A/N: I'm flexing a bit of Eames' mental muscle here. Sometimes I think that he gets pegged as the boorish comedy relief but he's pretty smart. Sure, he's quick with the quips but he pretty much comes up with the entire plan in Inception. A few tweaks from Dom and others but the basis of the plan - the genesis, if you will, comes from Eames.

Case in point: "anti-monopolistic sentiments" is not a phrase that easily rolls off the tongue and yet he says it with such ease.

However, all this Eames-love does not mean I prefer him over Arthur. And with that…

Chapter 3:

The entrance of Le Royal Monceau was both elegant and modern, simple and lavish, with a white façade and warm but dramatic lighting. A plush red carpet led the way into the hotel and doormen wearing cream and black uniforms greeted guests as they walked in.

Ana leaned her head against the car window and watched as men and women strolled down the street. Outside the parked car, people lived their lives and went on about their afternoon. Normal people with normal problems.

"Your hands… Are you in pain?" Arthur asked beside her and she turned to face him. His fingers hung on the bottom of the steering wheel and she wondered briefly if the car had been her rental or his. It clearly didn't belong to them; the keychain only had the one key on it.

He doesn't live here but he knows Paris well enough to be comfortable driving.

"Yeah," she said, leaning back against the soft leather of the seat. Her newly bandaged hands lay on her lap. She felt exhausted, sore and not a little lightheaded from blood loss and endorphins. Arthur's contact, Jessum, had been a taciturn redhead who stitched her cuts close with quick, careful precision. He'd offered painkillers but Arthur, with great reluctance, had suggested that she pass.

"Introducing something else into your system could be detrimental, Ana. It might make things worse."

Though she knew Arthur was right, it didn't make the experience less painful. At first Ana tried to bite down on making a sound but near the end when Jessum was finishing up, she'd been reduced to soft whimpering. The entire process took less than twenty minutes but her blouse felt as if it were soaked with sweat by the time he'd finished.

Arthur had had to hold each of her arms still as Jessum worked and at one point she felt him press a tentative hand against her damp brow, pushing her hair back away from her face. It was only then that she realized that tears had slipped past her tightly shut eyes and when she'd opened them, he was looking back at her intently.

"It's almost over. Just a few more, Ana. Keep taking deep breaths."

Now, he was staring at her with the same sort of intensity.

"You should eat. I haven't seen you eat at all today," he said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "We'll get you back to… We'll get you somewhere you can rest. It's been a tough day."

"Understatement," she said. Arthur smiled slightly.

"I am prone to them," he said.

Ana shrugged and turned away. "If you say so. I wouldn't know. I can't remember anything about myself much less about anyone else."

"I know I'm asking a lot of you now but please. Trust me."

"The concierge seemed to recognize us," Ana said. "She'd seen us together before. I have to assume that I trust you on some level. But I don't think it's enough to be around you longer than I have to be."

I used to trust you. We were friends.

When you touch me, it's as if you expect me to push you away.

Something happened between us which is why I didn't tell you where I was staying this time.

It was obvious to her that they weren't at the same hotel and it was likely that she'd arrived at Le Royal Monceau before or after Arthur that morning. Based on what she knew of him so far, she didn't doubt that Arthur would take note of what she did in his presence; he probably did it with everyone he encountered. And yet–

He's protective of me but he keeps his distance.

She watched carefully as Arthur flinched, the skin around his mouth and eyes tightening and he nodded once before turning away.

That stung.

It begged the question then: if she didn't normally trust Arthur, then why was she there in the first place?

She didn't mean to hurt him but she needed to know where the boundaries were. After all, she was navigating only on her own observations. She had the pieces and could infer connections, but none of the underlying motivations were clear.

I have the what but not the why.

Why am I here? Why am I with you? Why won't you tell me these things already? What are you waiting for?

And the most curious of all: Why do you look at me like that, Arthur?

Why does Eames?

Before she could say anything, Ana heard a thump and then knock on the door behind her. She turned around and saw Eames looking down at her through the window.

"Well then, everything's all clear upstairs and Ariadne is currently charming the hotel manager out of what I'm sure is an exorbitant damages fee," Eames said cheerfully, as he got into the car. He closed the door behind him and leaned forward on the console. "Much as I hate working in abandoned spaces, it is more convenient when we make a mess, no?"

"Did you get everything?" Arthur said, ignoring Eames' comment. He looked out the window past Ana and studied the other hotel guests milling about the front entrance. "Wipe everything down?"

Eames snorted and rolled his eyes. "Oops, I left the PASIV upstairs. Of course I took care of things, Arthur. The device's in the boot, safe and sound."

He reached back and propped something up on the console beside Ana. "And I brought this along as well. It wasn't Ariadne's or Miron's so unless Arthur speaks up…"

It was a large brown shoulder bag with bronze buckles and clasps. It looked new and the smell of leather filled the car.

Functional but well-made. No labels or designs to make it stand out.

Not a status bag but not one that would look inconspicuous on the arm of someone staying at this hotel.

I bought this bag. It's mine.

I didn't want to fit in, I wanted to blend in.

It was an unhappy idea.

Ana looked back at Eames.

"Thank you," she said.

For a moment he stared at her with frank appraisal before grinning widely.

"You're very welcome," he said. "And I do hope it's yours. We were in a bit of a rush so I'd hate to have accidentally stolen someone else's purse."

"It's her bag, Eames," Arthur said firmly. In a gentler tone, he said, "Ana, your hotel key should be in there and we should get back as soon as possible. Maybe the surroundings might trigger–"

"You think an impersonal room will actually create a spark of recognition?" Eames said, smile sharpening into something almost mean. "Be serious now, Arthur. She likely just checked in and dumped her belongings in the closet. She wasn't exactly bursting at the seams to be here."

Ana almost started at his words but remained silent.

He's doing this on purpose.

Arthur turned the key and the car came to life. He glared at the road as he drove past the hotel valet and onto the busy street.

"We don't know what caused this so anything familiar may help," Arthur said. "There are too many variables right now to discount anything."

"Yes," Eames said, "but Ana's probably exhausted and hungry and–"

"I know that, which is why we're–"

"Stop," Ana said. "Please. Stop."

She didn't want to hear them bicker anymore and her head was beginning to hurt. It made her uneasy to know the two people she had to depend on at the moment didn't get along and despite Arthur's earlier words, she knew that both men probably had their own interests at heart.

Arthur and Eames fell silent.

"Don't talk about me as if I'm deaf and blind. I'm sitting right here."

"That you are," Eames said softly. He leaned back, out of her line of sight but she turned to look at him. He looked oddly serious and thoughtful and he flipped what looked to be a poker chip in his fingers as he stared back at her.

He's nervous.

But no, Ana reconsidered after a moment. He licked his lips and quirked another smile at her before finally looking away.

He's frustrated and trying to hide it.

"We should figure out where you're staying," Arthur said suddenly. Ana sat back in her seat, feeling as if she'd been caught doing something she shouldn't have. "Do you mind if Eames went through your bag?"

"I'll keep mum about whatever's in there," Eames teased.

Ana stared at the bag, feeling her palms itch. She didn't like the idea of someone else looking through her things, especially when she knew the items could tell her more about herself but it couldn't be helped at the moment. They needed a destination and she simply didn't have the dexterity needed to open the clasp.

"That's fine," she said. She elbowed the bag away from her and leaned away from Arthur, feeling childishly sullen and angry. Eames and Arthur knew who she was but they weren't telling her; it felt like a game of 'keep away' and she was stuck in the middle.

It's not fair.

Eames picked up her bag and Ana stared ahead, even as Arthur looked over at her every few minutes. All she wanted was the truth. What was so horrible, so awful that they couldn't simply–

And suddenly a thought, small yet frightening, made it up to the surface of her mind.

It's better if you don't know.

###

Ana heard the sound of the television outside the bedroom and she closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath.

They had found her hotel with little difficulty – a small but exclusive boutique that couldn't have held more than a hundred guests at any given time. Her quarters, while not as ostentatious as the suite they'd just come from, was large enough to have a separate room for the two twin beds she'd apparently requested.

She could hear Arthur and Eames talking but not loud enough to hear words. She suspected they were arguing again, using the television as a sort of audio shield, and she made herself look down at the bag on the bed in front of her.

But first–

She wandered around the room, taking in the details with hungry eyes. Her headache seemed to lessen as her mind whirred into action. For a moment, she could set aside the pain and confusion and focus on something else.

A small dark blue suitcase lay open on its back on the unmade bed – apparently, she valued privacy over house cleaning – and Ana looked down at its contents without touching anything.

She hadn't taken her clothes out of the suitcase and almost everything was still rolled up in neat rows. From what she could tell, she favored neutrals; beige and gray and navy blue and black, there seemed to be no bright colors in the mix. Gingerly, mindful of her injuries she pulled a few items out.

A small selection of clothing but chosen so that I could mix and match to stretch my wardrobe.

Interesting.

Maybe I was afraid this job would last longer than expected?

Ana carefully unzipped the side pocket and poked through several sets of underwear. All as bland and sensible as she'd expected them to be. The one detail that did leap out for her though were the labels. Apparently, while she seemed relatively staid compared to the rest of the people she'd met today, she dressed just as well as they did though with far less flair. She liked to wear soft clothing, things that could breathe and last for hours without wrinkling badly but otherwise… She was fairly boring.

But that is important.

Again, I must have wanted to blend in, not fit in.

There was no real personality in her clothing, nothing she could glean about the person who wore them that she could pull from.

Was that on purpose? Did I know I would get to this point?

Ana frowned and tilted her head to the side. Something was off about the suitcase flap but the more she stared, the more uncertain she felt. She unfocused her gaze a bit then looked away before studying it again.

There seemed to be a small break in the line of the interior pocket. It wasn't obvious but Ana could tell the lines weren't as straight as they should be. She reached out and gently touched the surface, noting the odd change in texture when she reached the crooked edge. She held her breath for a moment as she pushed through a small hole, widening it with her fingertips. It came apart easily and she was able to feel what was hiding underneath.

Solid. Small rectangle. More than one.

Papers. Thin books? Pamphlets?

She bent down and pulled out the nearest object with her thumb and index finger, frowning when she realized what it was. She reached in and began pulling out the other objects as dread grew in her chest and settled in her stomach.

"What the hell?" Ana whispered, staring down at the pile. "What the hell is going on?"

For some reason, she had hidden five passports in the interior of her suitcase. Not all the passports were American.

She picked one up and opened it, blinking in surprise. She looked through each one and stared at the text before finally sitting down on the edge of the bed.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Stay calm. Stay alert.

Each passport contained a different name and address. All had been well used, with stamps from different countries.

"Arthur had to run out for a bit to take care of a few things but I've taken the liberty of ordering room service."

Eames' voice at the doorway made Ana jump to her feet and whirl around. She stared at him with wide eyes and forced herself not to back away like a frightened animal.

He took a step into the room and smiled, about to say something else when he noticed the passports on the bed.

"Arthur said I wasn't a criminal," Ana said. "But this…"

Eames looked surprised and then rubbed his face with one hand before looking up at her again. "Ana, I really think this conversation should wait until–"

"You want me to know something that Arthur doesn't," Ana said. "He's not here. Why not just tell me now?"

"It's not that simple," Eames said. He held out his hands as if to calm her down. "As much as I hate to agree with him, Arthur has a point. You think we can just tell you your whole life story in one shot and be done with it but think about it – really think about it. It would be more like reciting a fairytale or a fable. It would have no meaning for you whatsoever. It would just be words."

"I'm not looking for meaning, I just want to know who I am. Do I have a family? Do I have a home?" Ana pressed. "Why am I here? Am I a bad person?"

"You're not a bad person." Eames' voice was gentle and he lowered his hand. The coy smiles, the teasing gleam in his eyes was gone and he looked genuinely worried. "You're far from it. And while you may have committed acts that were less than legal, any wrong you've done was in defense of yourself and others."

Eames nodded at the passports. "Those things are just protective measures. People in our profession, in my profession, are nomads but you have a home. You have a home, Ana."

"Protective measures…" Ana swallowed. "Am I in trouble?"

Eames' gaze didn't falter but his expression seemed to grow dark. "We've taken care of that, Ana. You're in no danger."

"But I was."

"Yes."

"Was it related to this job? Did it… Did it happen recently? What was it?"

"It happened some time ago," Eames said. He hesitated and then shook his head. "But I won't tell you more until you've had a moment to sit down and get a warm meal inside of you."

He laughed softly, more to himself than anything else. "I really can't leave you alone for more than a few minutes, can I, pet? You'll just bloody pick apart everything around you and-"

"I'm not your pet," Ana said angrily. "This is bullshit and you know it. Neither you nor Arthur should hold my own life over my head because you don't think I'll value it enough. Who are you to tell me what I'll find meaning in? Who are you to me at all?"

Eames stared at her with an unreadable expression on his face and she realized she'd been yelling at him. She looked around the room again, no longer able to look him in the eye and felt drained.

"I know you think you're helping," Ana said, staring at the bedside table. "But what do you think it feels like to have to look through my things as if they belong to someone else? How do you think it feels to look at someone and know they could help you but won't."

"We don't know a lot about the mind, you know? The brain, yes. But not the mind," Eames said, in a strangely conversational tone. She stared at him, surprised at the apparent non-sequitur. "I believe repressed memories don't exist. Not in the way they're described in literature anyway. We don't simply forget things. There are only memories we choose – or perhaps our mind chooses for us, to ignore or think around. Memories aren't located in one area, after all."

Eames took a step forward and gestured vaguely. "Memories aren't archives, mind you. They're ghosts of events and they might even be wholly wrong. Our minds have this little quirk where it builds composites – adding details between the facts. That doesn't mean what you remember isn't genuine but memories aren't photographs. They aren't static; they can change or be changed."

Ana closed her eyes, repeating his words in her mind.

"So Arthur thinks that by telling me anything, you'll contaminate my memories," she said, opening her eyes. "He thinks you'll change me."

Eames nodded. "My esteemed countryman Locke thought that memory is necessary for personal identity. If you can't remember an event, you're not the same person that did. Change that memory, you change that person."

"Locke lived in the seventeenth century," Ana said. "And he was a philosopher."

"That doesn't make him wrong, does it?"

"It doesn't make him right." Ana sighed. "Locke also believed we start out as a tabula rasa, empty slates at birth but that's wrong, isn't it? We're primed at birth for experience. Even as newborns, our minds are ready to learn. You can't be a blank slate and somehow figure out language – you have to be prepared for it."

A flicker of an expression, curious and odd, flitted across his handsome face and she wondered what it meant. Then Eames smiled crookedly and tapped the side of his nose.

"I can help you change your dressings if you want to wash up," he said, turning to leave. "The food should be up here soon but I'm sure you'll want to get tidied up first."

It was satisfaction on his face. He looked like I'd just said something he wanted me to say.

But what was it? What point did I make for him?

"Wait," Ana said. "Tell me one thing."

Eames turned around reluctantly, one hand on the doorframe.

"Oxford or Cambridge?"

Eames laughed, warm and rich and throaty, and Ana almost smiled back. It made her feel…

Nice. It's a good sound.

"Why don't you tell me what you think?" he said.

Ana felt nervous suddenly and she let out a soft breath. "I don't know much about either but if I were to guess, I'd say you studied at Oxford."

"You never guess, Ana," Eames said.

His voice was fond as he turned around again.

"You've never needed to."

###

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