A/N: I can't spoil what happens in this chapter (but some of you will be happy, I hope) so how about I just ask if anyone's seen Prometheus yet. Logan Marshall-Green really does look like Tom Hardy (if you squint a little).

Chapter 18

"You've developed a knack for disappearing on me."

Ana looked up from where she sat on the kitchen floor. She'd been so wrapped up in her thoughts that she hadn't heard Eames coming. Then again, she thought, he was barefoot and dressed in soft, well-worn clothing.

"It took me a good five minutes to find you in my own home, mind," Eames went on, staring down at her. He looked bemused as he took in the mess around her but she could see the way his lips twitched slightly. "If you were hungry, you could have just said so."

Ana paused, decided she was too tired to feel embarrassed and shrugged. She leaned forward and took a cookie from one of the many packages surrounding her, holding it out for Eames to take.

"I wasn't really hungry," she said. "I was curious."

Eames took the cookie and tilted his head to the side.

"Curious about what?" he asked, before taking a bite of it. She watched him carefully as he chewed but there was nothing that showed anything was wrong with it.

"I wanted to see if some things had changed," she said. She motioned for him to sit down next to her and he made a face.

"Ah, I'm sorry," he said, finishing off the cookie and then holding his hand out to her. "You'll have to come up to me. Cold floors and old knees do not a happy combination make."

Ana smiled slightly despite herself and took his hand. He pulled her up easily and she bent down to pick up the packages she'd opened.

"What did you mean you wanted to see if things had changed?" Eames asked, as she put them all on the counter. There were over a dozen boxes and bags; all different kinds of sugary desserts and snacks that she had found scattered in his cupboards and drawers. Various flavors of cookies and brownies with nuts and marshmallows, bars of candy that looked imported, gummy worms and fruit O's … Some of them were older and some of them were clearly bought the night before.

She had tried them all, taking small bites of every treat and nearly gagging on some of them. She felt slightly ill though she knew it was due in no small part to the amount of sugar she just consumed.

It's all wrong.

Ana stopped and looked at Eames, gesturing to the pile she'd created. "You told me more than once that I like sweet things. I have a sweet tooth, I ate my weight in these things, and on and on. I can't even seem to finish one thing. Whenever I put something sweet in my mouth, it tastes–

Like copper and iron.

Blood. Sweat.

Fear.

–off," she said, shaking her head. "I tried every single thing I could get my hands on and all of it was… It just wasn't any good."

She looked back down at the packages and sighed heavily. "But none of it has gone bad so that means there's something wrong with me."

Eames said nothing for a moment but she could tell he was troubled. He turned towards the windows and to anyone else it might have seemed that he was simply staring at the evening sky. Yet his eyes were thoughtful, and his thumb curled in a little towards his palm, as if he were rubbing his poker chip.

"I don't know what it means," he said finally, turning his gaze back towards her. "But I don't think there's any sense worrying about it at the moment. Now, what brought about this sudden need to break into my stash?"

His tone was playful, teasing, but she could tell he was serious. He started to close the boxes and bags, moving around her though Ana knew he was paying very close attention.

"A hunch," she said. She looked down at her hands and fiddled with the fraying end of a bandage. "I remembered the morning at the café and I thought…"

Eames clicked his tongue at her and she looked up to find him shaking his head. "You've such a lovely face, pet. Every emotion just pops right up. It's why our marks found it easy to trust you. You can be so painfully earnest."

Eames' voice was warm but his expression was disappointed as he looked over his shoulder at her. He was taking ingredients out and placing them next to the stove as he spoke. "So please, don't bother lying to me. You're quite bad at it."

"I'm not lying," Ana said, straightening. It may not have been the full truth but she wasn't outright lying. "I did want to… I mean, there's nothing else for me to do here and I wanted to…"

Eames turned around and leaned on the sink, crossing his arms over his chest. She could feel the weight of his gaze on her, probing and assessing. She stopped and rubbed her eyes, feeling unsure and unsettled.

"Arthur told me how my brother died," she said in a small, quiet voice. "He told me about Lewis and what happened to me… Matthew and me, I mean. So I guess I just wanted a distraction."

The air seemed to grow heavy and thick and Ana forced herself to look back up at him. She felt a chill run through her at the carefully placid, almost blank look on his face.

"He told you everything?"

Ana gestured vaguely. "Just about, I think. Arthur left before he told me what happened to Lewis in the end but I know I was tortured, that my brother was killed in front of me. I know that I thought I was dreaming."

"And you know my role in it," Eames said slowly. "You know what I did."

Ana stared at him. "Did you know Matthew? Did you meet him?"

The question seemed to startle Eames. He turned his back on her and began to fuss about with the items he'd placed on the counter. His muscles bunched and shifted underneath his shirt as he moved.

"I never had the pleasure, no," said Eames, sounding deceptively light. "You always talked about him though – to the point where I felt like I knew him well enough. It was obvious you were very fond of each other."

So you knew what you were doing when you made that choice, Ana thought but she felt no real resentment towards Eames. He'd never met her brother and even though he knew they'd been close, Ana could see why Eames had done what he had.

They had a history together – a relationship. Despite knowing of him, Matthew would have been a stranger to Eames. Faced with that choice, it must have been easy to choose between them.

Up until that point, Matthew was just a name.

It was a cold but logical thought. Eames had made the choice that Arthur, with his knowledge and familiarity with her brother, had trouble making. In that moment, when it seemed that Lewis was going to choose her, Eames did what Arthur couldn't do.

"Eames," she said his name cautiously, as if she were trying to calm him. "What happened was–"

"Arthur had no right to tell you, not without me there." He suddenly sounded furious and Ana tensed at the change in his voice. "I told him we had to tell you what happened ages ago but he wanted to wait. I… I wanted to be the one to explain so you'd understand."

He stopped moving. For a moment, he looked down at the counter before him, with his hands splayed on the surface and his head bowed.

"It couldn't have been easy," she started but closed her mouth when he turned around.

"It was the hardest thing. You have to believe me," he said. His face looked oddly pale, almost ashen. "You were on your knees and you were telling Arthur to choose Matthew over you, telling him your brother had a family and that you–"

Eames drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "You said you had nothing else so Matthew deserved to live. You were begging Arthur for his life but your brother… He looked at me the entire time. He knew that I couldn't let you be the one."

He spoke quickly, almost breathlessly, as if he were afraid she was going to interrupt him.

"So I made the choice and if I had to do it again, I wouldn't change it. I don't know if I can make you understand that. There was no other choice. There was no choice. What I did altered your life but I'm not sorry, I cannot be sorry, that you are alive."

He stared at her with barely contained desperation. Arthur may have been easier to read but she was learning Eames just as well. She knew that nothing about his fear was affected; he was genuinely terrified of her reaction.

But he's not running.

"What happened to me after?" she asked. "Did you or Arthur ever come to see me? Or did you just…"

Leave me behind.

But that didn't seem right at all, especially knowing all that Arthur and Eames had done for her.

They wouldn't have left me afloat. Not when I couldn't tell reality apart from dreams.

"We had to tie up a few loose ends and deal with the rest of Lewis' men," Eames said, swallowing. "It took weeks but afterwards I tried to reach you. I don't know about Arthur but I did try. Your numbers had been disengaged and your personal email addresses were deleted. I tried to come into the states but I was effectively barred. My face was tagged by security officials. I didn't try private flights because it was clear by then you didn't want anything to do with me. Word came through that anyone associated with me, anyone who tried to contact you who had even the slightest connection to me would be arrested. I would imagine Arthur had the same experience if he made any attempts."

Ana had no doubts that Arthur had tried but it was telling that Eames hadn't tried to reach him for his help.

"All I knew was that you were alive. That much I could find out." Eames rubbed his mouth and looked away, slumping back against the counter. "I haven't worked with Arthur since that time. The only reason I took this job was because I knew you were in."

Ana filed that tidbit away. "You thought I was coming back even though I had already walked from dreamshare?"

Eames smiled wanly at her and held out his hands, palms up. "What can I say? Hope defies logic. But you see, very few of us can truly walk away and not look back at least once. After everything, I thought perhaps…"

He trailed off and looked away.

"You thought I wanted to escape reality," Ana finished for him.

Without looking back at her, he nodded.

"And maybe I did that," she said. "This mess we're in now doesn't exactly point to someone who was dealing well with life. I'm hiding inside myself, aren't I? Hiding from the real world."

Who is the real personality? Who am I really now?

Who do I want to be?

She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts before she scared herself even more. Having an existential meltdown wouldn't help matters.

"Eames, I'm alive because of you," Ana said, after some silence. "I understand why I was so angry. Peter told me how much I had changed... How unrecognizable I was. I understand why someone would be driven to seek revenge. But if you hadn't spoken for me, I wouldn't be here."

Eames looked back at her with wide eyes, looking as if he'd been struck dumb. He stood up straight and took a step towards her before hesitating again.

"You're not angry now," he said, staring at her closely. His eyes were bright and intense.

"No, I'm not," she said. "I don't know if I can be, to be honest. But I'll tell you what I told Arthur – whether or not things go well tomorrow, I owe you and Arthur my life. I understand that much."

She looked down again and frowned. "Though if I don't get my memories back, I don't know what I'll do. I don't think I should go home. I won't fit back into my old life and I'll only draw attention to you both. I have some money so I guess I can–"

She heard Eames move and then she felt his hands on her face, tilting her head up slightly. His thumb brushed over her cheek and he leaned down so their foreheads touched. It was an intimate gesture, one that made her mouth feel dry and her throat close up. He smelled like paint and tea and she watched his mouth move as he spoke.

"Don't you worry about that," he said in rough voice. "Regardless of tomorrow's outcome, you won't want for anything, I promise you."

"You've done enough, I think," she said, reaching up to curl her fingers around his wrists. The very nearness of him, his heat and his scent, made her feel light-headed. "I dragged you into this mess, but thank–"

It shouldn't have been a surprise. It was obvious that Eames still felt something for her but Ana froze when she felt his lips press against hers in an almost chaste kiss.

She blinked, not sure what to do or how to react but she could feel the heat from his body seep through his thin shirt and the gentle way he held her face with his hands. He seemed both hard and soft; touching her like she was something precious and fragile but tensed and ready to move away if needed.

And then… And then it just seemed easier to melt against him, to part her lips and close her eyes and sigh into him, allowing him to surround her.

Ana could sense his relief and he pressed her back against the counter with one hand still cupping her face and the other curled around her hip. At first he kissed her softly, barely putting any pressure on her as if he wanted her to get used to the sensation of his mouth against hers, the slight scratch of his stubble against her skin. He nipped at her lower lip and smiled, brushing the tip of his nose against hers playfully.

But all too soon he pushed forward, deepening the kiss, turning it into something almost anxious, possessive.

She slid her hand around his neck and lightly ran her fingers through the short hair there, wanting to soothe him, comfort him somehow; he suddenly seemed afraid, tightening his hold on her and closing the spaces between them. He poured all of his pent-up frustration and longing into her; she imagined she could feel his grief, all the words he'd wanted to say but never got the chance to.

And then she felt him push forward, heard his breath hitch, and she froze, thrown off and more than a little startled.

I can't.

Eames stopped and pulled back far enough so that she could see how red and slick his mouth was and how flushed his cheeks had become. But he looked worried, studying her face with wide, dark eyes.

"Sorry, I…" Ana ducked her head, feeling self-conscious and childish. "I'm sorry. I don't think I'm ready to do any more."

Eames' face relaxed and then he huffed out a little laugh before placing a kiss on the side of her mouth.

"Don't apologize, there's nothing to apologize for," he murmured. She could feel his warm breath against her lips and his grip loosened. She sighed, feeling the panic subside. "It's just been so long, too long. I didn't think…"

He stopped and stayed quiet for a moment but it wasn't an uncomfortable silence. She knew what he wanted to say but didn't: that he didn't think he'd have another chance. He couldn't see her face so she allowed herself to frown, pressing her cheek against his and closing her eyes.

Ana wasn't sure if this was a second chance or if that was what she wanted at all but she didn't want to say the words. The bright, hot hope that had flared up in his eyes and lightened his entire being… She couldn't find it in herself to take that away from Eames.

And an odd little voice inside her thought-

He'd never push me away or run.

Not like Arthur.

"Come on then," Eames said, pulling back. She opened her eyes and blinked, still clutching a small part of his shirt. He squeezed her arms and then tugged her forward, giving her a sweet, crooked grin. Ana couldn't help but smile back. "I heard that stomach of yours. Let's get you all fed up, fill in some of those ribs, hm?"

He patted her stomach and she laughed, pushing him away lightly. She found she had to force herself to let go of his shirt and he seemed delighted at that, taking her hand again and kissing her fingertips as he did earlier that day.

Ana took a seat, listening to Eames' chatter as he moved about the kitchen again.

I could be happy here, with Eames, in his home.

She thought about the clothes in the closet and the books in the library, Eames' paintings and the large, soft-looking bed she'd glimpsed through his open bedroom door.

I could live here and love and be loved and dream and live and…

And then she felt a small tendril of apprehension creep into thoughts–

But what about Arthur?

###

Arthur scrolled down the screen of his monitor, skimming the second draft of Matt Tremont's unpublished comparative mythology book. He'd gotten a copy sent to him through a contact from the publishing firm that had taken him on as a client. As Arthur expected, the content was brilliant; Matt was a good writer and by all accounts was highly respected in his field.

The book was a series of essays about the symbolism in children's stories and Arthur found himself being drawn in, actually interested in Matt's arguments. Of course many of the old tropes – the hero's journey, the magical companion – were touched upon but there was enough innovation, enough new ideas that Arthur could tell would have made his book popular.

He was always so passionate about this stuff, Arthur thought, as he leaned back and closed his tired eyes for a brief break. He must have been so excited.

Arthur opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, feeling a deep, heavy sadness weigh on his chest.

It'll never be finished.

With that thought, Arthur forced himself to sit up despite the ache in his lower back and the sharp pain behind his eyes and continue reading.

He was looking for four specific references.

The citadel.

The sanctuary.

The living obstacle.

The shadowed throne.

Arthur knew to trust his intuition and the fact that Ana was drawn to those things was noteworthy. She wasn't a natural storyteller like Matt had been nor did she put much weight in symbolism. Even in dreams, Ana had preferred what was obvious and logical over the abstract. Based on her writing though, Matt's work had begun to take on more significance and his world view, the belief that specific words and imagery could represent different things, had colored her own perspective.

If she had Eames paint those exact symbols, then they were important to her. At one point, they had made an impression in her consciousness. And if Eames was going to conjure one of the images in their shared dream then it stood reason the complete set – the citadel, the sanctuary, the living obstacle and the shadowed throne would all make their appearances as well, unwanted or otherwise.

Arthur felt as if they were opening up a Pandora's Box of problems; symbols, especially ones that had personal attachments, could act as triggers. Conjure one personal symbol and it would likely turn on related ones. Even well-planned dreams couldn't truly account for how a subject would respond to a trigger.

A bank vault could hold secrets or it could contain nightmares. The forge of a lost love could inspire feelings of longing and desire or loss and hopelessness.

It was Arthur's job to expect the unexpected and plan for it. The meaning behind the four paintings, the four symbols, were integral to knowing how Ana's unconscious mind would react to their presence. Were they symbols of a positive influence or a negative one? Would the labyrinth lead to understanding or destruction?

Eames was creating the citadel but would Ana's mind turn it into a fairytale castle or would it transform into the briar patch?

Arthur chewed on his lip as he read through the draft, noting a particular section with concern.

"The concept of twinship, whether by blood or through spiritual representation, is a complicated one in mythology. They can play several roles: as partners, rivals, opposites, or halves of a whole and they serve to highlight the notions of sameness and difference. In old legends, twins are harbingers of ill fortune since the separation of what should be one whole is a disruption to the usual order of things.

Other myths associate twinship with natural forces, either harmful or beneficial (c.f., Mason, The Sun and Moon, 1987) but as complementary powers. And rivalries, the idea of good versus evil, bring about a sense of stability since one simply cannot exist without the other. Twins hold mirrors up to each other and to the rest of world, forcing the exploration of our own inner dualities. In each of us there is a heaven and hell, a demon and an angel, the antagonist and the hero. Twins are the physical embodiment of this idea.

"It's key to state that in almost every scenario the elimination of one half, removing the influence of one twin, brings about imbalance and ultimately, destruction. Either both remain or both must be removed; without the counterweight of each other, there will be no balance in the world."

It was as if he'd been touched by the tip of an icy blade.

Arthur knew that Ana had read Matt's drafts and there was no doubt his words would have resonated with her, especially after his death.

He tapped his fingers on the table and wondered if the same wouldn't hold true within their dream; he'd been thinking of having to deal with two different personalities. Arthur considered an alternative perspective: looking at the warring consciousnesses as two sides of the same coin. If Ana considered herself as part of a set then everything in her life would have been informed with that very basic mindset. The cleaving of the whole would have been akin to having herself torn in two and that would appear somehow in the dream.

But for every negative force in there, there may be a positive one, Arthur thought. Of course the opposite would be true as well.

For every dream, there would be a nightmare.

And then something else leapt out at him–

"…and in the same vein, the sanctuary is the sacred place, a center for either worship or protection. It may be imbued with the holy, though in that sense it loses the connotation of resting place and becomes a shrine to the past: death (perhaps death as the catalyst) or of memory. Also, in this purpose the sanctuary represents safety but not necessarily comfort.

Take for example the sanctuary in the German tale, the Fox's Cunning Trap. The hero finds the sanctuary of roses (see illustration), but the roses have metaphorical thorns: he may sleep but his sleep is troubled.

I should note here that the sanctuary in mythology is not limited to a place. It can also take the form of a person or a thing, such as an animal companion or a treasured object.

It is within a sanctuary – again, not simply a place in this context, that faith can be replenished and respite can be taken."

In the silent stillness of the room, Arthur read on.

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