( Aged 8 )

"Luce, wait up!"

Arthur doesn't really understand what his parents argue about, but he's picked up enough to know that he isn't meant to let his little sister run through the park. He tears after her, screaming all the way. A woman shushes him when her dog barks at him as he passes, but he just glares in return. His little sister is more important than that old bat.

"Woah!"

Okay, maybe he should've focusing on where he was going rather than focusing on staring the old bad into oblivion. He doesn't want to stop, because he's so close to Lucy, but he can't very well leave the boy he's smashed into on the ground, so stops, tapping his foot as he offers his hand to the fallen boy.

"You should watch where you're going," the boy, who can't be older than Arthur, says, taking his hand.

Arthur nearly falls over when the boy pulls himself up.

"Sorry." Then Arthur frowns. "You're British."

"Yeah. I'm William Eames. My ma's over there," the boy—William—juts his thumb to the side. "Where's yours? She trying to leave without you or something? You were running awful fast."

"I'm here with my sister. She ran off and I was chasing her." Arthur bites his lip. It seems rude to head off when the other boy is so obviously trying to make conversation, but his mother really would be angry if he lost Lucy in the park.

William shrugs. He almost looks sad. "Oh. So, you'll be off?"

"Uh, yeah." He wipes his hand on his trouser leg, already preparing to take off again. Lucy can't be that far away. She's probably tired by now. Arthur wouldn't be surprised if he found her as close as ten metres away, curled into a tree trunk. "Thanks."

He sets off. Running, slowly at first. If he runs too fast he'll miss her.

"What's your name?"

He almost doesn't turn back. He'll probably never see the boy—William—again, so what's the point? Then again, he did bump into him. And he has been rather rude. So, he stops in his running and faces the boy once more.

"My name's Arthur. Nice to meet you."

And then he's off.

( Aged 9 )

"Hey!"

Arthur's homework scatters to the ground when a hand is dropped on his shoulder and he immediately turns around because honestly, how rude. Only, he's met by a face that looks terribly familiar and suddenly he can't bring himself to form the scathing words he'd been thinking.

"Do I know you?" Arthur asks instead, already falling to his knees and hurrying to collect his dropped papers.

The boy laughs as he goes to help Arthur. "I think so. Arthur, right? We met in the park last year. You bowled me over running after your sister."

Arthur's jaw drops. "How could you possibly remember that?"

"I remember everything."

He'd be impressed, Arthur thinks, if the boy—what was his name...?—didn't seem so cocky.

"It's really rude to to attack someone in the middle of the street," Arthur opts for, frowning. After all, he can't let this boy—William, he remembers, William—know that his memory really is quite impressive. "Look at all the papers I dropped. They're all in the wrong order now."

William shrugs. "I'm helping you pick them up, aren't I? I can help you put them in them right order too, if you like."

Arthur shakes his head quickly. "No, I have to go."

He takes the few papers that William holds out to him and shoves them hurriedly in his backpack. Then, keeping his head down, he scuttles down the street.

"It was good seeing you!" William calls after him, waving at Arthur's back.

( Aged 17 )

Suits, he finds, are ridiculously uncomfortable. In fact, he'd have worn a t-shirt and jeans if he hadn't known that it would've driven his mother up the wall. His mother has enough of his plate, he figures. He shouldn't add to that by being fussy.

He tugs at his cuffs. Stares blankly at the lowering coffin. Nods at apologies. Accepts hugs when offered.

Lucy wouldn't have wanted him to cry, so he doesn't. But his mother cries—of course she cries—and Arthur doesn't know what to do. His relatives are suffocating him and his mother is crying. His baby sister is six feet under and—oh god—now his father's crying too.

He pushes through the crowd, nobody stopping or berating him out of politeness. He collapses against a tree.

Tries not to cry.

He sees a blur of a person a few metres away. Then he shakes his head and the blur is gone. There can't have been anyone there. Everyone's by the grave and no one in their right mind would walk into a cemetery to watch a funeral for the fun of it.

No one was there, Arthur's sure of it. He sits against the tree trunk and curls his arms around his bended knees.

He can't help but cry.

( Aged 20 )

He's agreed to do a Sponsored Silence. Not because he relishes the idea of staying in the stuffy university library all afternoon not saying a word, but because they're raising money for cancer. Besides, the first year who'd asked him had practically shat himself when doing so. It only seemed fair that Arthur agree.

It'll go by quickly, he figures. He'll work on the paper he'd meant to do the night before and before long, it'd all be over. Besides, he tries to convince himself, the library is a nice, quiet place. You never hear about anyone getting harassed in the library.

He takes a seat at an empty table and sets to work immediately. He's studious and immersed in his work. He almost doesn't notice when, five minutes before the Silence is set to end, someone scrapes the seat opposite him against the floor and then promptly sits himself in it.

He does, however, notice when a crumbled piece of paper is thrown at his head. Glaring at the stranger, he opens the balled paper and has to stop himself from falling over in shock when he reads what's scrawled on it.

Nice to meet you.

He can't help himself. He has to write back: I don't even know your name.

Eames.

Arthur frowns. Huh. There's a familiar name. But where does he know it from? The memory rushes back to him like a smack across the face. He cocks his head to the side.

William Eames?

He watches William—or Eames, as he seems to be going by now—and chokes back a laugh as Eames' eyes widen and jaw drops. Eames collects himself quickly, but it's still comical.

Heard of me, have you?

Arthur smirks. He begins to gather his belongings, taking care not to crease his essay as he slots it into a folder. He's completely packed, with each scrape of paper and book in his satchel, when the bell signaling the end of the Silence sounds.

"Haven't heard much about you," Arthur says, swinging his bag over his shoulder. "I'm disappointed, though. I thought someone with a memory as supposedly stellar as yours would remember me."

( Aged 21 )

His parents can't afford his fees anymore. He knows why. They'd spent it all on Lucy, back when she was still alive. They don't tell him that, but he knows all the same. He supposes they'd thought they'd have it all sorted out...that they'd take each year as it came.

Arthur can't help but be bitter. Years of his life. Gone. What was the point in those all-nighters he'd pulled? All the long hours of study? The stress of exams? What was the point? He'll never complete his degree. Not now, anyway.

He leaves the university without fuss. He doesn't tell his friends. He ignores the pitying looks professors sent his way. Their apologies won't help him now. He goes home, packs his things and, ignoring the pleas of his mother and shouts of his father, leaves home. They're no good to him now either. They're all wallowing and self-pity. Arthur doesn't need that.

In the end, he joins the army. No time wasted, he thinks.

Darren Bartle pulls him aside after he's completed Basic Training. They have a chat and eventually he convinces to be his guinea pig in Project Somnacin.

( Aged 22 )

"You're very good at what you do, Arthur."

He shrugs in reply. It's Mal; she compliments everybody. Plus, he knows he's good at what he does. He doesn't need confirmation.

"I have a proposal for you."

She's already told him this. The promise of an offer he couldn't refuse was the only reason he'd let her inside his flat.

"I'd like you to join me in stealing information."

She lays it out for him. Steal a PASIV. Run away from the army. Join Mal and her boyfriend. Steal information from bigwigs. Get billions of dollars. How simple.

"You can't be serious."

In all honesty, he'd expected something better than that.

"Oh, I'm very serious."

"Why would I do that? Do you have any idea how much work that would take? You can't just steal from the army, for goodness sake. And you can't just run away. I'd have to go completely underground."

Mal smiles wickedly. He recognises this look. She's about to pull her ace.

"I'll tell you why. Jessica Kurow, Unit 5."

"Honorably discharged last month," Arthur says. "I know that. Everyone knows that."

"Nope. She's dead. Couldn't tell the difference between reality and dream. Sent to an institute after confiding in Darren Bartle and shot herself two weeks in."

"That's a lie."

She rolls her eyes at him. "Heather O'Connell, Unit 3. Fabian McGregor, Unit 2. Julian Callaghan, Unit 7."

Arthur leans against the kitchen bench, not allowing the shock he's feeling to show on his face. "So what? They went a bit crazy. That's nothing to do with me."

"But it is." Mal leans in. "There're whispers, you see. Bartle's pulling the plug. Do you honestly think they'd let us leave alive, Arthur?"

Of course not. Fuck. Shit. He's going to die.

"But people are getting out, Arthur. We're planning on getting out."

"Does everyone know?"

She looks him up and down. "I don't know. Probably not. If you didn't know, I guess not. But some people do."

He takes a moment to weigh up his options. It doesn't take long. Stay and be killed or leave and only possibly be killed.

Underground dreamshare kicks off two weeks later, and Arthur's right in the middle of it.

( Aged 25 )

Arthur pulls away from Mal and Dom for the sake of creating a name for himself. He doesn't want to be the seed that can't grow, shadowed by the greatest of the trees.

He works with bad people. He works for bad people. He works with people who are willing to test the laws of this new and exciting technology. He works with people who play it safe.

Somehow, though, he finds himself wandering back to Mal. She's creative in a way he doesn't allow himself to be, and even when she stretches the rules Arthur still feels as though everything is going to turn out just fine.

She turns to him one day and explains the concept for forging. When he rolls his eyes and declares it impossible, she smiles and offers him proof.

His jaw hits the floor when the bombshell in red morphs into the face of William Eames. He blames his surprise for the gunshot he places between Eames' eyes.

Eames jolts awake and immediately walks into the next room, where Mal looks ready to rip Arthur a new one. She'd separated them for the element of surprise, but that was slightly more than even she'd bargained for.

"Well, I'd say it was nice to meet you, but..." Eames trails off, raising his eyebrows at Arthur.

Arthur ignores the daggers Mal is sending his way and turns his full attention to Eames. Then, with his head held high, he says, "Sorry. You shocked me, that's all."

"You shoot everyone who catches you by surprise?"

He shrugs. "Sometimes."

( Aged 28 )

Arthur rips off his jacket, pressing it against Eames' wound in a desperate attempt to stop the gushing blood.

"Darling, I didn't know you cared," Eames manages to gasp.

Arthur doesn't respond, but he clutches tighter at his now-soaked jacket.

Eames wakes up the next day in a dark motel room, a cup of water and box of ibuprofen on the side table. He looks down at his arm, wincing at the sight. Someone has done a good—a rushed, but good—job of stitching together the knife wound. Pulling himself up, Eames gingerly reaches for the water. He ignores the pills. Only Arthur would think that ibuprofen is enough for a fucking knife wound.

( Aged 31 )

"Why are you still doing this?"

Arthur keeps his back to Eames, pretending to be solely focused on the neat piles of folder on his desk. He has a lot to do. Ariadne still requires a lot of training, Yusuf hasn't nailed down the serum, and Cobb...well, everything Cobb does needs to be double-checked. Just in case.

"Arthur." When he still doesn't turn, Eames grabs Arthur's arm and forcefully spins him around to face him. "Seriously? The silent treatment? I could've sworn you were older than that."

Arthur's eyes don't reach Eames' as he says quietly, "You shouldn't have accepted the job. Cobb's not...he's not stable."

"That begs the question, Arthur." Eames smiles wryly. "Why are you still running after Dominic Cobb?"

He pulls his arm away and turns back to his desk, quickly re-arranging the papers Eames managed to disrupt. "I'm not running after him. I'm just helping. This...this is his last chance. Then we'll be done."

Eames sighs and makes his way across the warehouse. His desk—much messier than Arthur's—sits in the opposite corner. He can feel Arthur's eyes watching him as he rummages through his own papers. He looks up, and gives a small shrug. "We better get it right then."

( Aged 32 )

Arthur falls off the grid after the inception. Cobb asks Eames if he's been in touch, missing the sharpness in his voice when he replies, "No. I haven't heard from him."

That doesn't mean he hasn't looked. But Arthur—as Mal so correctly surmised all six years ago—is very good at what he does. If he doesn't want to be found...well, it's a losing game. But Eames has always had a knack of turning up in Arthur's life, even if it is when he last expects it. It's almost unsurprising when Eames finds himself walking past St. James Cemetery and spies a familiar figure on the grass.

"Your little sister."

Arthur hums. "Excellent memory, Eames."

"I didn't know."

"It was a long time ago." He turns now, almost smiling as he faces Eames. "How'd you find me?"

"Not to worry, darling. This was entirely coincidental."

( Aged 34 )

Despite his determination to get out of dreamshare, Eames keeps coming to him with jobs. Jobs which, according to him, are just too good to turn down. Privately, Arthur knows that that description is more than a little generous. But he agrees to each new offer, nevertheless. They're lower stakes, at least. Nothing seems to compare to the inception.

And it is very comfortable. There's enough excitement to keep him interested, but relaxing enough to keep him in the game. For now, at least.

"Where are we headed next?" Arthur asks quietly.

"We?"

Arthur raises an eyebrow. "You weren't going to invite me on your next job?"

"Well, of course, darling," Eames drawls, trying to cover up his surprise. "I was just expecting more of a fight!"

Arthur reaches forward, lightly tracing the scar on Eames' arm. It has healed well, but even Arthur is no match for a trained health professional, and an angry welt remains. Eames looks up at him, eyes searching his, but not pulling away.

"I think..." Arthur starts slowly. "I think even if I said no, you'd somehow find me anyway."

Eames grins. "Yes. I rather think I would."