Hours. Eames/Arthur.
The longer he spends wandering aimlessly through crumbling cities, in a world fragmented by confusion, disillusion, and fear, the more it seems reality is falling away from him.
.
No. 1 (Lent et douloureux)
No. 2 (Lent et triste)
No. 3 (Lent et grave)
Erik Satie's 'the Gymnopédies' has no significant importance plot-wise, but do fit my image of limbo well. I definitely recommend you listen to them via youtube. I've had the pleasure of reading a lot of wonderful Inception fic in the last few months, so I thought I'd try my hand at it! This is un-beta'd and all that, so I apologize for any mistakes in advance.
•
It happens while in the mark's subconscious. Something goes terribly wrong on the third layer of the dream, where Arthur meets death by the hands of rallied projections, and death that deep means limbo.
He doesn't notice at first. It begins with small things, like memories of his childhood. He cannot remember his mother's face, his father's voice, or his brother's name. The longer he spends wandering aimlessly through crumbling cities, in a world fragmented by confusion, disillusion and fear, the more it seems reality is falling away from him. Minutes turn to hours, hours to days, days to months, and months to years.
•
In quiet moments, when he no longer feels the urge to walk, the red die first found in his pant pocket sits heavy and unchanging in the palm of his hand. He runs the pad of his thumb over its slightly rounded corners, counting the circular pips marked on each of its six faces. One side, he discovers, is sharp and slightly off.
The plastic piece feels uncomfortably familiar in his hand, but he cannot remember why the die is in his possession or its value. Nothing about it jogs his memory.
With a sigh, he drops it to his feet. It bounces and rolls to a stop a few paces away. Its many faces reflect the sun overhead. He fumbles with his jacket in frustration, sliding it from his shoulders to cast it aside with more force than is necessary. Rubbing a hand over his face, he sits with a fist planted on one knee.
Questions tumble through his mind and seem to hang unresolved.
Who am I?
Who
Who–
"Arthur–"
Arthur.
A tall, burly sort of man, with a bold face and a slouching gait stands before him. His edges blur and quiver as he leans forward, thumb and forefinger grasping the red die. "`S best not to lose this, love."
Bleary-eyed, Arthur looks up and stares. His lips quirk slightly.
"Hello, Mr. Eames."
•
Arthur has no idea when it began, but he dreams far too vividly of this man. With his presence, the cityscape morphs from columns of dilapidated skeletal buildings to low, grassy hills under an overcast sky. Usually transient, with no definite beginning or end, their moments together feel like traces of distant memories, or rather, Arthur likes to insist, hallucinations. He has been here a very long time, after all. Surely he would know if someone was sharing this world with him. Though, if Arthur were to really consider his situation, he would realize that not a whole lot in this world feels entirely real. But for the time being, Arthur appreciates the company.
Because all he has now are the dreams, where time seems to float. The dreams are his memories, he is told, but Arthur is not sure he can call them his own. It's like he is watching through someone else's eyes; the words and sounds are slurred into an almost incomprehensible mess, and the images vague and sluggish. Most times Arthur feels as though he's intruding upon something private. He does not recognize most of the faces, nor their voices and names, but the dreams are like his friends now, while Dom, Ariadne, Yusuf, and the Other Eames remain as memories half-remembered.
Arthur is grateful, sometimes. The dreams keep him alive with some semblance of sanity. It's a rather depressing existence having to be reminded of his own name, with nothing concrete connecting him to this world or the other.
He would end it, if he could, but Ea... E-A-M-E-S. (Arthur finds it easier to remember names this way, by tracing each letter with a fingertip onto the palm of his hand, eyes closed). Eames keeps telling him No, Arthur, you mustn't give up, but he doesn't understand. Arthur tries, he does, but there are days, days that go on for what feel like centuries, where he has only himself for company, and an overwhelming sadness grips him, clawing at him until he can no longer find the energy to breath.
•
Sunlight drifts lazily through arching windows, casting long shadows across Arthur's back. Footsteps fall into rhythm behind him, echoing off the walls of the library he has built for himself today.
"You're late," he says by way of greeting, not looking up. Half-expecting a remark laced with the sarcastic subtleties that constantly curl his words, or at the very least, a throwaway excuse, Arthur turns around, frowning, when he receives no answer. "Eames–"
What he sees startles him.
The Eames before him is solid and whole, his outline intact. None of the static that Arthur has come to associate with the man surrounds him. A strange sensation runs through Arthur and he suddenly smells strong cologne, stale cigarettes, and mint. Something about about it feels familiar, but Arthur is careful not to let his features betray his surprise and the corners of his mouth turn downward just a fraction before he wills himself to remain impassive.
Rocking back and forth on his heels, his hands in his pockets (thumb worrying the embossed pocket watch in his left pocket, feeling for indentations only he knows of), Eames gazes around. "I see you've finally acquired an imagination," he drawls, as if Arthur hadn't spoken at all, mouth curved with quiet amusement. There is a vague tone of mockery in his voice, but real appreciation is there too, evident in the way his fingertips brush along bone-white columns and eyes follow projections ascend and descend an endless staircase.
Arthur has always prided himself on his impeccable ability to remember details. Years in this world has allowed him time to hone that ability. So when Arthur looks at Eames' face, really looks, he realizes that there is something decidedly off about him. Eames' simple quirks and imperfections seem to increase tenfold. There is a scar–slightly raised, white–Arthur cannot recall above Eames' right eye; his broad shoulders sit a little straighter; his eyes, usually a muted gray, blue.
This isn't this world's Eames, that much Arthur can tell.
Arthur's eyes level with his. He is startled to find Eames watching him intently. Arthur stands irresolute, watching this new Eames wearily through slightly narrowed eyes. After a moments pause, he says, "You're real this time, aren't you?"
A broad grin breaks across the ma–No, Arthur corrects, Eames'–lips. "It's time to wake up."
"What?"
"Arthur," he begins placatingly, "this is a dream."
Arthur smiles warily, the lines at the corners of his eyes lifting. He may have convinced himself otherwise, but Eames is the one constant in this world that he has always turned to when there is nothing else. Arthur allows himself to trust in him completely and never allows himself the possibility that Eames may let him down. So when Eames leans forward, silently asking for his hand, Arthur closes his eyes and doesn't let go.
There are tears in his eyes when he wakes. He throws a forearm over his eyes to shield himself from the florescent lights embedded in the ceiling above. His chest heaves as he struggles to breathe. A hand catches his right shoulder as quiet words surround him like an embrace, urging him back. Callused fingers slide the PASIV wire from his wrist. Eames' face comes into view a moment later, watching Arthur with dark eyes.
His nose wrinkles as he grins. "Welcome back."