Wake Me Before Time Runs Out
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 17579
Warnings: Sexual Scenes, references to torture

Summary: The months drag by. My dreams are choked with memories I cannot erase that I cannot forget. Every day I descend further into my madness, and I must ask myself: how far am I willing to go? How far down must I descend into the darkness of dreams before I am free? How long before you stop killing me?

This story was written for the i_reversebang challenge and was based upon a video created by the amazing fayelafee. If you would like to see the video you can find it on my LJ account post, or the master post on the i_reversebang page.

So so many thanks to my beta. This story would be shite without you! LOVE. And also LOTS of thanks to my wonderful artist fayelafee, whose fantastic, heart wrenching video gave me such amazing inspiration!

Part 1

"Arthur. Arthur!"

"What the fuck do you want, Cobb?" I let my head roll back gracefully onto the shoulder of the man behind me as his thick, familiar hands run down my sides and move ever closer to his destination. The music pulses all around me, inciting the never-ending hammering inside my brain. Forever am I trapped in this swirling fucked up mess of a life that makes my head scream in agony and my heart skitter. I couldn't tell you what's wrong with me. Besides the knowledge that the thumping of the music will continue on no matter where I am, there is nothing I know and nothing I see. All I do is feel. The hands that touch me, the hands that glide over my body like a fine silken shirt—that is what I understand in this reality, these hands that know my body like a musician who knows the sound of a perfect chord.

"Arthur."

"Fuck, what?!"

"Wake up, Arthur. Come on."

"Wake, wha?"

"Wake up, Arthur."

SHIT. I open my eyes and silence receives me. The air around me is thick with the gentle hum of machinery, reassuring me that I am indeed back in the real world, or as real as it can be. Damn it, I hadn't realized I was so close to the end of my time; perhaps if I had I would have had the foresight to shoot myself in the head first before any of my co-workers arrived. I quickly reach down and rip at the needle sticking in my arm. Despite my foray into the dream realm being over, a searing knocking persists in my skull, as if my inebriation could indeed carry on into this realm of existence. The truth of the matter is, however, that the constant pounding never leaves me alone these days. My skull plays host to a never-ending percussionist that would rival the talents of any intoxicated fool. Not that is matters, not really. "So, using the PASIV again are we?" I glance up at Dom and give him the glare that he deserves.

"Fuck off," I hiss.

The lifted eyebrow that mocks me makes me want to snarl like some sort of animal…not that I feel any more humane than a rabbinate beast these days. "What the hell is wrong with you, Arthur? This isn't like you. You've never been one to use this shit for anything other than what it was intended for."

My faces twitches, a small tick I seemed to have developed over the past several months, ever since the headaches began, ever since he disappeared. It's quite pathetic really. Even mentally I cannot bring myself to use his name anymore. "Yeah well, we all change." Before he vanished I was able to discern dreams from reality. Before he disappeared I was able to dream without the PASIV. Before he left my dreams were my own. Before everything went to hell, I knew who I was.

"Mhmm," Cobb murmurs, eyebrows raised in clear derision.

I bite the inside of my cheek and scowl. He was not supposed to be here today, at least not until this afternoon. He never should have born witness to this. I miscalculated the time. A mistake I shall not make again. "I'm fine, alright? I don't need your approval for everything I do. I'm not a child."

Dom frowns at my remark, ass that he is, before saying, "You keep telling me that, but this is the third time this month alone that I've come in to find you abusing—"

"Dom," I snap, "you have no right. Absolutely none to accuse me of misconduct, so I suggest you SHUT. UP." After the years he has spent using the PASIV to recreate his dead wife in some twisted, fucked up reality, Cobb can just close his trap.

Dom holds up his hands. "Alright, alright, fair enough, but I'm just trying to look out for you Arthur. Trust me. I know. Using the PASIV isn't going to bring Eames back. Nothing will."

My heart seizes in my chest and my breath stops. "Don't say that name," I whisper. Just don't. I cannot bear to hear it. Not now. Christ, I would do anything, anything just to see him. To have him open that door and smile at me like he always does, make some scathing remark about my hair or anything at all, anything, just to hear his voice.

I push myself up off the chair to begin the incessant pacing—another quirky little habit I've been prone to recently. "Arthur. It's been five months now. He's not—"

"Cobb," I murmur softly, "I will ask you, as politely as I possibly can. For once, please just fucking be quiet. I don't want to talk about it." Not ever.

"But—"

"Dom! When Mal passed away, I gave you plenty of space and plenty of time. I did not harass you. I did not ask you questions. I let you be until you were ready. And now I'm asking you to do the same. Please." I wipe a hand down my face and take in a deep, solid breath of air. I wish things would just get better already. I wish I could just forget everything. To open my eyes and find that this is all a dream; wouldn't that be an amazing thing? It's just not that simple though. My lover has disappeared. Five months he's been gone. And the likelihood that he's coming back or that he's even alive? None. People do not just disappear in our business. Although deep down, I know this, I love to lie to myself that the truth is otherwise.

X

I'm standing on the platform overlooking the gathered crowd. In the distance I can see the bright white of the snow-capped mountains glistening in the afternoon sun. I watch as a single bird glides through the air and circles the crowd, snapping its jaws and mocking the gathered masses with its sharp smirk and cruel eyes. He knows, he understands, unlike those standing in the crowd beneath me. They are clueless beings, nothing more than projections of my mind. This all is a dream. That I can discern. Why my mind chose this particular setting with these particular people is a mystery, however. Dressed in the clothes of beggars, they are nothing more than a ragtag group of villagers, farmers, as if I had taken a step into some ancient drama. Hell, I didn't know the PASIV could even create such a place. None of this is based off of my reality. Not to mention that this set-up was definitely not my intention when I went under. So the reasoning behind how I arrived at this place is non-existent. Although I suppose when it comes to dreams there are infinite possibilities aren't there? Anything I have witnessed, whether through TV or any other avenue is a working environment for this world. Yes, I guess that is a logical explanation…

I survey the people standing before me. Their faces are dull, almost lifeless as they gaze up at me. They are nothing more than projections, nothing more than figments of my demented subconscious with no will and no thought. Wait. There is a disturbance in the crowd as a lone figure slides towards the edge of the masses to ease closer to the platform. Long, knotted hair flows down his back, his firm body enclosed in furs and rags, and his stark grey eyes framed in blue. No matter his clothing, no matter the dirt and paint marring his sharp features, I could never forget that face. Not ever. He walks ever closer, one moment below me, the next walking up the steps and onto my platform. He's standing so close. So very close. I can nearly feel his body heat; nearly feel his breath on my cheek.

"Eames," I choke out in a whisper. He smiles at the sound and lifts a lone hand. His thick, calloused fingers brush down my cheek ever so gently, almost as if I would break under his touch. They move to trace my lips, first the lower and then the upper. My eyes are entranced—I cannot look away. "Eames?" I whisper again. He tilts his head to the side, that ardent smile never leaving his lips. "I miss you," I murmur.

His fingers fan out and cup the side of my face, their rough edges skating over my skin and making the breath catch in my throat. Those hands of his never change, not even here, not even in dreams. The grey gazing back at me glows at my reaction. "I miss you too," he whispers. Leaning in, he runs his lips along my neck in soft kisses. For this moment, for this single moment, it is almost as though this whole thing were real—his hands, his lips, his breath, his scent, his everything. The hand touching my face moves down and curls against the tendons of my neck. "Why have you stopped searching for me, Arthur?" he continues in a soft huff.

The words make my heart constrict and my breath stop. The guilt washes anew and a nearly unnoticed a tear wells in my eye. "Because you are dead, Eames," I manage to say, blinking furiously.

His lips curve against my neck at the words. "Am I?" What? No. That's impossible. Don't say things like that. Not even in dreams. You are gone. Don't torment me with things I cannot have. He pulls his head back a fraction, giving room for the hand stroking my neck to open wide and encircle my throat in a light hold. The movement makes me still. What the hell is he doing? He has never done this before.

I take a measured breath and reply cautiously, "Yes, you are. Five months and we've had no word and no sign of you. There is no other explanation."

Eames moves his head back slowly so that he can meet my gaze. The fingers around my neck shift minutely, settling into a more controlled hold. Bright eyes glint in the sun and I hear the call of the mocking bird in the distance. "If you believe this to be true…then I must show you otherwise, mustn't I?" he murmurs. My eyes narrow. What the fuck is he saying? Eames? A slow grin spreads on his face and I nearly relax. "Don't be afraid, Arthur. You will find me. I know you will." What?

FUCK!

The air in my lungs is squeezed out as a pained scream sticks in my chest. NO! EAMES! Stop it! PLEASE! But it's no use. The words lie still as death in my throat. With the bit of power I have, my nails scramble against the skin of the hands surrounding my neck, but it does not help. He has always been more powerful physically; this is a certainty. Why are you doing this? Stop! STOP! My internal pleas fall on deaf ears. Eames gives me a poignant look and tightens his hands with a frown. My fingers skitter across his forearms, but it is hopeless. Eames' face twitches as if he is withholding tears and he mutters, "I'm sorry, darling. I'm sorry." The pain in my throat and chest seizes me in its grasp and my hands swiftly lose their strength. Oh Christ, I'm going to die. But I want to stay here. I want to stay here with you, Eames! Please don't do this!

Yet as certain as the sun will rise in the morning, the world about me goes black as I fall out of the dreamscape reality and into death.

X

I awake with a jolted cry. Instantaneously I run my fingers along my throat before scratching needlessly at the spot on my arm where I find the PASIV cord has fallen out to lie limply on the comforter. My breath heaves out of me in pants. Impossible. This is impossible. He killed me. But he is nothing more than my projection, my memory. It does not make any sense. It goes against all the rules of the dreamscape world. If I had asked it of him, maybe he would have, but not like this. Not only is the entire situation implausible, nigh impossible, there is also the overshadowing question of why. Why would he do this? He has never been violent towards me, well, except in the bedroom, but that is a completely different context. Never in dreams or in reality has he ever done something like this. I push the covers back and stand up. Walking towards the bathroom, I go to get ready for the day with my thoughts still a jumbled mess.

None of this makes sense. I rinse my body off and scrub myself down with soap in a methodical fashion. Is there some loophole that I'm missing? Some fact that I have overlooked? Surely not. After a quick rinse, I towel myself dry and wrap the cloth around my waist before grabbing my can of shaving cream. I lather up my face and stroke a long stripe in the foam with my razor. He killed me. That amazing man I used to know. My boyfriend, my lover…my Eames. There. I've said it. I've said his name. Eames, Eames, Eames. Why won't you come back home? Where are you now? Where did they bury you? Or did they cremate your body instead? The thought causes me to choke and drop my razor into the sink. I'm sorry I couldn't protect you. One minute you were here in my arms and the next, gone. Just gone. I close my eyes and try to suppress the sobs. Shit! Shit! Before I know it, coarse tears are running down my cheeks and smearing through the white.

"Oh Arthur, don't cry darling. I'm here. I'm right here."

What?! I turn with a sob and stare unbelieving at the figure before me. "No! This is impossible."

"You are chalk full of impossibilities today, aren't you?" he smirks. "You have absolutely no imagination." He takes a step forward and runs his fingers down the dripping foam on my face. "Beautiful as ever," he murmurs. He lays a gentle kiss on my forehead and I scowl.

"Shut up," I hiss. "I am furious with you!" The tears course down my cheeks at an even speedier rate as I gaze into his eyes. "Five fucking months and not a word! Five months, you utter ASSHOLE!"

The look on his face drops perceptibly at the words, his eyebrows scrunching in bewilderment. "You keep on saying five months. Have I honestly been gone that long?" He shakes his head as though clearing and gives me a woeful smile. "I'm sorry, darling. I missed you." His question is completely lost to me as those thick arms of his wrap around my body. I breathe in the familiar scent which causes me to shudder. Christ. It's the same; that musty cologne and that pure masculine scent that is all Eames, that wonderful scent that never fades no matter how dirty he is and no matter what atrocious shirt he tosses on. My hands skate down his clothed back and I know I will never be able to get enough, no matter how livid or how aggrieved I am, and no matter how heartily I try to deny my need. A nose nuzzles my neck smearing the remainder of my shaving cream between us.

"Eames." Christ he's back. He's home. "I thought I'd never see you again."

"I wish I had more time, Arthur." What do you mean more time? "I wish I could give you those five months back to you. But I can't. Not here. Not now." What the fuck are you saying? Are you honestly leaving me again?! I try to squirm out of his hold but he holds me fast. "I love you."

I only have a moment to gasp as I feel the cold graze of the gun's tip to my forehead.

X

FUCKING SON OF A BITCH! I awake with a growl and rip the needle from my arm. A slight trickle of blood skims down my skin at the jerk but I could give two shits about that. Breathe Arthur. Breathe. I take a wheezing gulp of air. I take my totem out of my pocket and toss it upon the nearby table three times before I am satisfied. Grasping both armrests, I push myself up out of the chair and do what I do best these days: pace. What the absolute fuck is going on? How can one dream within a dream without meaning to? And how the hell did he kill me? Twice?! This just is not possible! And the fact that I've had to reiterate that thought a dozen times in one evening is beyond ridiculous. I run a trembling hand through my hair—another of the many annoying little habits I've picked up recently—and rub at my head. The throbbing is beginning again. Damn this fucking headache. It pulses behind my eyes and I shut them against the pain. This whole situation is beyond my comprehension.

I collapse back into the chair and scrub my face. I cannot think like this. The rationality just is not there. And this ever insistent pounding, the damn pounding in my skull is ever taxing on my nerves. Fuck this. I am returning home this minute. I quickly roll out of the chair again and grab my satchel as I head out the door, passing a confused Dom who calls out to me with that stupid quizzical look on his face. I ignore him and slide into my car. The drive home is blissfully silent (thank God that we are working close to home these days). Nevertheless, the pain in my head does not retreat. In fact, the pain is worse today if that's possible. Oh how I loathe the feeling.

Once I'm home, I immediately grab hold of the pills. With a single gulp the drugs coat their way down my throat with a sick slimy coating. Blegh. A slight buzz in my pocket has me drawing out my phone. Damn it Dom. I don't need this right now. I press the 'on' button and put the phone up to my ear. Before he even has a chance to speak I snarl, "I'm tired and I have a headache. I will see you tomorrow. Don't call again."

I click the 'end' button and turn off my phone which I then proceed to chuck onto the couch. I honestly do not need his aggravating presence this evening via phone or otherwise. In the years following Saito's job, Cobb's fathering instincts seem to have kicked into overdrive. Whether or not this is because he is making up for "lost time", I couldn't say, for that man has never been able to leave things well enough alone. After slipping off my new loafers (a recent, unnecessary purchase that I made in an irritated binge last week), I stumble into the bedroom and collapse onto the bed. Our bed. Call it profane, call it dirty, call it what you will, but I grasp hold of his pillow and bury my head against it. No matter how often I've reprimanded myself over the past months, I have been unable to convince myself to change the pillow case. If he were here now, I know he would be laughing hysterically. I have never been one to be overtly affectionate and clingy, and yet this action of mine tears right through my reserved barriers and utterly annihilates them in the most ungainly of fashions. As I take in the smell, his smell, the migraine begins to recede in its assault if only a fraction. What the hell have you done to me? I'm wrapped about a pillow for fuck's sake.

But Christ do I miss him, even his obnoxious banter and his never-ending temper tantrums. Every day I'm reminded of him: the hideous clothing still hanging in the closest, his shoes tucked neatly under his side of the bed, the gold watch sitting on the bedside table that he forgot when he left for his last job. I gave him that watch last year for our anniversary when his other one broke; a stupid, silly little gift that he's worn every day since. It would have been our three year anniversary next month, not that I'm counting or anything. However, he would have done something ridiculously idiotic to celebrate. That I can say without a doubt. The first year it was a trip to Australia, and last year it was breakfast in bed and even better, an all-day sex-a-thon. And this year? I'll never know. Curling my nails into my palms, I manage to retain my focus and blink back the unwanted emotions.

A deep frown mars my face (accentuating every premature wrinkle I'm sure), as I consider my actions over the past few months. These wayward emotions of mine need to be reined in no matter how deeply I am in mourning. I am going entirely against my better judgment by using the PASIV as I have been. Hell, I bore witness to its effect on Dom first hand. And yet…this time under the PASIV was unlike any of my previous experiences. Being in the dreamscape has always been a way to connect to my memories with him—the touch, the sounds, the smells, the sights, everything. However, it was not my memories today. I went down two levels without conscious effort. The lowest level of which, I had no part in creating. It was a world onto its own. And he was so different this time, so real, as if we were here in the present and not merely in distant remembrances. Up until now I have always believed that one's memories under the PASIV were as real as it could get. But I was wrong. The hand touching my face, the fingers gouging into my esophagus…that was no memory and no accident either. He meant to kill me. And that itself goes against the designs of his projection. Argh!

The only logical deductions are that I am either going absolutely mad, or there was something off about the damn dreamscape itself. The latter, however, makes no sense though. Even if the device had been tampered with—which is hasn't—one's projection, memory or otherwise, cannot kill you. Not to mention that even if Eames could attack me, he wouldn't. Fuck. Is this what happens after enough time and misuse? The object of your affections, your very own memory, turns against you? Then in your delusion, you begin to lose sight of the literal deception that is created by the PASIV? If I honestly can no longer tell the difference between reality and dreams, like today, then how can I do my job? How is it that I have lost so much control over myself? Oh yeah, that's right Arthur, you've spent the last three and a half fucking months doing nothing but use the damn machine to reminisce. A terrible idea. A fucking terrible idea. I have to stop this right now or else I won't be able to drag myself back. However, if I stop now…if I stop now then it really is over. I'll have to say 'goodbye'. I'll have to say 'goodbye' to my lover forever. Eames. Oh Christ, I cannot do this. Forever is too long.

These thoughts do not desist as I lie in wait for sleep. I am still lying in bed when the sun sets and the shafts of moonlight begin to pool through my window. Sleep refuses to come.