Author's Note: So, I'm not entirely sure where this came from. I've been working on a fic for a friend and I was just...hit with an idea. I had to write and I've been writing it since this afternoon. So it's been several hours since I started this, and I finished it and now I'm posting it before I change my mind and delete the whole thing. I hope y'all like it. Review! :)

Warnings: Character death, major major angst, second person POV (apparently that's what I'm most comfortable with when it comes to writing Inception. if you don't like reading 2nd pov, well, i'm sorry *shrugs*)

Disclaimer: Unfotunately I don't anything involving Inception. *sigh*

Parasite

The mind is a dangerous place. It houses all your secrets and your lies and your truths; everything about you is stored up there, safely tucked away from prying hands. You keep your darkest secret locked away in the deepest recesses of your mind, a place where no one can get past security, not even the most skilled extractor.

And it's funny, because you work with the most skilled extractor. Even he can't find the chink in your armor, the weak spot in your infallible security system. He's tried and tried, and he's failed every single time. You don't know why you even let him try to begin with. You've never let anyone venture that deep into your dreams, into your hopes and thoughts and your lies and your truths.

No one can figure out Arthur Callahan.

Except him.

He was the exception to all your rules. He knew you better than your own mother, who you always believed to know everything about anyone. He made you smile, he made you laugh, he irritated you beyond belief, but most of all he made you a better person. The person you are today, though, is nothing like the person he created.

He's buried in the deepest, darkest place in your mind. He's the skeleton in your closet, the black spot on your heart. The memory you have locked away eats away at you every day like a parasite. It's a never ending stream of guilt. Constant words of hate and despair are whispered into your ear every day reminding you of what you did, how you let him go.

Every day you wish that you could just close your eyes and will away the pain. But it doesn't work that way. This parasite claws its way through your mind, sucking all the energy and life out of you until all that's left is raw pain; memories that you wish you could forget, things that you regret, times when you were at your worst. It leaves you broken on the inside and rigid on the outside.

Cobb asks you all the time if you're feeling okay. But he knows. He knows that under your ice cold exterior you're hurting. You're screaming for someone to help you even if you don't want anyone to know about that night. For them to know you would have to open your mind and bear your soul for all curious eyes to see.

They would have to see.

"Arthur."

You glance up from the file of your current mark. Cobb is standing in the doorway of your home office, hand shoved away in his pockets, a stern expression set on his face. He looks old and worn out, years of extracting forming wrinkles around his eyes and a permanent frown on his lips. You know that's probably what people think of you now.

"It's time."

Cobb looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to rise from your desk and take that leap of faith he seems to be so fond of. Faith is a waste of time. You've realized that over the past few years. But you will do it for him and for Cobb and for everyone that has worried about you day to day.

The walk to your bedroom feels miles long. You can do this; you can open up your mind to Cobb and Ariadne. They are only here to help you, to help you deal with the reality you've chosen to live in. When Cobb came to you last week, practically begging on his knees to let him help, you reluctantly agreed. Besides, it's about time someone else knew what's going on.

The PASIV case is set up on a chair. The pillows on your bed are fluffed up and ready for you to use. Your nerves have kicked into high gear. You can't do this. You can't let them come into your mind and digdigdig until they're satisfied.

Ariadne places a warm hand on your forearm, smiles at you, tells you it will all be okay. The kiss she presses to your cheek reminds you of that night and the parasite eats away another piece of your soul. Eyes closed, you take off your sweater vest, roll up the sleeves on your pristine white button-down, and take a deep breath.

The needle being inserted into your arm doesn't feel foreign. It just feels unwanted. This is not something you've thought about in a long time. Going under just so someone can dig away at all your secrets feels wrong and traitorous to the only good memories you have left of him. If he were here he would say, "No, Arthur, don't let them do this." But he isn't here and you're desperate for some kind of help, even if you keep telling yourself that you don't want this.

Cobb begins to explain what they're going to do. You barely listen. You know how dream sharing works, how extracting information works. You know how your own mind works. You're sure that they'll fail, that the security block around that one single memory will eat Cobb and Ariadne alive. They won't just die and wake up; they'll be tortured until there's nothing left.

You can do this. You can do this. You can do this.

The button is pressed.

The field of sunflowers is beautiful. The sun shines brightly overhead, warming you from the outside in. Everything about this place radiates happiness. It's a place you created from one of the only pleasant memories you have left. It's always been drilled into you not to create places from memory but you couldn't help yourself.

"Where are we?"

Ariadne's voice brings you back. You turn to her and Cobb, and they look so out of place in the field of flowers. He should be standing right there. Soon, though. Soon.

"This is where he took me after my grandmother died." Your voice is already threatening to break with heavy emotion. "I was so upset, and he was always finding ways to make any traces of sadness go away, so he made me leave the hotel room." You point to a tiny trail in the distance. "He said he found that trail the day before when he went looking for some flowers to pick for my grandmother's grave, and it brought him here. So he brought me here and—"

"Isn't it beautiful, darling?"

A brief smile flickers across your mouth but then it's gone. Every time you come to visit you have to remind yourself that he's just a projection you placed here in this memory, in this moment in time because you didn't want to ever forget.

He stands there with his hand outstretched, waiting. When this moment happened, all those years ago, you took his hand and he tugged you down into the safety of the flower stalks. You sat there with him for hours, just talking and laughing and watching the sun shine through petals.

Ariadne wraps her hands around your bicep and pulls gently. "We have to go, Arthur. You know what we're here for." You look down at her and the sympathy clouding her pretty eyes is too much for you to bear. She can tell, just from this moment that you lost something great and dear to you. She just doesn't know the extent of it yet. "Only you can show us where it's at."

You let her pull you away from the outstretched hand and the crooked grin. At the end of the trail is an elevator. It's waiting to take you and the others to that dark place you hate to revisit. The doors slide open and you hesitate because you know what lies between this floor and the place you're taking them.

This floor is always the last one that holds any trace of happiness. Above it are months and months of reconstructed happiness, of laughter, of smiles. Below it are years of sadness and guilt and heartache that you want to forget.

The bottom floor is the one. You're about to press the 'B' button until you're intercepted by Ariadne. She's pressing a random button before you can stop her. Cobb scolds her and she apologizes, saying that she wants to know why it's all leading up to that floor. You can only breathe shallowly and hope it isn't one involving him. Most of them involve him, though.

It's floor number 20. The sun is setting in the distance and he's standing there watching it through a window. You despise this memory. But that's one of the reasons you reconstructed it; because you wanted to see what you did, what you caused. This is one of those moments you regret more than others.

The doors slide open, allowing you access to your own creation. Eames has his hands in his pockets as he stands there watching the sun set and the night take over. His shoulders are hunched and every once in awhile they shake like he's trying to hold back a sob. You remember this well. It was this night that you told him—

"I regret this moment almost as much as where we're going," you whisper as you take your place. When this happened you walked in to find him standing there, defeated because you let your anger take control over everything else.

"What happened?" Cobb asks quietly. At this point you cough to let Eames know you're there. He turns around and the sadness in his eyes is enough to make the ache in your heart swell to an almost unbearable level.

"We got into a fight a few hours before over something incredibly stupid. He wanted us to move in together, to take a 'leap of faith' as he said, and finally move on to a new chapter in our lives. But I'd had a bad day and I snapped." You take in a shuddering breath and close your eyes.

"Do you love me, Arthur?" You open your eyes no matter how much you don't want to see his face when you answer him.

Ariadne gasps quietly and Cobb looks worried. He knows that this is taking a dangerous turn for the worst. You turn back to Eames. He's waiting.

"No," you whisper. You knew then, just like you know now, that that was the biggest lie you had ever told. You looked him right in the eyes and you told him you didn't love him, knowing that you did. You knew the first time he charged into your apartment and pressed you against the wall and kissed you that you loved him.

"I'm—I'm sorry, Arthur," Ariadne says. Her voice is filled with such sadness. You don't want her to ever be sad. She's too good of a person to feel sadness. But here you are, allowing her to see all your secrets and letting her feel a sadness that would break anybody's heart.

"Let's go."

When the elevator doors close Eames is watching you go.

This time you press a button. It isn't the bottom floor where you intend to take them. Instead it's the next floor down, number 21, and it's here that you can breathe just a little. Even though it's a time you regret, you still find it much better than the floor above.

He's sprawled across your bed, smug and arrogant as always, but there's a hint of reserve in the depths of his eyes. You can still see it even from the elevator. He finds you, catches your gaze, and this time there's a bit of anger. That anger has been growing each time you visit and never let him go like you should.

"Arthur, darling, where are you going?"

You remember this like it was yesterday. The day after you lied to him, said you didn't love him back, you apologized. He shrugged like it didn't matter much—though you've always known better—and you kissed him and he kissed you back. Make-up sex was always the best part of your fights with him. And this was no exception.

Except you still denied your love. When he whispered, "I love you," into the hollow of your throat you plastered on a fake smile and got out of bed. You could feel his eyes on your back, boring holes straight through to your soul. It should have bothered you more than it actually did, but it didn't. You shrugged it off and you got dressed and you lied to him again.

Cobb and Ariadne are waiting expectantly. You're supposed to say "I'm going to get some breakfast. Same as always?" Eames is waiting for you to say it, so he can nod and you can smile, grab your wallet, and just leave.

There's a sudden shift though. This time Eames gets out of bed, yanks on a pair of pants, and stalks straight towards you. You can feel the anger radiating off of him in waves even though he's just a projection. But even projections can retaliate.

"You left me. Again, Arthur. You. Left. Me." He reaches out to you, and you know those hands intend to rip you to shreds.

Before he can grab you or Cobb or Ariadne, you turn and run. The doors open and they fall in, telling you to hurry before he gets to you. You take one last look over your shoulder before bolting into the elevator. He's livid. His eyes are absolutely burning with anger that you won't let him go.

The doors close again and you just lean heavily against the back wall, trying to breathe.

Each floor is another time of regret. Each floor brings a wave of guilt, each one bigger than the last. You can only hope that Cobb and Ariadne understand fast so that you can just wake up and keep trying to live your life.

You finally press the 'B' button. As the elevator begins its descent to the very bottom you feel that stupid little parasite worming its way around your mind. It's eating at you, killing you with every bite, telling you that these reconstructed memories are your fucked up way of keeping him alive. You can't seem to shake it now though. Usually you can but not this time.

The elevator comes to a grinding halt. Cobb and Ariadne both step out first when the doors slide open. You just stand there, willing the pain to go away and leave you alone. It won't and you know it won't. You can only go forward now.

Ariadne gasps. "Wh-where are we?" she asks quietly.

You want to shush her, tell her that if she speaks he'll come after her. Or security. Whichever happens first.

"Follow me. Only I know the way to get around the guards." You make them follow you quietly.

You lead them through mazes and paradoxical stairways and dark rooms. Finally you see the spot where the hidden passageway lies. Only you know where this is, because you created it. You created it so only you could get in and see the damage inflicted upon yourself and the only good thing to ever happen in your life.

The passageway is short, opening up into a dark alleyway behind some seedy club Eames always insisted on dragging you to. The smell of trash and rotten food fills the air, clogging up your sinuses. You briefly close your eyes, count to ten. Cobb is standing right behind you and he's saying something to you, something you don't understand because you're already counting down the minutes until it happens.

After four minutes pass, a door is flung open rapidly, light spilling out onto the dark street. Two men tumble out, one of them shouting something in French, the other spitting out curse words. You watch as the bigger, bulkier of the two men reaches into his pocket. Eames is on the ground now holding his jaw with one hand and the other tightly wound around what you assume is his poker chip, tucked safely away in his jacket.

You watch the scene unfold. It's the same every single damn time and nothing ever changes no matter how much you desperately wish it would.

Eames looked handsome that night in his pressed black slacks and his baby blue button-down and his favorite leather jacket. You remember him getting dressed earlier that evening, saying he was taking you to dinner just because he wanted to. You laughed and you let him throw some clothes at you, not once caring that they would be wrinkled and untidy. But something interrupted the night; an unexpected phone call that lead you and Eames to this unfortunate reality right here.

In your memory, you're rushing the guy, throwing a punch that does barely any damage. There's nothing you can do but to watch from the sidelines now. You can play your part well, you can say everything that's supposed to be said, but you still can't change it.

"Arthur?" Ariadne whispers.

"I tried to help," you mutter. You're watching with such rapt attention that you wouldn't dare look away.

When Eames finally gets to his feet he manages to throw a punch that lands squarely in the other man's nose. He shouts in anger, threatening Eames with words that, at the time, seemed harmless. Someone like this guy wouldn't actually put his words into action.

"I oughta kill you right now, Eames!" The anger makes his accent stronger.

Eames just laughs at this. It's a humorless laugh followed by a smug grin that only he could pull off in a time like this. You tried to pull him away, tried to tell him to just let it go and leave with you. You almost made it out of the alleyway with him. But the other guy—

"Arthur, what the hell is happening here?"

You ignore Cobb's question.

In your memory, you're holding his hand tightly, afraid to let go because he might turn around at the slightest taunt, and you're almost there. You can see the street lamps clear as day as you turn to them now. You almost made it to the light where there were people, witnesses.

You don't know what's worse. The fact that all this is happened, or the fact that it keeps happening over and over and over because you can't let him go. And those feelings never retreat; they never ebb away into nothingness and allow you to live a peaceful and happy life. No.

A sharp 'crack!' breaks the almost-silence. You flinch, even in this dream space, even though you know it's going to happen. Eames stops and you remember this moment so well. You kept going, thinking he would follow, and when he didn't you stopped too and you felt his hand go slack in yours.

You find yourself saying what you're supposed to say. "Eames, what's wrong? Let's just go home." You thought that maybe he was going after the guy. Maybe the guy said something that only Eames heard.

Ariadne's crying behind you. You pay no attention to her. They knew that something bad had happened to Eames. They knew that it was awful and unfortunate, but they didn't know this.

You watch as Eames slumps to his knees, eyes wide as they stare into yours. There's a plea in them; a silent "Please" that you should've known the meaning of right away. You're supposed to kneel beside him, so you do. And this time you just sit there and watch as he reaches behind him and swipes his hand across part of his back. When he shows it to you it's covered in dark red.

The other guy stutters out a meaningless apology as he takes off into the club. You know he's not coming back with help. So you continue to sit there. When this happened you weren't automatically filled with panic. No. You felt a numbness worse than what the icy hands of winter can bring. It slowly ebbed away into a terrible fear that clutched at your heart and threatened to tear you to pieces right then and there.

"What am I supposed to do?"

You're holding onto him now. He's got your forearms in such a tight grip. There were bruises the next day. You know what happens next and you're dreading it. He releases one of your arms and reaches into the pocket of his jacket. His poker chip is gripped tightly between his fingertips.

"Huh, what d'ya know," he chuckles. "This is real." He coughs, sending a spray of red that lands on your face, and he doubles over groaning in pain.

"Eames," you choke out.

You watch him drop the poker chip with a muttered curse word. The sound of it clattering to the pavement is loud then and now. You reached for it and you put it in your pocket—you still have it three years later.

"Arthur, darling, you have to do something for me," he whispers.

When he coughs again you help him lay down on the hard, unforgiving ground. This gives you a second to get your cell phone out and call for help. But he stopped you and he pulled you close. The red on his lips set your heart on fire.

His hands shake as he reaches for his belt. You knew even then that he was reaching for his gun. For as long as you can remember, he took that thing everywhere with him. "Just in case," he always said. Just in case they were stuck in a dream they couldn't get out of. But this was reality, this was real.

"Eames, no—"

"For once in your life," he stops to let out a round of horrible coughs, "will you shut up and listen?"

You nodded to show him that you were listening.

"You know the cops might come after you. There's no one else out here with a gun but me. I want you to—"

You interrupt him. "I will lead them on a merry chase." It's a line you said so long ago, in a time where things weren't this complicated.

"But first." He hands you the gun and this is where you regret the choices you made. You could have saved him; you could have sat there with him and waited for help to arrive and you could have made the right choices.

Instead you took the gun from him and you held it in your hands, wishing it wasn't such an offending object at that moment in time. And you put it to his head, telling him that he will wake up in a much better place where there's no pain and no dream sharing and no extractions. The moment is gone, he's dead, you're filled with regret. After the deed was done you got up and you left against your better judgment.

In this though, he opens his eyes and he looks straight at you. He grips your wrists and he shakes you, like he did last time, and he curses at you. You just take it because you deserve it.

"Arthur, it's time to go!" Cobb shouts.

Eames points the gun at Cobb and shoots. Cobb disappears instantly. You tell Ariadne to leave before he gets her, too but she doesn't make it far. She disappears next. You plead with him, tell him you're sorry, that you wish you could take it all back and tell him that you didn't want to go out to dinner that night.

"You said we would be together, all the time, forever. Now look at me!" You're free from the vice-like grip of his hands. You back away towards the hidden passageway.

"I-I'm sorry, Eames. I have to go. I'll be back."

"You did this to me!"

You take in a sharp breath as your eyes fly open. Your heart is racing and your head is pounding. Cobb is sitting next to you, staring at you with a mixture of confusion and sympathy. You don't want his sympathy; you don't want anyone's sympathy.

"Arthur-"

Cobb is interrupted by Ariadne. "You killed him?" She's speaking loudly. It makes your head pound even harder.

"Ariadne, leave him alone. Arthur, are you all right?"

You ignore him. Instead you face Ariadne. "Yes, I killed him. I put that gun to his head and I pulled the trigger because he asked me to. He was in pain and he was afraid cops would come after me for some insane reason and I—" Your voice breaks.

Your biggest regret, your darkest secret and your worst memory, has been revealed. It's out in the open now. They can pick apart your emotions and your mind all they want.

Ariadne surprises you by wrapping her tiny arms around your waist. She's crying hysterically. She knew Eames well, was his friend at some point in time, so it shouldn't surprise you that she would be this upset. After all, you did expose her to something horrible.

"I'm so sorry, Arthur. Why-why didn't you tell us? Why did you lie and say that he died in an accident?" She looks up at you with watery eyes and flushed cheeks.

You don't say anything. You push her away and you rush out of the room, your stomach contents rising in your throat. You barely make it to the toilet in time. Then you're on your knees losing everything that's left in you. The parasite on your mind has eaten away the last of your soul, the one remaining piece of you that was left for you to hold on to.

You lean against the porcelain tub behind you and you cry. You should feel ashamed about it but you're finally to the point where you don't care. They pushed and they dug and they got what they wanted, but you…you didn't get anything.

Like Cobb with Mal, you locked Eames away in the recesses of your mind. You recreated all your best and worst moments, and you created a prison for what is only a memory of him, a projection. Over time he grew angry and violent, feeding the guilt and the words of hate into your heart until now; until you finally break.

You did this to yourself. You created those walls in your mind. You locked him away so you would never have to let him go. Now you feel like an old man filled with regret. You're going to die alone and you're going to keep him trapped and tucked away safely, continuously growing in anger.

And tonight you're going to go back. Because you always do. Because you can't let him go.