Disclaimer: I don't own Inception nor any of it's characters.

Warnings: Graphic and Non-graphic scenes of torture. Non-graphic sex later in the story. Slash, Eames/Arthur

Rating: T for now, maybe M later, I'll keep you updated.

Notes: So i've been working on this story for the past three weeks and am almost finished but i wanted to get some feedback from reveiwers before i went ahead and completed it. I'm also halfway through a sequel/prequel so let me know what you think and i'll try to incorporate some ideas into the following chapters. This is post-inception. I also took some licenses with the ages. Both Arthur and Eames are the same age. This is an origins story but also a story by it's own right. Well enjoy.

Summary: Eames looses himself in a forge and both he and Arthur are left to try to help him remember who he is and why he lost himself in the first place.

Chapter One

Lost in the Forge

He couldn't breathe. His hands shook uncontrollably and his whole body was numb. So numb, can't feel a thing. He needed to feel, something anything, he turned the nozzle of the shower and stumbled in, clothes and all. He gasped and grabbed at his head, his first feeling his wet hair and the light pattering of falling water on his hands. Sliding down the wall, he dropped down onto his bottom and pulled his fingers down his face and back up into his greying hair, trying to feel something else, to feel his own skin. To get the memory of someone else's sagging skin off of his bones. To feel his own muscles ache and sinews stretch, not the old bones of another man, he leaned back against the wall of the shower and pulled his legs up tight against his chest. Shuddering breaths escaped his diseased lungs and broken ribs, panic was cloying at his insides. Still numb, still not breathing lungs that were his own, he tries to remember his name. His panicked frantic thoughts trying to grasp reality.

Someone is banging on the door and the noise echoes in his ears for a while before he comprehends what it is. Someone shouting a name, his name! He couldn't quite figure out what it was yet, couldn't hear it over the panting of his own breath and the beating of his old heart. No, not old, he was young. He was not old. He didn't have diseased stricken lungs and sagging skin, no aching bones or did he?

He pushed his palms into his eyes and choked out another struggling breath. A moan escaped his lips and a loud bang shocked a jump from him, but he didn't open his eyes, didn't pull his palms away. He was blind after all. No point opening your eyes when all you'd see was darkness from his white dead eyes. Someone had kicked open the door and he waited for rough hands to pull him out of the shower. He cowers in to the tub, visibly shaking and he hears himself whimper. Nothing happens for a moment then the name is called again, softly this time, hesitant but his mind doesn't latch onto it. The voice is not the one he expected, not the deep rasp that brought pain and death. The name is said again from the soft unfamiliar (or is it familiar?) voice, he tries to grasp it, but it slips through his spotted, twisted hands. He expects blows, for strikes to rain down on his huddled frail old bones from strong arms and big hands that know where to hit to make it look like an accidental fall. His old skin bruising in indistinct patterns of abuse. No, not old, he tried to remind himself. He tried to remember his own muscles, his strength.

He tries to call out when no one grabs for him, when the violence he expected doesn't happen but nothing comes out but a needy frightened croak of a moan. A pitiful painful gasp follows but still nothing happens. A few frantic heart beats later soft footfalls slowly approached and stopped just beside the tub he had taken shelter in. He could hear the steady rhythm of breathing from a few feet away and slowly the man lowers into a crouch beside him. The breathing got closer as someone gently leaned towards him and put a hand on his shoulder. He flinched away, a heart-rending sob making an appearance from his ravaged esophagus. His sopping clothes pull on his weary body. He knew he was wearing a suit and wishes his hands would stop shaking long enough for him to loosen his restricting tie. He needs to breathe.

The name is said again, his real (?) name but it still doesn't click. "You don't need to be afraid of me," the soft strong voice commands and he listens to the confident tone in the voice. This voice holds authority and familiarity and he isn't afraid of it. The hand falls on his clothed shoulder again, this time his weak body only slightly flinches. Soothing words are rushing from the other's mouth and flowing through his mostly deaf ears. No, he thinks to himself, he isn't deaf, he can hear and so he listens to the soft coos but doesn't understand them. The hand is gently, slowly following his shoulder to the middle of his back, pushing him forward gently. He allows the man beside him to push him forward and he relaxes his hands, allowing the palms to rest rather than press into his eyes and fingers grasping his hair loosen their death grip. His breath still hitches and sobs, and he realizes that he is crying from fright and pain. He feels shame and pity for the creature he is and tries to calm down his racing heart but he still doesn't understand what is going on. Why does he have old bones, sagging skin and slowly filling lungs? Why shouldn't he have old bones, sagging skin and slowly filling lungs? He doesn't recognize his body, why? The hand is on the small of his back, still pushing and he scoots forward a bit, following the prompt of the hand.

"It's me, its Arthur," the voice coos and the name jolts into his consciousness but his mind is still grasping and his confusion takes over again. Arthur, the name comes with images, memories he doesn't remember. A full moon, soft hands around his waist, chaste lips pressing against his own, and lips that smile against the firm skin his bare chest, the taste of chai tea and the smell of aftershave. He hears the happy barking of two dogs and the purring cuddling body in his lap and the distinct laughter of Arthur. Most impressionably he sees, and feels a heated kiss in the rain, the hard press of a body against his, mind numbing pleasure and soft gentle touches. The shower (or is it rain) is tepid against the skin of his body. His real name is said again bringing him back to the water and blind eyes (no not blind) but he still doesn't know the name, doesn't acknowledge it.

"Rickard?" Arthur asks a different name softly and the panicked man knows that this should be his name. It is his name, old man Rickard. Dying of lung cancer, that's why it's so hard to breathe. He has three grandchildren who love him and two children who try not to ignore him. He gives out sweeties to all of the visiting children at the retirement home he has been living at the last six years. He has a nervous habit of pulling on his hair when he's worried or frightened. Why would he be frightened? He has a warm booming laugh and a quick smile and quicker wit, or at least he used to, before the home. He doesn't like it there but he doesn't remember why. Rickard. It's his name. IT IS his name… isn't it? The man beside him lowly says the other name again, asking. Arthur is trying to figure out who the panicked dying (not dying) man is too. "Do you know which one you are?" Arthur asks gently saying both names, Rickard and the other name. Something in him jolts at the other name and he knows Rickard isn't his name. It isn't his name. It should be his name, why isn't it his name!

The name rings with such familiarity and utter foreignness at the same time. The dual emotions confuse the bloody hell out of him and his panic goes straight back into full fledged. He pulls away, into the side of the tub, hands out in defense, eyes squeezed shut, trying to fend off the emotions.

"No…. no, who am I?" his voice croaks into his ears and he doesn't recognize it, panicking him more.

"Who am I?" he wails this time. Water runs down his face, entering his open, gasping mouth and he feels like he's going to drown. His heart races and his blood pressure peeks as he starts to cough fitfully. He grabs at his head again, burrowing his hands into his (grey?) hair. His weak heart can't take this much strain and he feels it's going to burst making his gasp louder and making him choke more.

Sensing the sudden overwhelming panic for the danger it was, Arthur moves fast. He turns off the water, pushes himself in behind the other man's back and clasps his legs on either side of the panicking man's torso, knees just in front of his armpits, feet next to his bottom. He pulls the panicking man into his chest, hands on his hands crossed on his chest, fingers twined, holding him tightly. He struggles vainly for a few seconds but Arthur shushes him gently, his hot breathe tickling his ear. He inches away from the other man's chest and he feels Arthur's forehead move to be against the back of his head. Arthur's soft words coming out against his neck.

"Shh, it's okay, breathe. Like me okay," Arthur takes a deep noisy breathe and the old man (no, not old) hears it in his ear and feel the steady exhale against the back of his neck. He stops choking and notices the water is off. Arthur breathes again and coaxes him to follows his example. Arthur nozzles the back of his head with his forehead and continues to breath with him for a few minutes. He starts to loose his panic and he slows his heartbeat. He shudders as he feels the lips at the back of his neck lightly brush against his skin and then he stills completely. "Eames?" the name is whispered against the back of his neck and he feels the soft lips that uttered it against his taught skin. Slight tingling electricity goes off across his skin at the name. The name, he finally hears the name! Synapses fire and it hits his mind like a gong and a connection is made. That is his names! He knows his name, but who is he? Old or young? The lips press again, this time against the notch that is the highest point in his spinal cord. "Eames, calm down, breathe with me, please," Arthur begs him softly against his skin. Eames, he names himself for certain. He is Eames. The brit with the flashy Cheshire smile and flirtatious grey eyes and he loves Arthur. Arthur, the man at his back, his Arthur, kisses the next notch on his spine and Eames melts into his chest. He stops trying to pull away and shakily continues to emulate the breathing behind him. Two sets of memories flash in his mind at once, one filled with fear and pain and the other filled with Arthur and soft lips on his skin.

"Eames," he says to himself quietly. Convincing himself of his identity and grasping his memories. He was still so confused, sifting through the memories.

"Eames," he says again, below his breath and Arthur echoes the name into his skin.

His breath started to stop hitching but why was he, no, the old man, Rickard, why was Rickard so scared? Why was he in so much pain? A flash and a memory of big hands hitting him and of broken ribs. A chiclet tooth smile that mocks and harms with a raspy hard voice.

"Oh my god," Eames remembers his, no, Rickard's pain, his fear and he tastes the blood in Rickard's mouth and the bile in his own. "Oh fuck," going back and forth between Eames in the present and Rickard in the past, Eames relives the abuse the old man had experienced at the hands of one of his caretakers at the home.

"He was suppose to care for me," Eames gasps out feeling the betrayal behind those words. He remembers his, no Rickard's last sight, the chiclet tooth smile before he was blinded with something, a liquid he doesn't know but it hurts. It hurts so bad he screams and arches his back. Arthur in the present holds him tighter as Eames continues to remember and re-experience the old man's dying hours.

"He killed me, that bastard killed me," Eames gasps out.

Arthur shushed him and told him he knew. "I'm so sorry Eames. It wasn't supposed to go that far," Arthur's voice hitches and Eames realizes Arthur is softly crying at his back. Arthur's nose nuzzles against the side of his cheek and jaw and Eames continues to loosen the strength of the memories from their hold on him.

"You were in a dream, you remember that?" Arthur asks.

"A dream?"

"Yes, you're a forger. We were looking into the death of an older gentleman."

"Rickard." Eames says with confidence. He remembers meeting with the old man's son. The look of shock and revulsion on his face when he said the police were unable to bring his father's violent murderer to justice.

"You have to tell me if he did it. I have to know," the son had said with a thick voice. Arthur and Eames were the only two on the team. They had promised to do the job and get back to him as soon as possible.

"What went wrong?" Eames asked quietly. His sobs had stopped but tears still streamed from the corner of his eyes. They still burned with remembered pain. In fact, his whole body screamed with pain that wasn't there in reality.

"Geoff Walcott, the man whose mind we entered, turns out his mind was more conscious than we hoped it would be. His projections wouldn't let me into the retirement home like they were suppose to. I had to fight my way in. By the time I got to you, he had already duplicated his original murder."

"So he did do it?" Eames asked. "He killed me?"

"He killed Rickard, yes," Arthur's forehead was pressed against Eames' temple now. His warm breath tickling his cheek. "I'm so sorry Eames. If only I had gotten there sooner."

"No, it's okay Arthur. I shouldn't have lost myself like that. Why did I loose myself so completely in that forgery?" Eames questioned mostly himself with the words. He thought back, his eyes still tightly squeezed shut, trying to remember the beginning of the dream.