A/N: Thanks for all your reviews/PMs. I already know how this will end but I think the core pairing will still come as a minor surprise. Maybe?

Amanda- Ah, Criminal Minds. I'm more of a Travel channel person so I had to look Criminal Minds up. I have a specific actor in mind for Gideon Klein but yes, I can certainly see the connection between the CM!Gideon and this story. If it helps, I had Ana work as a "consultant" for the FBI because I wanted a character who made a living out of investigative work (which I think would be a great extractor-like job) and had access to information most people wouldn't be privy to. Happy to tell you who I pictured as Gideon though- it may help you see him in a different light.

Chapter 12

Do you remember St. Petersburg, Arthur?

I still have scars from that day. I remember the smell of blood and smoke, the way you looked at me from across the room and told me to run. I think you actually expected me to leave you because you closed your eyes like you didn't want to see me go.

Or maybe it was because you didn't want to see me stay.

I don't remember feeling any pain. I remember grabbing your suit jacket, can you believe I actually felt bad for ruining it? Silly, the things you think about sometimes. I remember trying to keep down, away from the window. Sometimes, if I concentrate hard enough, I can feel the crunch and crack of the glass underneath my arms and my knees. I remember needing to get to you. I remember being terrified when you closed your eyes. At the time I thought you were giving up, that you were going to take your last breath right there across the room from me and there was nothing I could do about it but watch.

I remember all these things but I can't remember feeling any pain when I crawled across broken glass to get to you.

At the hospital, they thought I was injured much worse than I was. You bled all over me like something out of a horror movie. I wore white that day, do you recall? I made a joke about not having to worry about the Labor Day rule because we were out of the states. I made you laugh and I was happy, stupidly happy, because it was going to be a good day. An easy job, right?

I sat in the waiting room for hours while they operated on you. I could barely speak Russian but I knew then the nurses felt sorry for me. I know what pity looks like. They thought I was already in mourning, the grieving lover left behind. Tragedy is so romantic when you're watching it unfold. I sat there not knowing if I had done the right thing. I spent the night terrified you'd die, terrified they'd find us.

I've always wondered, how did you feel when I walked out the door of your hospital room? Did you know it was the last time you'd work with me?

It's a memory I won't regret being rid of.

###

I've been doing a lot of reading, Arthur. Lots and lots of reading. Gideon knows I'm up to something but I don't think he knows toward what end. Sometimes I'll find books on dreams on my desk or links to lines of research that I haven't yet come across and he'll look at me like we share a secret.

I don't think he'd be so helpful if he really knew what I was up to.

I've discovered some interesting things.

Did you know the human brain is capable of running dozens of sentient cores? Call it parallel processing at its finest. The mind can be fractured, the cores can be partitioned, and yet the brain as a whole will still function perfectly. Isn't that amazing?

Let me ask you another question. What causes dissociative identity disorder? You can answer this question. I looked up your records from West Point. A double major in psychology and computer science. My belated congratulations. Your father must be so proud.

You know that DID arises spontaneously and stems from unimaginable suffering. I'm self-aware enough to know that my loss is not at all great compared to all the millions of poor souls who have felt pain before me. But my point is DID, as a reaction, is fascinating. It's both a survival strategy and a form of sacrifice: I cannot live with this memory so I will offer up a part of myself in order to continue. Or would you prefer the paradox: I will become less so I can become more.

In any case, the mind will do this on its own. It will split itself apart.

Can it be done deliberately?

Can we reach into our minds and contain certain parts of ourselves, never to see the light of day again? Memory itself is inconsistent. We add details where only a framework used to exist; we add flesh where once only a skeleton stood. Can we bring a hammer down on our memories and shatter it like ice? Like glass? Can we put one piece here and another piece there so that we can live one life while we live another? Can one part of me dream while the other part wakes?

I think so. Everyone I've spoken to seem to think so. Isn't forging a sort of mental fragmentation? Eames once told me that he "contains multitudes," like Whitman. I think we all do. I think we all can.

It's never been done before but that doesn't mean it's impossible.

You were the one who told me that nothing was ever impossible, especially in dreams.

###

It's three in the morning as I write this. I don't want to go back to sleep. My dreams feel so real now. I can't bear them. Each time I close my eyes I'm back in the warehouse, kneeling on the cold concrete floor.

They threatened to cut me open. Lewis and his men. They tied me down and ran a knife over my skin. Cut cut cut. Each time, they said they'd cut deeper until you came for me. They didn't though – they just wanted me to be afraid so that when you finally came, I'd be hysterical.

And I was, wasn't I, Arthur? I was scared out of my mind.

I don't think I ever really came back to myself, now that I think about it.

They tied my brother to a chair and beat him with a brick. I heard it every time they hit him. I heard his screams from the next room and I prayed to every deity I knew that he'd keep screaming so I'd know he was alive.

What does that say about me, Arthur? That I wanted Matty to suffer because otherwise, he'd be dead.

Every time I fall asleep, I'm back there again and they are once again holding the gun to my head and to Matty's head and asking, "which one?" I can hear my brother yelling at you, begging you not for his life but for mine. He had a child and a wife. He could barely speak. And still, he begged on my behalf.

Eames looked at him and then at me and I knew he'd already made up his mind but you should have known better. I trusted you to know better. But then again you were always such a coward when it came to the important things.

I'm going to give you a chance to do better though. Most people will never get the opportunity I'm giving you.

This time Eames can't make the decision for you.

What will you sacrifice to balance our scales?

What do you dream of?

###

"I'm making tea – do you want coffee instead?"

Ana shuffled into the kitchen in her slippers and shivered slightly at the cool air. She crossed her arms over her chest and watched from the doorway as Eames moved energetically from one end of the room to the other. His kitchen was neat and expansive, with high windows and plenty of light. It was well-used but clean, and as he opened and closed drawers and cabinet doors, Ana could see that Eames was a man who took cooking seriously. She'd spotted truffle salt and oil, small containers of saffron, and at least five different kinds of honey.

A small electric kettle hummed faintly near the stove as he pulled out a carton of eggs, two tomatoes, a package of sausages and a ration of bacon from the refrigerator. He placed them beside a loaf of bread and turned to face Ana.

"Well?" he said expectantly. "Coffee or tea? But perhaps you'd prefer juice?"

"I'll have whatever you're having," Ana said, feeling a little bewildered. She stared at his face for a moment before looking away to study the small framed paintings on the walls. "Tea? Tea is fine."

Eames smiled crookedly at her and motioned for her to sit down on one of the high-backed stools near the island counter. "Tea is more than fine, Ana. Tea is excellent."

She smiled back but the expression felt weak. Thoughts whirled around in her mind like a maelstrom.

Ana had woken up nearly an hour before but she'd stayed in bed, flipping through the book from her bag. She was troubled by what she read and all the marginalia she'd come across written in her own, spiky, slanted writing. She realized that she hadn't just been unhappy before – she had been obsessed with the idea of memory and time and how interchangeable they were. Story after story of people who had been displaced by time. Past, present and future, separated and then combined and then taken out of order.

The earlier version of herself, whoever she was, had been fixated and it worried Ana to see proof of her instability.

No wonder Peter was worried.

She finally rose when she heard the sounds of movement farther in the house, knowing that Eames was up and about. He had a certain gait, a cadence to his footsteps that Ana recognized. She'd gotten up and taken a shower in the bathroom across the hall, drying up as quickly as she could. It had been fully stocked with clean towels and toiletries and Ana had recognized the scent of her own shampoo from the green and white bottles. The aversion to her reflection still lingered though and she could only look at herself in the mirror for short bits of time. Ana wondered at her revulsion, unsure from where it came from.

After getting dressed, she discovered more clothes in the wardrobe. Sweaters and skirts and dozens of dresses, all of them soft and well-made; it was odd for Eames to keep such things in a guest room. While she couldn't know for sure unless she asked, Ana could tell that the room hadn't been occupied before her. There was dust in the corners, on surfaces… Except for the wardrobe.

Maybe they belong to an old lover?

But why would he keep them if she wasn't coming back?

It was yet another mystery she wanted to examine but in the end, hunger had won out over curiosity.

At least I have an appetite, she thought, as she watched Eames crack eggs over a frying pan on the gas stove. Her stomach rumbled loudly and she placed her freshly bandaged hand over it, feeling her cheeks grow hot.

"A proper fry up will take care of that," Eames said, glancing over his shoulder at her. "We'll hit all the major food groups. Butter, bread and meat."

"Do you need any help?" she asked. "You cooked dinner last night and I can help. I'd like to help."

Eames smiled slightly, shaking his head. "Unfortunately, your considerable talents do not extend to the kitchen," he said lightly. "Just keep me company and we'll call it even."

Ana stared at him but he seemed not to notice.

"What time did you go to bed?" he asked, taking plates from an overhead cabinet. "I heard you shuffling around in the library far past midnight. Find anything to your fancy?"

Something at the edge of her mind clamored for her attention at the mention of his library but Ana put it aside for the moment. It was important, a piece of the puzzle, but not urgent.

"A few things," she said slowly. "You have the classics but you're not really a big fan of them, are you?"

Eames looked down at the stove, seemingly amused. "Not really," he said. "But what library isn't complete without Dickens and Austen?"

"But that's not to say you don't love them," she said. "Some of your books are first editions and they're very well taken care of. I didn't touch those."

Eames gave her a fond look before turning his attention back to breakfast. "You can, you know. This isn't a museum. Books were made to be read."

Ana said nothing. For a moment she studied him as he moved about. He wore a snug blue sweater and dark trousers that looked soft and worn; it was all rather toned down for him. His cheeks were clean shaven and his hair was loose and dry making him seem young and fresh. She supposed it was another disguise; he looked like a different man.

He looked at ease.

He feels at home here.

Something about the thought made her uneasy.

She was so deep in her thoughts that she was startled at the sound Eames made when he placed a mug in front of her.

"It's far too early to be so jumpy," Eames said, raising an eyebrow. Behind him, Ana could smell the scent of cooking bacon. "That's Earl Grey but maybe I should brew chamomile?"

"It's fine," Ana said, reaching out for the mug. Before she could pick it up, he grabbed her wrist and shook his head. His touch was hot from cooking and his skin was rough.

"Use the handle," he said. "You'll scald yourself."

Ana nodded and looked down at his hand. His fingers were thick but long and they nearly encircled her wrist.

"You paint," she said, looking back up at his face with wonder. "I knew some of the paintings around the house were fresh. Eames, you're very good."

Eames ran his thumb over the delicate veins on the underside of her wrist and huffed out a shy but pleased laugh. In the pale morning light, his eyes were a clear light blue.

"In my spare time," he said. "It helps exorcise the demons when my head gets crowded."

"Do you have a studio here?" she asked. "You were painting last night. With oil paints."

Eames' smile grew wider. "Yes to all."

With her other hand, Ana pulled his hand from her wrist and laid it flat on the counter, back side up. "You washed up this morning, even shaved, but there's still paint on your fingers. You smell like turpentine, just a hint of it, but it's there. I stayed up fairly late last night because I slept during the day but I didn't hear anyone leave or enter the house. You have an alarm system. I would have heard it deactivate if you'd left."

She looked at him and then reached up, running her fingertips over his cheek. The skin there was also hot but smooth and soft.

"And there's a little bit of… Grey?" she said. "Right here on your face."

Eames blinked, his smile growing softer at the edges. He leaned forward and she could see that his lips were slightly chapped. "People in our business used to fight to work with you. Do you know why?"

Ana shook her head, confused at the odd change of topic. "You said I was one of the best so…"

"That's not the only reason," Eames said. "There's an intensity about you that you can't help. For all your pretty, sweet smiles, you have an edge. Your mind is so quick and your light burns so bright, it can sear. But they were all moths drawn to a flame. Do you understand?"

"No, I don't," Ana said honestly.

"You could rip someone apart and they'd come back for more," Eames said. "Because they knew, that for one brief moment in time, all that focus, all your concentration was directed on them and only them. There was no lie they could tell, no dream they could build to conceal themselves. You'd see right through to the very heart of someone."

He moved closer, resting on the counter and she could feel the heat from his body. "Do you know what that's like for people like us? For people like me?"

Eames was looking at her intently and the feeling of unease grew to a near panic. The weight of his expectation was heavy, pressing on her from all sides. She licked her lips nervously and saw that his gaze was drawn down to her mouth.

No, Eames.

"Eames, the pan." She leaned back and gestured behind him. "Your food will burn."

Something shifted in his face and he drew back sharply. His eyes seemed to flash with–

Disappointment.

–surprise and he hurried back to the stove without another word. Ana let out a soft breath and closed her eyes briefly in relief. She knew what he wanted from her but something just didn't seem to add up. More than ever, the feeling of something missing rang deep.

She reached out for her tea and carefully took a sip. Eames continued making breakfast and he had started to talk about the process of painting, of preparing the canvas and mixing the colors. The earlier mood had dissipated but Ana knew she had to be careful around Eames now. It should have been obvious, he'd wanted from the beginning to tell her about her life but now Ana began to wonder what exactly he had to gain from doing so.

Or maybe I should ask what he stands to gain back?

"...and then I find myself losing hours so I have to set an alarm," Eames' voice pulled her back to the world and Ana played with her mug. "Otherwise, I'd spend the entire day in the studio."

He scraped something onto a plate and then placed thick slices of bread back into the pan. "If you'd like, I can show you around."

Ana thought for a moment and then nodded. She really was curious about Eames' paintings. On the surface they were explosions of bright colors but Ana could detect something darker, deeper behind his work.

"Are you a forger in real life?" she asked suddenly. Eames grinned at her and winked, moving around the bread with a spatula.

"I have many talents, both in dreams and out of them," he said cheerfully. "But I dabbled in the arts long before now. I even fancied being an artist when I was younger, though I also wanted to be a circus performer, an astronaut and a giraffe, of all things."

Despite herself, she smiled.

"You have the talent for it. I don't think I know much about painting but what I've seen is incredible," she said. The odd shy expression crossed his face again and Ana had no doubt it was genuine. He covered it up swiftly with a wide grin.

"Careful there, my ego can only take so much inflation," he said with mock seriousness. He turned off the stove and began to arrange the food: three plates piled high with sliced tomatoes, fried bread, eggs, bacon and sausages. Taking the plate with the most food and a shiny silver fork, he headed back towards her and set it all down with a flourish.

"Now eat up. I'll not have you wasting away more than you already have. Swear down, you'll give me a complex if you don't fatten up some."

Ana stared down at her plate and then looked back up at Eames. She was hungry but… "This is a meal for three people, Eames."

Eames chuckled and crossed his arms over his chest. "Oh, don't be shy now. You could put that away with ease, pet. I've seen it happen before. In fact, you used to put away pounds of biscuits and sweets like the world was running out–"

Ana heard a creak and then a step, step, step and she sat up eagerly, looking towards the door. Sure enough, Arthur came into view but her greeting died abruptly at the sight of his face.

What happened to you?

Arthur looked as if he hadn't slept at all and his eyes were puffy and raw. His short hair was wet and slightly curled at the ends but there was a dusting of stubble on his face. She could smell the strong scent of his soap, much different than the one Eames had put in the bathroom.

But that wasn't what made her words dry and shrivel in her throat. It was the way he looked at her. With such sadness that she couldn't help but move towards him. Dimly, she heard Eames make a noise of disapproval behind her.

"Arthur," Ana said, stopping before him. "What is it? What's wrong?"

A faint smile flitted across his lips but his expression shuttered and became guarded, as if he were suddenly aware of how he looked. "I spent the night reading," he said. "I should have slept more but…"

Arthur trailed off and pressed his fingers to his closed eyes. When he opened them again, she could see they were slightly red. "I just need some caffeine and I'll be fine."

"Eames made breakfast," Ana said, tugging at Arthur's sleeve. He wore a dark button up and pale slacks and it was clear he'd made an effort to make himself presentable but she could feel the slight tremble in his hands as she pushed him into a chair. "You should have some. It'll help."

"I'll be fine. You don't have to–"

Ana pushed the food Eames had given her towards Arthur and she turned to Eames, already moving towards the kettle. "Can I make coffee? Do you have a coffeemaker here somewhere?"

She felt Eames' hands curl around her upper arms and he gently but firmly pulled her back towards the counter.

"Never mind that, Ana," Eames said in a low voice. "Sit down and eat your food."

He was teasing her but there was no trace of humor in his face as he looked at her and then at Arthur. Even when he smiled next, there was a meanness in the hard glitter of his eyes. He seemed oddly bigger now, looming and dangerous, and it made her head hurt, how different he could seem from moment to moment.

Are you a forger in real life?

"I'll make the coffee for our dear, tired Arthur," Eames said, turning his back on them then.

He opened a cupboard but what she saw inside, in the very brief glimpse before he closed it again and went about making Arthur's coffee, made her stomach drop.

It should have been funny, really but Ana had never felt less like laughing.

###

After breakfast, Ana followed Arthur into the other guestroom. She'd offered to help Eames with the dishes but he waved her away and told her that he'd come find her in a bit.

There were more things for her to explore in the house and she wanted to go back to Eames' library, but Arthur…

Was my friend before.

Is my friend now, maybe.

She didn't like the thought of him being alone, especially since he only picked at his food and drank several cups of coffee. Eames had been chatty enough, filling the silence with talk on the daily news. Ana was interested to find she could follow what Eames was saying, though not by much. Still, she wasn't completely ignorant about current events.

There were large holes in her knowledge though and Eames had promised to pick up a few papers later that day.

For now, she wanted to keep an eye on Arthur.

"Really, I'm used to not getting enough sleep. Real sleep, I mean," Arthur said as he crossed the room to the small table in the corner. His room was set up similar to hers, except his had a desk and a leather chair.

"That sounds unhealthy and dangerous," Ana said, frowning. She pushed the door close behind her and sat down on the edge of his bed. "Sleep deprivation can lead to confusion, memory lapses–"

"Depression and hallucinations," Arthur finished for her. He sat down at the desk and turned towards her. "And a host of other problems, yes, I know.

"I told you that, the first time we went into a dream together. I wanted you to know what you were getting yourself into. Somnacin opens your mind, allows some parts of your brain to stay active in dreams when they would otherwise not be. It also disrupts sleep patterns in some people. It's not addictive but it can be habit forming. Some people end up taking Somnacin instead of dreaming naturally. It's sleep deprivation but not dream deprivation, which is why amateurs stop sleeping altogether."

Ana thought about this for a moment. "Because people who don't know any better think that if they dream, they're sleeping. But they never reach delta sleep on their own. Is that why?"

Arthur looked at her curiously before responding. "You know, it's interesting what you can remember and what you can't. You've retained the essentials of your personality, your skills, the things you've learned but none of your history. How do you think that happened?"

"I don't know," Ana said. She studied his face carefully and then tilted her head to the side. "But you do, don't you? You've learned something new. Is that what kept you up all night?"

Arthur nodded slowly.

"Will you tell me?" Ana asked.

"I will," Arthur said. "I just… Once you know everything, you've heard everything I've done, you won't be able to look at me the same way. And I won't be able to blame you."

He's already given up.

He meant it, Ana could see that much. Arthur didn't seem like the kind of man who would go down without a fight and yet he acted as if her hatred of him was inevitable.

It was frightening.

"When I woke up three days ago in that hotel room, the first person I saw was you," Ana said. She looked down at the stitches in her palms. "I can't explain it but the moment I saw your face, I knew I could trust you. Some part of me knew you were safe. Whatever happened to change that, the part of me that trusted you was strong enough to overpower it."

She turned to him again. "That has to mean something, doesn't it?"

Arthur let out a shaky breath and bent forward with his elbows on his knees, his hands in his hair.

"It does," he said, in a quiet voice. "It means you wanted this to hurt."

"Because of my brother," Ana said. Arthur raised his head. "I wanted to hurt you and Eames because of my brother."

"Yes," Arthur said. "But you were done with the both of us before that. Before Matt died, you were already back to living your life without dreamshare. Without me or Eames."

"And was I happy?" Ana asked.

Arthur shrugged. "I don't know. You walked away from it, Ana. I wanted to respect your choice so I left you alone. I won't lie. I did check up on you every now and then but only to make sure you were safe. I didn't look any deeper than that, I swear. And then I took a job that… I took a job that pulled you back in the worst possible way."

Ana watched him carefully before making up her mind.

"Alright, Arthur. It's time you told me everything," she said.

"I want to know everything."

###

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