Chapter 14: Links

Dreamsharing is inherently dangerous. Ruthless. A lifespan only dictated by luck, instincts, and intelligence. Arthur knew the game. He wasn't as suave as some, but he could play just fine. Laying false IP trails, forging passports, sleeping with one eye open, and never staying in one city for too long. Arthur was not naïve. But, inexplicably, in front of this woman's seemingly innocent question, Arthur was reduced to a bumbling idiot.

"Mr. Eames - Eames is not my boyfriend," Arthur stuttered, shaking his head to emphasize his point. The almost-healed cut on his cheekbone twinged and the phone given to him by Eames felt a thousand times more conspicuous in his pocket. "We're just – he's been – because of extenuating circumstances, we formed a close, ehm, working relationship recently. Through situations at work, I mean, not anything, ah, personal," Arthur added hastily, his face reddening. He felt like a teenager that had been caught necking in his father's Toyota – and nothing had even happened between him and Eames! He didn't understand why he was acting this way. Utterly ridiculous. I am a professional. In his thirties.

Dimples formed on Eames' mother's cheeks as she smiled, and she dismissed Arthur's rambling with a small wave. A ring glinted on her left hand. "It's fine, dear, I understand. It must be a long story." Arthur straightened his collar self-consciously, his brown sleeve flashing in his peripheral vision. Eames' mother followed his movements, keying in on his wince as the motion pulled at his torn stitches. She motioned for him to come over, laying her handbag once again onto the bed. "A story which you will tell me," she threatened cheerfully. "But right now, come here, love. What did you say your name was?"

"I didn't." Arthur replied, and without his brain's permission, his feet began to drag him closer to the woman. "But my name is Arthur." He made his way around the edge of the bed, stopping a respectful distance in front of her. Arthur felt his hand rising back up to mess with the edge of his collar, and brought it down jerkily, wincing. "Would you mind if I used your shower, Ms., uh, Eames?" Arthur asked, deflecting. He didn't want to be inspected by another person right now, and Eames' mother looked like someone who wanted to do just that.

"Yes, I would," she responded, raising an eyebrow. Her lips pursed in displeasure as she looked him up and down. "Mind, I mean to say. And call me Iris, dear, please."

"Alright, Iris," Arthur said. He felt uncomfortable just standing in front of her. She was looking at him too closely - the way Eames does, calculating, appraising.

"Turn around, please," Eames' mother broke Arthur out of his reverie. He hesitated at the command. One of his fundamental rules was to never turn his back on a stranger, and as nice as Eames' mother seemed, there was always a possibility that her identity was false. Eames' mother, Iris, Arthur reminded himself, took his hesitancy as noncompliance. She gently took ahold of his bicep, steering him to face the window. He turned around haltingly, reluctantly. She tsked, taking in the dried bloodstains. "This shirt needs to come off, Arthur."

"That won't be necessary," Arthur demurred quickly, halfway twisting back towards her. He looked at her over his shoulder. She had taken out a pair of pink wire rimmed glasses, pushing them up upon her nose. A strand of wavy grey hair fell loose from her tight bun, but she seemed oblivious, utterly focused on his injury. Arthur wondered how she could determine anything through the bandage, but decided it wasn't polite to ask. "I can assure you I have some medical experience, Ms. - um, Iris. I am capable of managing my own - "

"Did Eames not inform you that I am a registered nurse?" Eames' mother asked sharply. She probed at his tattered shirt with a finger, and it took every bit of resistance that Arthur had not to flinch away on instinct. She came in front of him, her gaze clinical as she surveyed his expression. "We need to take this shirt off, Arthur. It's filthy. You're going to contract an infection. Whoever you are, I have a feeling Eames would be a bit bent out of shape if I let you die."

Arthur was thrown for a loop. "Uh, he didn't tell me you worked in the medical field."

"Brilliant, then you can't protest medical attention. Let's get down to the kitchen then, love." And Eames' mother vanished out of the room. Sighing, Arthur followed after her, sparing one last glance at his room. Looks like I'm not getting anything done today, he thought morosely.

Arthur had always been an observer. It was an important part of his job description. He might not be fantastic at understanding people's motivations, but he'd be damned if he didn't at least know what they were. And so while Eames' mother busied herself around the kitchen, Arthur watched her. He saw her clipped, experienced movements while she washed her hands, and noted the way that she slightly favored her left knee. Arthur sat there, wondering at how this woman standing in front of him was the one who presumably raised Eames. Which made him think, really - "Iris? What's your son's first name?"

Hands clean, Iris came over to Arthur, sighing when she noticed he hadn't even attempted to remove his shirt. "How about you let me clean you up - no whinging, or booking it either, and tell me exactly you are," Iris stood in front of Arthur, her head in line with Arthur's chin, "and then I'll answer anything you would like to know." Iris must have pegged Arthur for the bad patient he truly was, because Arthur had been planning on doing just that - ducking out as soon as he took off his shirt, simultaneously mumbling some paltry excuse. But he didn't want to start off on a bad foot with Eames' mother. Anymore than I already have, anyway.Arthur slowly nodded to her, reluctantly accepting her offer.

"Well, get on with it then," she said to him, flicking her hands impatiently towards the kitchen table. "I need to see your back somehow, and the best light would be right here." Arthur swung himself up without complaint, the bare wood smooth under his hands. "I could've sworn I had a tablecloth on here before…" Iris muttered, snapping on latex gloves. Arthur winced at the sight. He was pretty sure Eames' hadn't done the same the night of the shooting, and he had been dealing with an open bullet wound. Whoops.

Arthur settled himself at the edge of the table and began to unbutton his dress shirt - well, Eames' dress shirt. Undoing the front row of buttons, Arthur transferred his attention to his right cuff. Once that was undone, he grimaced at his enclosed left arm, picking at the stained fastenings. The sleeve fell open, and Arthur hesitated, weighing his options. What would hurt more? Peeling the sleeve off the burn or prying the fabric off my back?

Arthur wanted to warn Iris about the torn stitches - waiting over a day to check on them had not been a smart move, exponentially increasing his chances of infection - but he didn't know how. So he kept his mouth shut, and clenched his fingers around the wood, his nails digging into the rough underside of the table. He reluctantly released his grip as Iris helped him take off his right sleeve, and then moved on to his left. The left sleeve's stained fabric clung stubbornly to Arthur's burned arm, and she frowned. "What's this?" Iris asked, gesturing towards the coffee-tinted discoloration. The loose strand of her hair quivered with the movement.

"Nothing," Arthur said hastily, and ripped off the sleeve without further ado. He hissed as he did so, in tandem with Iris' surprised intake of breath.

"Bloody hell, Arthur." Eames' mother caught his eye, her multicolored gaze flashing in disbelief. "That's a second degree burn, love." Arthur looked down at his forearm, the raised pink skin glistening back at him as though wet. Blisters had formed in small lumps around the edges of the mutilated flesh, and the slightest movement caused pangs of discomfort to radiate up his arm. Arthur had been so exhausted yesterday he hadn't even noticed how bad the burn was. Well, I feel it now,he thought.

"Wait 'til you see my back, Ms. E - Iris," Arthur quipped back.

If Arthur had to go by Eames' mother's expression, the jest hadn't been well received. Her face twisted in displeasure, and she huffed, slapping the edge of the table roughly.

"Lay down. Let's see then," Iris said. "Let's see the kind of man my son made friends with."

Arthur could tell the exact moment Eames' mother realized it was a bullet wound. Of course, being a nurse, he knew she would figure it out sooner rather than later. But still, he was unprepared for the way her left hand clenched near his head, or how her pattern of breathing sped up incrementally. Her ring flashed as her fingers trembled, and her right hand moved to settle apprehensively on the small of his bare back, as though she could shield him from the news. Arthur couldn't see the rest of her, but he could almost imagine her shoulders slumping, her eyes growing a fraction wider.

"It seems we have more to chat about than I thought," said Iris from above Arthur's horizontal body, her voice quivering just a little. She coughed, and gained back some of her resolve as she asked drily, "And you can't tell me there's any chance - any chance you might have impaled yourself on a suspiciously bullet-shaped object, love?"

Arthur shook his head apologetically, blanching just a little as she removed a piece of his shirt with tweezers. The fabric was sticking to his dried wound and makeshift bandage. "Sorry," he answered, biting out his words as Iris pulled at yet another piece of the ruined shirt. "I'm afraid not. We do have… some things to discuss."

A heavy silence fell over the kitchen.

Arthur was afraid of what Iris actually knew about Eames' job, and decided to stay quiet for now. He didn't want to involve her in his mess any more than necessary. For her part, Eames' mother stayed calm, fussing over Arthur's back for a long time. She cleaned the wound, dressed his arm, and spat out an impressive amount of profanities after seeing the bruising on his ribs. "Have people reminded you that you're human, Arthur? How and why you're walking around is beyond me…" She murmured.

Arthur decided it was probably not a good time to mention that he hadn't eaten in over 24 hours.

Eventually, Iris banished him to the living room with a cup of fresh-brewed tea, telling him to rest. She then disappeared back into the kitchen, mumbling something about making food. Waiting a few moments, Arthur sipped his tea, and then rose off the couch. Keeping his footsteps light and his breathing even, he snuck behind her turned back, busy at the counter. Still shirtless, he slipped silently upstairs, thanking his lucky stars that none of the floorboards creaked beneath him.

Vaguely, Arthur remembered Eames mentioning the location of his room was a few days ago. He had said it was the door before Arthur's own. Arthur, still walking noiselessly, halted in front of Eames' supposed door, debating with himself if what he was about to do was a breach of privacy. After scanning for any tripwires, and sensing none, Arthur made up his mind. He turned the brass knob and stepped inside Eames' room, moral implications be damned. Eames would do the same to me, Arthur thought. Although probably not a good thing I'm operating by Eames' standards...

It was definitely Eames' room. As Arthur opened the door, tribal Kenyan masks clattered against the wood, startling him. Black poker chips lay strewn across the bedside mahogany table, remnants of a night gone right. No personal photographs lay framed on the dresser. However, Arthur noticed an old Kodak laying on one end, next to a miniature model of the Empire State Building. Arthur walked over interestedly, picking up the tower. He was amused that Eames would keep something so touristy. Upon closer inspection, the figurine had a cylindrical hole drilled into where the base should've been, a perfect fit for a vial. Poison,Arthur guessed. Or a way to ship drugs. Clever.Setting the model back down on the dresser, Arthur noticed a white mosquito net strewn in the corner. But he still didn't see what he wanted.

He walked further into room, scanning the area. He noticed, from the curtains to the bed sheets, the room was accented in subtle tans and maroons. Why is it that Eames can have good interior design, and yet still wear those atrocious shirts?Arthur shook his head, contemplating the conundrum as he stepped onto a bright Kenyan carpet. Still searching around, something silver caught the corner of his eye. Walking over to the dark bed, Arthur smiled as he saw his PASIV and an unfamiliar laptop resting on the maroon duvet. A bright pink post-it note was stuck on the laptop's silver cover.

For you. I know how you love your research.

~ Eames

P.S. I knew I would get you into my bedroom someday, darling. It was only a matter of time.

Arthur rolled his eyes, picking up the laptop and PASIV before leaving Eames' room. He could hear Eames' mother humming from downstairs, still occupied, as he walked back into his own room. Arthur crouched, sliding the PASIV under his bed. He was glad to have it back. He exhaled, satisfied, and rose to his feet slowly, stretching.

The movement reminded him of his newly changed bandages, courtesy of Iris. He was still shirtless. I should probably fix that.Arthur walked over to the small white dresser for the first time. Finding it empty, Arthur grabbed his die off the quilt before reaching for his Glock. Pushing the gun into his waistband, Arthur tried to remind himself to conceal it from Iris. He assumed Eames wouldn't have been able to hide all of the firearms in his possession from his mother, but Arthur knew what assuming could do. He decided to leave the discussion of his own handgun out of question, at least until Iris and himself had their talk.

Arthur picked the laptop off his bed, tucking it under his arm. Looking around, Arthur rolled both of his die in his hand, a comforting motion. Still moving quietly, Arthur pushed back into Eames' room. He made a mental note to buy some new suits as soon as possible. He couldn't keep taking Eames' clothes like this, no matter the circumstances.No wonder everyone believes Eames and I are in a relationship,Arthur thought, placing the laptop back on Eames' bed. The only thing I've been able to wear is his clothes.

Arthur went over to Eames' closet, pushing open the bifold doors. He stood there for a moment, trying to come to terms with the fact that 99% of Eames' wardrobe consisted of a horrible combination of paisley patterns, new-age sweatshirts, and pressed khaki slacks.

Arthur pulled out a relatively bland-looking navy sweatshirt, slipping it gingerly over his bandages. Next, he looked towards the neatly folded pants on the hangers, hoping to find something to wear instead the large dress pants he was currently swimming in. As Arthur reached out to inspect a particularly bold pair of sequined gold shorts, something else glinted in the far corner of the closet. Arthur, never one to leave a mystery uninvestigated, gingerly reached out to touch the gleaming object.

His hand hit something cold, something metal. He unearthed the weighty item out of the closet, knocking the sequined shorts to the floor in his haste. Bringing the mysterious object out into the light, Arthur felt himself go rigid - partly out of recognition, and partly out of surprise.

In his hand was a steel dog collar, the links clacking quietly as he hefted it closer. Besides the stainless steel, the only color adorning the links was a hanging bent circle, a green tag, identical to the cheap ones sold at pet stores. The tag read Luckyin a large, flowing script.

Without even turning the tag over, Arthur knew there was another engraving on the back. It would read 'You're a complete idiot'. He knew this because this collar had been a gift - from him. Sort of. He had given it to Eames as a joke, after the botched job in Cairo. Eames had really, really wanted to keep the poodle they found wandering near the Nile River. Arthur had informed him without remorse, that, "No, Mr. Eames, we are not taking a poodle back with us while there's an international manhunt in progress." The dry sand from the patchy ground kicked up in a wayward gust of wind, coating Arthur in a wave of grit, blinding him. He blinked, eyes watering, as the sand cleared from his eyes. By the time Arthur had pulled himself back together, Eames was already taking off his belt from the loops of his khaki shorts, winding it gently around the skittish dog. It now had an approximation of a leash. "Come on, darling," Eames had said, his white teeth gleaming in the hot Egyptian sun. Arthur absently noted how good Eames' ass looked in his shorts. "The job's already done, the marks are dead. We can handle a little international cop chase." Eames gave Arthur a smoldering look - one that would normally cause even the most uptight prude to succumb. Arthur just shook his head, amused yet unswayed by Eames' logic. "No, Mr. Eames, absolutely not." He turned in his scorching dress shoes, in what he hoped was the right path back to the airport. Everything looked so similar in the god-forsaken sand. Arthur was definitely not a desert sort of guy. Eames sighed, and began to trudge back next to Arthur, a sulky pout firmly on his face.

Arthur, looking back at the the memory, wondered how Eames had managed it - but somehow, someway, Eames had smuggled the dog onto his Emirates flight. If Arthur had to guess, he would say bribes and copious flirting with the flight attendants had been involved. Whatever the case, weeks later, from a burner cell phone that traced back to Uzbekistan, Eames sent Arthur a selfie… with the poodle. Arthur, currently tailing a mark on the metro, stopped to rest his head against the cool metal of one of the poles, exasperated by Eames.

Not usually the one to be impulsive, Arthur purchased the collar and tag that night. Sure, he shipped the gag gift to a place in Mombasa where he knew Eames would find it. But I never expected Eames to keep it,Arthur thought, puzzled. And in his mother's house, no less…

"Arthur? Did I not tell you to wait on the sofa?" Arthur looked up to see Iris in the doorway, hands resting on her hips, a serving spoon in one hand.

"Umm," Arthur said. He slowly lowered the collar to his side, links clinking. Eames' mother watched him, both of her eyebrows raising.

"Is that what I think it is?" She asked. Then she raised both of her hands in a 'stop' motion. "Do I even want to know why Eames' has a dog collar in his bedroom… and more importantly why you knew about it?"

"It's not… like that," Arthur protested weakly.

"Of course it's not, love," Eames' mother said. "Although I don't need to know what happens in your bedroom, dear. I had enough of that walking in on my son in his teenage years."

"Ah." Arthur didn't know how to respond. His cheeks tinged pink. Slowly, he walked, placing the collar stiffly onto Eames' dresser. He picked up the laptop. Turning quickly to face Iris, Arthur felt a wave of dizziness crash over him. He thrust his hand out automatically, his knuckles scraping something before latching on to the surface of Eames' dresser. He was barely able to prevent himself from falling. It would be highly embarrassing if I fainted in front of both members of the Eames family,Arthur thought, spots encroaching on the edges of his vision. He stared at his feet, willing the rising feeling in his head to go away. He was aware for the first time that he had never taken his shoes off from the previous night.

"Arthur?" He heard Iris move before he saw her, her checkered dress intruding at the perimeter of his sight. Arthur looked up, meeting her worried gaze for the second time that day. "You look like you could use some food, dear."

"I would like that, yes," Arthur replied, gradually standing up regularly again. Eames' mother shooed him in front of her, following him closely as he dragged himself down the stairway, laptop clutched under his arm. The post-it note felt slippery against his fingers.

Arthur found himself seated at the table, a steaming piece of Yorkshire pudding in front of him, along with his abandoned tea. Eames' mother took the laptop from him, clucking in dissatisfaction. Apparently Arthur's eating habits bothered her on a moral level. She returned after placing the computer in the sitting room, taking up her place next to Arthur. He took a tentative bite of the meal, closing his eyes slightly as the delicious concoction hit his taste buds. "So, about Eames' real name," Arthur began.