Part II

When Arthur regained consciousness he realized he was still falling. But he was no longer swallowed by the murky waters of the Thames. Instead it seemed as if he was falling through the space. Everywhere he looked it was like he was gazing up at the night sky; above him, below him, surrounding him there was darkness and stars. He could not determine how fast he was falling without any reference points and he wondered if it even mattered – if he'd ever come across anything again or if he'd just keep falling.

He closed his eyes when he became dizzy watching the inky blackness and winking stars spin around him. This meant that, sometime later, he was rather startled to see a platform rushing up to meet him when he blinked his eyes open. With no possible method of slowing himself down before contact, Arthur clenched his eyes closed. Back in the dream he had been worried about dying because of the compound; here he wondered if he would ever wake up since he didn't know where he was.

The inevitable crushing pain Arthur was expecting never came. He did not know his descent had lost momentum because his eyes were closed and there was no form of wind, but there was no other explanation for why he suddenly felt his back softly come into contact with the cobbled platform. Arthur spread his hands along the ground, feeling the smoothness of the cool stones beneath his fingertips. His hands were shaking with adrenaline and disbelief and he could not force himself out of his lying position.

He did blink his eyes open though, feeling the uneven platform supporting him, and could not stop one of his eyebrows from rising. "Hello, darling," Arthur found Eames standing beside him, leaning over him curiously. "I'm rather glad you actually came for me, though this was probably the one time you shouldn't have listened to me."

Arthur meant to ask what Eames meant but instead he felt his hand rising and hesitantly brushing along Eames's cheek. "Eames...were you crying?"

Eames blinked his eyes opened and scowled, pulling away from Arthur's touch. "No! Of course not."

Arthur knew the forger was lying, having both seen and felt the half-dried tear tracks marking the man's face, but he let the man save some of his pride. Instead, he turned over and began pushing himself into a kneeling and then standing position. He felt Eames grab his arm firmly to help him up and he allowed it, silently grateful for the added support when he found himself a little disoriented. Once he was standing and felt comfortable with his own balance he took a small step away from Eames, "So what did you mean when you said I shouldn't have listened to you?"

"We can't get out," Eames supplied simply.

"What do you mean, we can't get out?"

Eames shrugged, "I tried but...well, I couldn't get past it."

"Get past what, Eames? You're being extremely unhelpful," despite the seriousness of the situation Arthur felt his usual frustration towards the forger emerge once again.

"Well I apologize that things are not suiting you, darling," Eames quickly closed the distance between them that Arthur had created earlier. He seemed annoyed but also happy, the tear tracks now dried from existence. Arthur felt Eames wrap a lose arm around his shoulder, spinning him around. "Get past that."

Arthur looked up in wonder at what he was seeing, tipping over into Eames slightly as he lost his balance to a sense of disorientation and vertigo. On the edge of their platform a spiralling staircase of marble began, twisting upwards into the night sky. Though the stairs seemed solid they bent and swayed slightly as the platforms they were connected to floated aimlessly in the stars. He could count six platforms drifting above their own, five connected to the staircase and the last one trailing along behind the end of the staircase. "What is it?" he heard himself asking.

"Each platform holds one of my worst memories," Eames breathed and Arthur could only assume his voice was filled with dread because he had already tried to face one.

"Well, let's go face your worst memories then," Arthur sent the other man a challenging but encouraging smirk. "You couldn't face them before but maybe you just needed someone else there to face them with you."

"Maybe," was all Eames said before he began walking towards the beginning of the spiralling staircase. Arthur followed him, one step behind him all the way. The walk seemed to take a really long time but they never grew tired or out of breath.

The staircase began to level out and Arthur saw another platform drifting down in front of them. As they walked closer a barrier of dark fog seemed to appear and darken around the edges of the platform, blocking anything on the platform from his view. He could see Eames shoot him a nervous glance before they both stepped onto the platform.

The barrier of fog allowed them easy passage and darkened around them like a movie was about to begin, though Arthur could still vaguely make out the brightly lit white marble of the stairs behind him. He took one more step forward and felt like he had walked directly into a memory. He could tell he was in some house's den or living room, probably where Eames grew up, even though it was dimly lit. The sharp tang of blood hit his nose immediately, causing him to halt sharply in surprise. He could only manage to make out three shadowy figures, two standing and one on the floor before he was yanked backwards.

He found himself back on the staircase next to Eames, as if they were attached by a tether. At first Arthur didn't know what to say, having expected Eames's 'worst' memories to be relatively normal. Apparently he had been very wrong. He saw that Eames had his back facing him, hands resting on his knees as he hunched over. Arthur did not know exactly what the memory was, but it couldn't be good if Eames was fighting down the urge to throwing up. "I can't do it Arthur."

Arthur shifted his weight uneasily at the sound of Eames's voice. He had never heard the man sound so open before...or so heartbroken; Arthur was not used to Eames showing him more than that cocky, flirtatious mask. He walked up beside Eames and placed a hand on his shoulder, hoping that it would be comforting. "You can, Eames. You've already beaten this once and moved on; you can do it again."

"I can't," Eames was shaking his head, though he had straightened into a full standing position again. "I've never beaten this Arthur," he caught Arthur's gaze, trying to convey so much more than Arthur expected, "I just repressed it."

Arthur swallowed and changed tactics, "Listen, you have to face this. Not just to get back to reality but for yourself. You need to accept these memories and move on." He saw in Eames's downcast eyes and clenched jaw that he knew Arthur was right but was unwilling to take that step back into the fog they were both staring at now. "I'll help you however I can."

He heard Eames take a steadying breath and look up at the swirling fog, already knowing what was awaiting him. Arthur stood beside him, waiting to step back into Eames's first memory when the other man was prepared. He felt Eames brush his fingers along Arthur's in a manner that could be brushed off as a mistake if Arthur reacted poorly. Arthur slowly opened his hand and twined his fingers between Eames's waiting ones silently. He felt a little awkward, holding hands with Eames, and even more uncomfortable when he realized how nice it was to feel the warmth of the other man's palm against his own. But he wanted to help the forger through this, and not just to get himself back to reality he realized.

It was Eames who eventually took the leading step back into the fog, pulling Arthur along behind him. This time they were on the platform long enough for the memory to fully solidify around Arthur, giving him a chance to look around as if he was actually standing in the den. He took in the details of the room; bookshelves of trinkets, a ratty old couch with a spilled bowl of chips strewn across the cushions, and the television flickering between shots, blaring sports calls.

His eyes fell to the carpet and his hand automatically tightened around Eames's fingers, realizing that he was standing on a carpet soaked with blood. Dreading what he would find his eyes followed the blood to where it was pooled under the motionless form of some middle aged woman. He saw a man, also middle aged, standing over her form holding a knife in his shaking hand.

The last form in the room was of a little boy, no older than ten. His brown hair fell in a mop from his head and with a hidden sense of horror Arthur noticed those same blue green eyes staring down at the woman's form, tears falling so quickly they dripped off the child's chin and onto the carpet. Arthur looked over at Eames without a thing to say, a feeling of heavy dread falling over him. But Eames's eyes were flickering between the woman and the man as the memory began to play.

"This is entirely your fault!" the middle aged man pointed the tip of the knife at the young Eames, edge gleaming in the small beam of light slipping through the window's curtains. "If you had been a better son then things would have been better. It's because of you that I lost my temper and hurt your mom. Now she's dead because of you!"

Arthur barely had time to realize what was happening here, that Eames's father had killed his mother and blamed him for it. He felt sick but couldn't think about that as he felt Eames try to run off the platform again. Arthur clenched his fingers tightly, holding him in place as best he could despite Eames weighing more than him. "Eames, wait!" Arthur spun, wrapping his free hand around Eames's wrist and digging his feet into the carpet, trying not to think about the blood. "You cannot believe this! It's not your fault!"

"Of course it is!" Eames whirled around quickly, causing Arthur to stumble into him. "If I had been less of a disappointment then he wouldn't have drank so much; he wouldn't have been angry all the time. My mother wouldn't have had to sacrifice herself to keep her worthless son safe!"

Arthur stood close to Eames, too close after he had regained his balance. He saw the man's eyes grow wet, his Adam's apple bob as he fought down tears. There was no cocky swagger, no flirtatious smile, and no sarcastic and happy quips. This was the man that Eames had buried far below his light-hearted mask. This was the man he had never been allowed to see before now. Arthur wondered briefly if this was why Eames enjoyed being a forger so much, constantly taking on new masks and leaving himself far behind.

He heard Eames's father begin his rant again, the memory looping. Arthur tightened his hold on Eames's shaking hand and raised his voice to drown out the middle aged man, "You didn't make him this way, Eames," Arthur made sure the man was watching him and not the memory replaying. "He still would have spent time drinking, he still would have been angry, and eventually he probably would have done this anyway. It wasn't you...he just needed an excuse."

They stood there for a long time, too close to one another as Eames tried to focus on Arthur's words through the memory's loop. Arthur watched as a few stray tears escaped when Eames dropped his head, gravity pulling them down his cheeks. Arthur felt the urge to brush them away but held himself back, not wanting to disrupt the other man's thought process.

Finally Eames began pulling Arthur across the dim living room, manoeuvring around the couch to avoid the other figures in the room. They passed through the barrier of fog, the memory dissolving behind them as they traveled a few steps up the next staircase. Eames pulled his hand quickly from Arthur's and turned his back to Arthur again, staring out at the surrounding night sky. His shoulders were hunched over and trembling when he spoke, "I can't forget that Arthur. I can't get it out of my head."

"You don't need to forget it," Arthur tried to place a comforting hand on the man's shoulder again but Eames pulled away. "You just need to accept that it wasn't your fault and move on." He heard Eames mutter something but couldn't make out what it was as he saw him run a hand through his hair. "What was that?"

"I can't believe you're seeing all this," Eames muttered again. From the way he sounded Arthur could tell that he was devastated that his most important secrets were being spilled to a co-worker.

Arthur forced himself to momentarily put aside his own concerns over their situation, feeling like a true invader as he watched Eames struggle with his memories, entirely uninvited. He put a firm hand on the man's shoulder to keep him from spinning away again and stood face to face with the forger. He saw tears falling from his eyes and running down his face in a painful mix of embarrassment and heartbreak at reliving the repressed memory of his mother's murder. "I'm sorry I'm invading on your private memories, but stop wasting your energies on being embarrassed, alright? When we get out of here I'm not going to share this with anyone."

"That's not what I'm worried about, darling," Eames brushed away the last few stray tears harshly with his sleeve, seeming to regain some grasp over his normal mask even though he allowed Arthur's hand to remain on his shoulder. "This isn't the part of me I wanted you to know."

"I'm actually glad I'm getting to know you as more than the co-worker whose only goal in life is to annoy me," Arthur admitted, wondering if he should be saying these things. "Obviously this isn't how I wanted it to happen and...Well I didn't even know that I wanted to know you better before this. But it's true," he gave Eames a tiny smirk, glad when it brought a similar smirk to the other man's face.

Arthur trailed off, feeling his own wave of embarrassment. He was surprised at his own realization, never expecting to want to get closer with the pain in the ass that was the forger. But his words seemed to have been chosen well because Eames was brightening up like the slow but steady dawn. "Well..." Arthur noticed Eames licking his lips before speaking, "wait until you see what else my subconscious has in store."

The point man raised an eyebrow, "You certainly cheered up quickly."

"You didn't think the way I acted up in reality was entirely a mask, did you?" Eames smiled light-heartedly; very similar to the smiles that would occasionally curve his lips when Arthur did something that amused him. "These other platforms above us may hold my most unpleasant memories, but we have already made it through my worst one," Eames's smile faltered slightly, but he continued on. "I loved my mom, and I could barely comprehend that she was gone and...at the time the idea that it was my fault."

Eames's voice trailed off and he watched Arthur's face curiously, reading for signs that would tell him more than Arthur meant to tell as the forger reached forward and twined their fingers together once again. Arthur forced himself to keep his face neutral as he allowed the touch. "So do you want to see what else my mind has in store for us?"

"Don't you mean what the gutter has in store for us?" Arthur rolled his eyes, glad to see that trademark smirk return to Eames's face.

"Perhaps," Eames raised a suggestive eyebrow at him before pulling him up the staircase.

Eames paused for one moment longer to glance back at the first memory's platform, taking a shaky breath. Arthur saw him bow his head slightly in his own farewell to that memory before he was dragged further up the staircase. "You don't have to completely revert back to the way you are in reality you know; a little depth is a welcome change."

"And deprive you of my wit and charm, pet? Never," Eames flashed him a wink. It seemed like a much shorter journey up the marble staircase this time and before they had even realized it they were standing on the edge of the next platform. Though it was hard to tell, Arthur thought that the sky looked a tiny bit brighter, the stars dimming in comparison. It was like they were slowly traveling higher than some invisible horizon and they would eventually come upon the sun.

Eames only sent him a quick glance, looking for confirmation before pulling them both into the fog as another memory fell into place around them. They found themselves in a brightly lit kitchen, sunlight streaming in through thin yellow curtains hanging in front of the windows. They were standing by the sink which held a small pile of unwashed dishes, looking over at the tiny kitchen table covered in unpaid bills, a ratty old sports magazine, and a small knitting basket in one corner.

Beside the table Arthur could see a younger Eames, probably only around five, with his father towering over him, holding a lined piece of paper tightly in one hand. Arthur realized that this memory had happened before the death of Eames's mother, but he was distracted from his thoughts when he saw the man bring a flat palm down hard across young Eames's face. The force he had used sent the child against the table, wind knocked out of his lungs and lip split.

Arthur took a step forward, ready to intervene when he felt Eames's hand tighten around his own and hold him back. He sent the forger a frustrated and questioning glance and Eames just smiled sadly, "You're twenty six years too late, love."

This just irritated Arthur more but he agreed to stand back as the man who didn't deserve to be called a father began yelling, waving the crumpled sheet of paper in his hand furiously. "What is this bullshit? 'When I grow up I want to live in dreams'?" the man quoted from the mini essay Eames must have written in class. "Really, that's what you want to do with your life? Live in dreams? Well tough shit because it doesn't work that way. Do you think living in fantasy land will pay these bills?" Eames's father picked up a handful of bills and threw them at the crying child, "Do you want your mother and me to starve to death supporting you as you chase dreams?"

"I'm sorry, dad," the child wailed, a small amount of blood trailing down his chin.

"You aren't sorry yet, but you will be. Want to know why? Because when these dreams of yours fail I'm not going to give up my hard earned money to bail you out!" the man yelled before stalking out of the room, slamming the door closed behind him.

As the dream began its loop Arthur realized how tense his shoulders were, how angry he was. He struggled to remain calm and collected, surprised when it Eames who placed the hand on his shoulder, squeezing comfortingly. "How can you be fine with this?" he blurted out even as Eames began leading him to the far end of the platform.

"This was a terrible memory because it made me question who I was and what I wanted to be for years. I still do, sometimes. But I've already put this one behind me because he was wrong. I've made a career out of living in dreams and, if I do say so myself, I'm one of the best out there. My only regret," Eames added as they passed through the barrier of fog and back under the night sky, "is that the bastard died before I could shove it in his face."

Arthur licked his lips as they left the second memory behind them, wondering if he should ask the question on his mind. But Eames seemed to notice his hesitation and raised a questioning eyebrow so Arthur took a breath, "What happened to him?"

Eames nodded, as if understanding and allowing Arthur this question. "After he...killed my mother," Eames had to take a minute to swallow, "he was found guilty and put in jail even though he tried to frame me for it. But he paid the lawyers everything we had and they got him out in seven years." He seemed to notice that Arthur was still watching him so he continued, "As for how he died, well I'm sure that memory will be waiting for me somewhere up there," he sent a glance skyward at the marble steps spiralling above them.

Arthur sent a similar glance upwards, assured in his previous assumption that the sky was lightening. The stars still prevailed, shimmering over their dark backdrop, but the sky was definitely moving towards a type of dawn. He decided to say nothing more as they climbed the steps in compatible silence, the concepts of normal living not reaching them down here. They felt no desire for food or rest and Arthur briefly wondered how long they had been down here as they came upon the next platform.

They both walked onto the platform and into the waiting memory without hesitation this time. Arthur still felt the weight of the previous memories resting on his mind, but he was slightly reassured by Eames's assurance that they had already made it through the worst memory. Arthur certainly hoped so because that sharp tang of blood still grasped his mind firmly.

He was distracted from his painfully fresh memories as the new memory began its first cycle around him. Before he could even grasp what was happening around him he felt Eames drop his hand like it was a hot coal, his cheeks burning red. Arthur looked on as he saw Eames, approaching the end of his teenage years, pinned to his bed by another boy around the same age. Arthur wondered if he should look or turn away as he saw the faceless boy slip a hand under Eames's shirt, feeling his own cheeks turn hot.

But before he could tear his eyes away he heard a sharp knock at the bedroom door before it was flung open into the wall, undoubtedly chipping off some of the paint. Eames's father strode in, a look of disgust and outrage on his face as he grabbed the boy's collar and yanked him off his son. "Leave!" he yelled, and the nameless boy did not need to be told twice, rushing down the stairs without a backwards glance.

The younger Eames had hurried off the bed and pressed his back against his closet door. "Dad, I didn't know you were coming back-"

"So this is what you did while I was in jail?" the man spoke over the trembling boy, "Turned yourself into a whore and let guys fuck you? Is that how you paid the bills or do you actually like it?" he sneered down at the teen, disgust evident. "If I had known sooner then I would have put you out on the street corner years ago. At least then you'd be providing some money for the family."

"Dad, I don't—I mean I didn't-" Eames stuttered, flinching automatically when his father lifted a hand.

But the older man, looking angry but worn out, dropped his hand back to his side. "You always were a useless piece of shit. I won't stand for that and now you letting guys touch you like that. I won't live a moment longer with a son like you."

The man stalked out of the room, the door closed with a slam, and the memory began replaying. Eames cleared his throat in embarrassment as they saw his younger form pinned under another again, "Shall we uh...move on?"

Arthur nodded and followed Eames off the platform, trying to hide his own embarrassment. They both paused a short way up the next staircase, both speaking at once and then falling into an awkward silence. It was Arthur who eventually cleared his throat to speak again, "It's not a big deal."

"Of course not," Eames nodded quickly, hands stuffed in his pockets.

"I mean, if I didn't know that about you by now I don't think I'd have a right to say my profession was researching people," Arthur rubbed the back of his neck, finally feeling the blush leave his cheeks.

"Yeah you'd uh...be a pretty crappy point man," Eames chuckled, glancing back at the platform they had left. "I know who I am now," he nodded, as if assuring himself of this fact, "But back then it was just another layer of guilt added to what I thought I could have done differently to save my mother."

"Are you ready to move on?" Arthur asked quietly, a few steps ahead of the forger on the staircase.

Eames spent a moment looking over the smooth railing of the staircase to the platforms floating below them. Then he turned with a small smile, "Of course." Eames skipped a few steps to come level with Arthur before continuing his dash up the spiralling marble. He turned an expectant glance back at the point man who rolled his eyes in amused exasperation before following. When they came to the next platform Eames put an arm out, stopping Arthur briefly. "I think I know which memory this will be. You'll probably want to duck."

"What do you...mean?" Arthur trailed off as Eames passed through the fog. With a frustrated sigh Arthur followed him into the fourth memory. Even with Eames's warning Arthur barely had time to duck as an expensive looking vase flew over his head and shattered on the wall behind him.

"I am sick of this, Eames! Sick to death of this!" a china plate hit the tiled floor and cracked apart, half-eaten breakfast scattering.

"I was going to eat that..." Eames muttered mournfully, staring down at his former breakfast. The forger was standing by a small kitchen counter and looked similar to when he had joined Arthur and Cobb on a job for the first time. He looked about five years younger, telltale scruff and familiar short hair present, though the Eames's hair was standing on end, mussed from sleep.

"Could you listen to me for one second? God, you never listen!" Eames dodged the other breakfast plate as he hit the fridge door. Arthur took note of the woman storming around the uncomfortably small flat, screaming and hurling anything that wasn't bolted down at the younger Eames. She was rather stunning to look at, even in a rage.

She was slim but possessed all the right curves, short enough that she probably only reached Eames's chin when standing next to him. Arthur had to admit to himself that it was more than a little amusing watching this petite woman chasing a fleeing Eames around the flat. Her straight blonde hair flew free and it was clear that they had both woken up a short time before this. In the short moment where the woman was looking in his direction Arthur was quite sure that her sharp blue eyes could have melted steel.

The younger forger rushed out of the kitchen when the woman reached the cutlery drawer. But she seemed bored of throwing items at Eames and instead trashed everything she could grab before turning her attention to stuffing her possessions in some bags. "Ever since you did that job in Berlin you haven't stopped talking about him!" she continued to rant and with her words Arthur realized that this memory must have been a short time after Eames had finished their first job together. "Constantly. He's all you talk about now. Do you think I like hearing you go on and on about some guy? Because I don't!"

"Rachel, it's not like that," now the younger Eames was trailing behind her as she traveled between the closet and her open bags. "He's just...a really interesting guy. He's like a puzzle waiting to be solved," even from where he was standing Arthur could see Eames daze out in thought.

Unfortunately she saw this too as she whirled around sharply, "Maybe it's not like that, but it's pretty obvious that you want it to be like that." It seemed as if she was fighting between anger and heartbreak. "Apparently three years with me means absolutely nothing to you now."

"Come on, Rachel, you're not being fair here. You know you're the one for me," Eames attempted to pull her into his arms but she pulled away, tears now falling from her eyes.

Her bags were finally stuffed full and she turned that metal-melting gaze on the young forger one last time. "You called his name when we had sex this morning."

Eames blinked, "No I didn't."

"Yes, Eames, you did," she slung one stuffed bag over her shoulder and picked up the other one in her free hand, storming towards the front door. "He'll never return your feelings Eames, which sucks for you because I am officially gone."

This was punctuated by the door slamming with such force that a few books clattered from the nearby bookshelf. The flat rang with silence, Eames leaning on the back of the couch and shaking his head in frustration, "Shit."

"We should probably move on before we get smashed in the face with that vase," the slightly older forger looked over at Arthur, a little tight lipped. "Trust me, that thing was heavy."

Arthur could not think of a reason to argue so he followed Eames out of the dream, hearing the distant sound of a vase shattering against a wall before they were back on the clear staircase. "Who...?" was all Arthur managed to get out before Eames sent him a quieting glance.

"It doesn't matter, pet. Rachel was right," he gave Arthur a smile that spoke of how much this idea hurt him even though he was trying to put on a strong face. "Let's keep going. We only have two more memories to go and I'm starting to get really sick of this place."

"Alright," Arthur shrugged and followed the other man with nothing else to say. He was surprised to see the location of the next memory as it began to materialize around them. They were in the stark hotel lobby of the second level dream during their inception job. He saw himself sitting on the bench next to Ariadne, waiting for Cobb to pull off Mr. Charles.

He watched the memory of him saying something to Ariadne as she looked around the lobby in growing concern. Arthur saw Ariadne turn and kiss him softly before the memory froze and began replaying. He knew that immediately after that kiss they had escaped the lobby to go prepare the rooms, but that was not part of this memory. He had not even known Eames had seen this, having assumed he had disappeared long before into the elevator to dispose of Fischer's wallet.

Before he could even ask why this was one of Eames's worst memories the other man turned to him steadily, "Why don't you go on ahead, darling? I can handle this one on my own."

Arthur raised a questioning eyebrow but passed himself and Ariadne to head up the brightly lit staircase heading to the entrance of the hotel and the edge of the platform. Even though he was extremely confused about this turn of events and wanted to be there for Eames, he realized that these were Eames's memories and he was just an uninvited guest; he had no right to refuse Eames's request to give him some privacy.

He passed through the barrier of fog easily but remained on the bottom step, watching the memory through the darkness. It was difficult to make everything out, though he could still see Eames walk up to the bench, interrupting the memory's progression. Eames was standing directly in front of the memory Arthur so all Arthur could see was the forger leaning over. He saw Ariadne's shocked and then angry face at whatever Eames had said or done to Arthur, and he could also see the shocked look on his slightly younger face as Eames turned away and left the platform.

Eames slipped through the fog, joining Arthur's side. He seemed slightly nervous when he looked over at the point man but appeared to relax when he just saw Arthur's questioning look, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Come on, just one more memory to go."

"Eames...wait."

"Yes, love?" turned back quickly, almost hopeful.

"...How is that one of your worst memories?" Arthur floundered, feeling like he was missing something important.

Eames sent him a sad sort of smile that Arthur did not understand, "Don't worry yourself, darling; it doesn't matter."

"But all of these memories matter," Arthur called after him, hurrying up the staircase to catch up with Eames. "All of these memories show influences that made you who you are today."

The forger scoffed lightly as he climbed the stairs, not stopping until they reached the edge of the last platform. The fog was so dense here that he could not see what was on the other side. "If you want to see a memory that influenced me for the rest of my life, this would be the one."

He pointed into the fog as Arthur finally caught up to him, "You know what's in there?"

"Yeah, I do. It's not my worst memory..." his eyes drifted down to the marble he was standing on, as if he could see through it to the platform holding the memory of his mother's death, "but this memory still hangs over my head." Not knowing what else he could do, Arthur reached over and took Eames's hand, receiving a small smile for his efforts as Eames twined their fingers together. "This is what happened after my father stormed out of my bedroom," Eames explained as the memory came into existence around them.

Arthur saw Eames in his late teens sitting alone at his kitchen table with a bowl of macaroni when someone knocked harshly on the door. They followed the teenager as he abandoned his bowl and went to the front door, pulling it open to find a woman in a casual business suit standing there. She was holding a clipboard in one hand and a briefcase in the other. "I need you to come with me—it's your father," was all Arthur heard before the teen was led out of the house and into a sleek black car.

The memory rebuilt itself as a sterile white hospital as the teenaged Eames was led to a private hospital room. The two adults followed him into the room where they found his father tucked under stark white sheets, looking nearly as pale as the sheets and like he was fighting off the pulls of sleep. A nurse came past them to stand next to the teenager, "He swallowed a lot of pills," she explained quietly, "We're doing everything we can but he may not be coherent for much longer.

Arthur could read the nurse's body language well enough to know that, in this case 'coherent' actually meant 'alive'. She left to attend to her other duties and Eames walked over to his father's bedside. Arthur could see a hardness in the teen's face, an expression far too adult for someone so young, brought on as a barrier from so much pain. "I didn't know you'd actually try to kill yourself," the boy muttered quietly, furious and betrayed.

"I told you I wouldn't live a minute longer with a son like you," the father glared over at his son, even now not realizing the damage he was placing on the boy. Or maybe he did, but Arthur couldn't even allow himself to consider that concept. "There's something you need to know before I die," the man grew serious, beckoning Eames closer with a shaking hand.

"What is it, dad?" Eames tried to sound dull but Arthur noticed the hint of hope in his voice as he stepped to the very edge of his father's bed.

The older man did not take his son's hand in his own even though it was in reaching distance. Instead he kept his hands out of reach on his lap, staring up at Eames. He took a final deep breath, "You were the biggest mistake of my life."

Silence hung in the air, thick and painful. Then Eames's father turned his gaze away from his son and closed his eyes, the monitor he was attached to flat lining. The nurses began piling in, trying to revive him, but the dream was already fading back to the kitchen with Eames hugging a lonely bowl of pasta. All alone.

Arthur blinked and found himself unable to speak as the memory began again. He couldn't even comprehend how Eames had made it through all of this and become the man he was today. Reviewing what he had recently learned Arthur was astounded that Eames's mask was simply independent and cocky. How had he managed to survive this and come through all the stronger for his memories?

He turned slowly, seeing the forger, the man of so many masks...Eames. He was standing slightly behind him, his hands stuffed in his pockets as he watched his father beckon his younger self closer to the bed once again. Arthur was pretty sure Eames knew he was being stared at but he didn't look away from the bed. He was wearing another mask, fighting for control as the pain chipped away at his control.

"Afterwards I always wondered if I really had been a mistake, if I shouldn't have been born," Eames spoke quietly to Arthur as the point man hesitantly walked closer, though his gaze remained fixed on the hospital bed as the monitor flat lined again. "I didn't want the right profession; I wasn't supposed to be gay. Maybe my mother wouldn't have been killed if I hadn't been born; she probably would have left my father years ago if it wasn't for me. She had to stay because she couldn't support us on her own. Maybe I was a mistake..."

Eames's eyes seemed to glaze over as he lost himself in a downward spiral of thought as the memory looped again. Arthur felt a sense of dread well up in him like a sickness at the expression on the other man's face. "Eames," he gripped the man's chin and tilted it to pull his gaze away from the memory. "You being alive was not a mistake. If it was, you would have let all of this beat you, make you give up; but you didn't. You came out of this stronger than almost everyone I know." Arthur sighed in frustration when Eames refused to meet his eyes, still lost in dangerous thoughts. "Eames, I'm glad you're alive."

The man's gaze flickered up to meet his then, comprehension and shock evident in those depths. "You don't have to lie to make me feel better," Eames pulled himself away from Arthur's grasp, not allowing himself to hope anymore.

But Arthur was desperate for this man to believe his words so he closed the distance again and placed a hand on each of Eames's shoulders, holding him in place. He leaned forward, fierceness in his eyes and voice, "I'm not lying."

Arthur did not know how long they remained like that, holding each other's gaze as the memory replayed around them. It was only when Eames leaned forward that Arthur realized they were already close enough to be sharing air. Arthur did not know what Eames was doing but he felt his eyes close in confusing anticipation. He could not understand or explain the small wave of disappointment that passed through him when he felt Eames pause and then pull away.

He blinked his eyes open to see Eames holding him away at arm's length before letting go completely. Arthur suddenly felt foolish and selfish, remembering that they were here to help Eames through these memories. He allowed Eames to pull away from him and walk over to the bed on the opposite side from the teenager.

His father turned away from his teenaged self, coming face to face with the older Eames who was leaning over the bed. Arthur could see the dying man's face widen in shock and anger as Eames smiled down at him. "I can never forgive you, dad, but I can accept that you were never ready to be a father. I can finally put you behind me because I don't need your love or acceptance anymore; I've found something much better."

The forger straightened, stepping away from the bed as his father's eyes fluttered closed and the monitor flat lined. But this time the memory did not begin another cycle. Instead it slowly faded out of existence until Arthur and Eames were standing a short distance from one another on the side of the top platform. Arthur saw that he had been right earlier because now he could see a brightness shining down on them from above, the first glimmers of the sun announcing a new day.

Eames crossed the short distance quickly and wrapped Arthur up in his arms, releasing a tired sigh into the crook of Arthur's neck. Arthur wrapped his own arms around Eames's neck, feeling a similar exhaustion overtaking him. They were in no hurry but when Arthur finally pulled out of the embrace he noticed what else was on the platform with them, "Is that an elevator?"

Eames turned around curiously and raised an eyebrow, "A glass one by the look of it."

"It reminds me of the glass elevator in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory," Arthur smiled slightly.

"You read that book?" Eames looked over in mild surprise.

Arthur rolled his eyes, "I did have a childhood you know. I wasn't created at this age."

"Could have fooled me, darling," Arthur felt fingers wrap around his own and pull him into the elevator. There was only one button to push, which Eames eagerly pressed, "Let's go home." The elevator smoothly left the platform and they seemed to leave the night sky below them, floating up into a thick bank of white clouds and mist.

They were both expecting a normal elevator ride so when images flashed around them in the clouds they both moved over to the railing to look out. They seemed to be going in chronological order as they rose away from the platform since the figures Arthur saw were aging as they reappeared. Most of the first images were centred on one middle aged woman and Arthur realized who it must be when he saw Eames place one hesitant hand against the glass, a loving smile on his face. "That's your mother...isn't it?"

Eames nodded energetically, "Yes. This elevator must be showing my favourite memories now," Eames mused out loud, the smile on his face growing with each passing memory.

Arthur smiled at the other man's happiness before turning his full attention back to the flashes of memory. Eames's mother had a soft face and bright blue eyes that shone happily as she looked down at child Eames. A lot of her clothing looked home made with warm summery tones, and her hair soft blond hair seemed to always be tied back with colourful ribbons. She looked like the parent Eames needed and deserved. "I wish I had gotten a chance to meet her," he heard himself say.

"I wish you had, too," Eames's smile was tinted with sadness for a moment as his mother began fading away, no longer alive to take part in the creation of new memories with her son. But the elevator ride was not over and there were more happy memories to come, even if there appeared to be a large gap between them and his mother's death based on Eames's age in the memories.

There were some flashes of impossible dreamscapes and some of the many roles Eames had adopted. Successful jobs, perfectly integrated roles, and Eames realizing his goal of living in dreams. And then Arthur began seeing images of himself flash by in the clouds. Soon there was nothing but memories of him and Eames, acting as they usually did before and during an upcoming job. "These are your favourite memories?" he asked curiously, confused since the memories of Arthur always seemed more frustrated than happy.

Eames did not respond right away, watching Arthur with an unreadable expression on his face. Eames took a deep breath, meeting Arthur's questioning gaze. "Look Arthur, there's something I need to say..." There was a long pause as Eames bit his lip and Arthur looked back out through the glass of the elevator as it continued to travel upwards, "I l-"

"I just don't get it, Eames," Arthur watched as more images of himself flashed back, the amount of memories passing by slowing down as they seemed to near the end of their ride. "All we're doing is arguing."

He had not realized that Eames had tried to talk until he heard the man's mouth snap shut quickly, teeth hitting teeth with the force. He looked over, worried he had said something wrong at the look of sad acceptance on the forger's face, mask long put aside. He realized that he had missed something important again, but before he could say anything they passed through the clouds and were swallowed by the brightness of the sun glowing above them.