Author's Note:
Hey guys! This chapter is a bit short and sorry for the lateness! I've been really busy lately, being whisked out of state and getting sick and all. I hope you like it! If you have any suggestions or thoughts, please don't hesitate to review or message me or something.
Disclaimer: I don't own Inception, but I can still wish, right?
/
Eames isn't even sure when it begins, this endless cycle. Yusuf said he's on the path to self-destruction once, just because he couldn't get his damn bleeding heart together and man up to talk to Arthur. Eames had just snorted and ignored him. Drinking and gambling was normal behavior for him, thank you very much.
In retrospect, Eames should have noticed earlier on, but this was himself that we're talking about, so he didn't really pick up on the minute changes.
He goes under more, building up the dosage slowly. Once a week turned into two, to three, until Eames was pulling out the cord of the PASIV and slipping a needle under his skin more than twice a day for hours at a time. Yusuf doesn't ask what he dreams about, and he is glad.
Eames' arm is dotted with tiny scars that any normal person would mistake for as signs that he was a junkie. He supposes he is, in a way. He can barely get by without going under anymore. The steady wheeze of the PASIV device becomes a normal sound in Yusuf's cramped apartment.
The drinking becomes more frequent. So do the women. Soon enough, Eames finds himself shooting illegal substances into his bloodstream because damn, it feels good because it helps him forget. He's not surprised at himself, really, and finds himself wondering why he didn't do this earlier.
Yusuf's concerned gazes, sighs, head-shakes and muttered words become easier to ignore.
/
Eames leans in and presses his lips close to Arthur's ear, his hot breath curling around the shell of it.
"Just let go, Arthur. Please. For me?" he whispers. His voice is cool, calculating.
Arthur just grips his glass harder. He's surprised it hasn't shattered under the force of his fist yet. He turns his head and his lips ghost against Eames'
"You know I want to," he breathes "But –"
/
Eames dreams of Arthur. Arthur, with a seven-foot stick up his ass. Arthur, the uptight prat who regarded Eames' wild shirts with disdain. Arthur, Arthur, Arthur.
His dreams are vivid, seemingly real. In his dreams, Arthur doesn't choke out "I can't" or "I don't". In his dreams, Arthur whispers "please" and "more" and "Eames". It is perfect.
Eames dreams of lazy walks along the beach with their fingers interlaced, of eating ice-cream side by side. Of exploring museums and travelling around the world and of a white picket fence and a freaking dog, of all things.
He dreams of wonderful endings, of fairy-tales until it isn't enough. They leave him waking up feeling reality rush in again, filling him with a horrid ache in his chest. He decides that it isn't what he needs anymore.
Eames nicks some of the compound they used for the Inception job while Yusuf isn't looking. If Yusuf notices, then he doesn't mention it. He saves it. He saves Somnacin and sedatives until he's got enough to last him a lifetime. Two lifetimes, even.
That's when he runs. He leaves a note for Yusuf.
"Thanks for letting me stay, mate," it says. "I'm sorry for being such a prick while I've been here. I've appreciated it. I'll be fine, don't look for me, you won't find me anywhere you expect. From Eames."
He makes his way back to Los Angeles, using a new alias he hadn't told Arthur about.
/
"What do you mean he's gone, Yusuf?" Arthur barks into the phone.
"He's gone Arthur! Just gone! He left a note, see." Yusuf's voice warbles through the phone as he reads the note to him.
"Why," Arthur hisses "didn't you tell me he was in Mombasa in the first place?"
"He threatened my cat! My cat, Arthur! And to pour my whole stock of Somnacin down the drain! Honestly, you can't blame me."
Arthur clenches his jaw in frustration. Eames had been so close all along. And now he was gone. Once again, Arthur was too late and there was nothing he could do about it.
"Well can you at least tell me where he might be?" he manages to say in a somewhat calm voice.
If Arthur could see Yusuf through the phone, he imagines that he would look contrite or sorry. Yusuf's voice conveys as much.
"I don't know. I'll be on the lookout though," he says. "I'm sorry Arthur, really I am. But you know, he looked so sad and desperate when he asked me not to call you. I'm sorry."
Arthur doesn't say anything, just hangs up.
/
Eames sighs as he mixes the sedative with the compound he technically bought from Yusuf. He had, after all, left a thick wad of cash that was enough to cover the cost of both in one of Yusuf's drawers.
He sets the timer on the PASIV and slides the IV needle into his arm, settling onto the motel bed.
Eames is in Paris, where he and Cobb's team worked out the logistics of the Inception job. He smiles at the old warehouse, with it's uncomfortable lawn chairs and general messy sprawl, and grabs the PASIV he dreamed up. He slides the door open and strolls onto the street. He might as well enjoy himself a bit while he was here.
He walks along the Siene, he climbs the Eiffel tower, and he eats a croissant in a tiny little café tucked away in the streets of the sprawling city. He wandered aimlessly until he checked into a nondescript motel room, pulled out the cord of the PASIV and put himself under again.
He finds himself in a place that looks a little like Mombasa. Again, he wanders around, doing what he wants to, before sliding another needle into his arm.
Eames covers his tracks with large dreamscapes filled with people, buildings riddled with paradoxical architecture, reinforced vaults guarded by militarized projections. He removes gravity in some levels so he can't be given the kick. He doesn't want to be found. He continues making his way deeper.