially for dreamers. It was ruinous. It ended up splattered on the concrete.

Well, not Arthur. Nothing in the world was worth what this night had brought.

Eames's hand was warm on his shoulder, his fingers gentle under the back of his hair as they rubbed firmly. It could feel so good, so comforting, if Arthur let it.

But now there was work to be done. Now he had to get Cobb's shit straightened out, call Miles and Sylvie, probably help out with some legal documents. Wills, estates, all of Mal's research files especially. Things like that. Arthur straightened his spine and swallowed past the metallic taste in his mouth. He tugged on his jacket, pushed the hair out of his eyes and turned to Eames.

"Arthur?" Eames said. "Come on, love. I'll get you home."

Arthur looked him in the eye. "Can you get a ride back to your hotel?" he asked. "I have a few things to take care of. I need to be alone."

 

** ** ** **

 

Eames had tried to talk Arthur out of going on the run with Cobb, because Cobb going on the run was the stupidest decision in the history of bad decisions. Witnesses had seen Mal jump. They had seen Cobb, in a separate window, screaming for her. Accusations of abuse and declarations of Mal's sanity were nothing more than circumstantial. Even her children knew that their Mum was sick, that she thought she was dreaming.

But Arthur had barely even acknowledged his arguments. Eames wasn't sure which was worse, Arthur's mulish determination to not even listen to reason, or the way he brushed Eames aside.

Eames had seen Arthur once since then, on a two-day job that Cobb had sat out. He barely recognized him, with his severe hair and a suit that looked way too expensive for him. He'd heard that Arthur and Cobb had been pulling some high-risk, high-payout jobs. He didn't know where Cobb's money was going, but Arthur, at least, was probably doing well for himself. Maybe he sent some money to his family. Eames didn't know. Or really care. During that job, they had barely acknowledged each other except to argue over details that ended up being pointless.

Clearly, Arthur had a lot on his mind, but it was not Eames's place to help him out. He'd made the offer once, and Arthur had made his intentions—and his feelings—quite plain: I don't need you. Never again. Arthur could obviously take care of himself. Neither he nor Cobb required his services.

Which was why he was so surprised when he heard from Cobb. And even more surprising was Cobb turning up in Mombasa to talk to him. It had to be serious if Cobb thought it worth the risk to show his face there. And he was so bad at it. He made the worst kind of criminal, getting chased around the city like an arsehole. Eames had to laugh at the poor bastard. He didn't even know why he was bothering to hear him out. Last he'd heard, even Arthur had gone back to the states after a failed, and dangerous extraction. Maybe their partnership was over. Eames certainly didn't wish ill on Arthur, and hoped he had enough sense to get out of Cobb's mess before it got him killed.

Honestly, Cobb was such a danger to himself and others, very little could be worth the risk of working with him.

But, inception. Eames still thought it was possible. And it stung a little that he had failed the first time.

In the past, Cobb had name-dropped Arthur, using him as bait to get Eames on board with his most insane schemes. He hadn't even realized at the time how easy he had been to play.

Not this time, though. This time, he was only listening because Cobb seemed to have some coherent thoughts about this job. Because it was possible. And because of the amazing amount of money.

Cobb name-dropped Arthur as he usually did. Eames didn't care. He was only considering it because of the possibilities.

That was really the only reason. Certainly not because Cobb had said "Arthur" to him. Not because of how easily he could picture him or because he could still recall the texture of his skin, from the softness of his back to roughness of his scars. He'd never go running around the world for Arthur again.

But, inception, and on Robert Fischer. This was different.

Eames said yes.

 

 

--end