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He wakes up suddenly, jolting out of sleep. His heart is pounding, and the top of his head is throbbing. He looks around, hating his uncertainty. He’s in the dingy motel room he remembers checking into after dragging himself to a clinic to get treated. He slowly relaxes, groaning as all the pain from the rest of his tender head and stiff body registers. He still can’t remember his name or anything about himself. He remembers facts and books he’s read and how to do things, but nothing he would call personal. He didn’t mention it to the doctor – apparently he’s paranoid.
Something buzzes and he realizes it isn’t the first time it has buzzed, that was what woke him. It’s coming from the chair where he’d placed his coat, vest, shirt and trousers. He groans, but hauls himself up and off the bed, lurching over to the chair. He fumbles a phone out of his coat pocket that he hadn’t been aware of and then gets himself back over to the bed. He’s nauseated with pain and so he just stays still, lying there, clutching the phone to his chest. After a few moments, the phone buzzes again. It takes a little bit to focus on the screen. There are several messages from someone named Eames to Arthur. He guesses he’s Arthur. He considers the name. It doesn’t spark anything, but it doesn’t feel wrong, so he goes with it. He means to do something, but he can’t really focus and soon he’s sliding into sleep again.
He wakes up again a few hours later. He feels a little better. And he has a name. He repeats it over and over again in his head until he thinks of himself as Arthur. Arthur looks at the texts again and hesitates. He puts in the number they were sent from and presses the button to connect. The line rings twice and a masculine voice with a British accent says, “Arthur, my dove, I was wondering why I hadn’t received a curt text telling me to stop. Did you call me up to ream me out in person? I do love a good reaming.”
“I… What?” Arthur asks, confused and already regretting the call.
“Arthur? Are you okay?” the voice asks, sounding concerned.
“No. No, I don’t think so,” Arthur says slowly, haltingly.
The questions come rapid-fire after that. “Did they find you? Are you hurt? Are you safe? Where are you? Are you still in Arequipa?”
“I’m, uh, yes, still in Arequipa.” That much Arthur does know.
“Where? I’m in La Paz, just give me a few hours and I’ll be there.”
Arthur is suddenly gripped with doubt. “No, no, it’s fine. I’m, I’ll be okay, never mind. Sorry.” He disconnects. The phone rings after a few seconds, startling him. He looks down at the display, not surprised the same number he called is calling him back. After another minute there’s a text telling him to answer the phone and then the phone rings again. Arthur grimaces and then turns the phone off. He feels a little bad because the man had seemed eager to help. He feels exhausted again and because he can’t think of anything better to do, he goes back to sleep.
He wakes up. His head aches horribly. He is Arthur, but he still doesn’t remember who Arthur is. He drags himself up out of bed and almost falls over. Arthur finds the bag of supplies he bought and gets out a bottle of water and painkillers. He swallows a couple of painkillers and sips at the water. His stomach heaves, but everything stays down. He looks dully around the room as he slowly finishes the water. He should do something about his bloody shirt, but he doesn’t really feel up to it. His gaze lands on the bathroom door. A shower would be good.
He goes into the bathroom and pulls his undershirt off carefully, then sheds his boxer-briefs. He turns the water on and steps gingerly under it, keeping the injured side of his head away. He washes slowly, mindful of the bruises. He cleans some of the blood from his hair, but doesn’t let the water come in contact with the stitches. They are on the left side of his head less than an inch above his ear, extending almost an inch behind and half an inch in front. He’d studied it at the clinic as he’d cleaned himself up so as not to be conspicuous on the streets. The nurse had shaved around it, but not too much, and with a little judicious styling, the longer hair from the top of his head covered it.
He thinks he hears something, but the water is loud in his ears. After a minute, he’s sure he hears something and turns the water off. He quietly wraps a towel around his waist and listens at the bathroom door, but hears nothing. He opens the bathroom door stealthily anyway and is glad he did when he sees a man standing in profile in his hotel room, staring at something. The man is blond and solidly built and wearing a horrible shirt with orange flowers on it. Arthur wonders if the man is color blind, then dismisses that as irrelevant. He goes to close the door, but it squeaks and the man turns and looks straight at him. The man looks surprised, but mostly he looks overwhelmingly relieved.
“Arthur! I cannot believe you! I thought you were dying! And whose blood is that?!” the man yells and gestures at the clothes on the chair.
That voice is the voice on the phone. This must be Eames. Arthur blinks, wondering if he should be feeling more concerned that Eames was able to find him so quickly, but really this detachment is kind of buffering and Eames seems to care about him. “Uh, not dying. And it’s mine. Could you stop yelling?” Arthur’s hand hovers next to the left side of his head but doesn’t make contact as anything touching it makes it pulse with pain. Well, actually, it’s never really stopped hurting, but pressure makes it worse.
Then the man (Eames, Eames, Eames, Arthur thinks, trying to imprint it into his mind and maybe trying to bring up any attached memories) is right up next to him, hands reaching for Arthur’s head. Arthur flinches almost automatically, but Eames is very gentle, lifting Arthur’s hair, not touching his wound, just giving it a thorough visual inspection. “Arthur,” he says quietly, a little mournfully.
“Hmm?”
“What happened?” Eames asks, finally taking his hands away and moving around to face Arthur, but not moving out of Arthur’s personal space.
“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
“Well, it’s no wonder. Arthur, I-“ Eames stops, looking troubled. “I don’t suppose you’d let me help, would you? I mean, I know you’re all self-sufficiency and stubbornness, but would you let yourself rely on me, just a bit?”
“I don’t-“
“Look, Arthur, just let me do this. I won’t tease you or make any inappropriate remarks for a, a month. No, wait, I can’t promise that. I will definitely tone it down. Some. A bit.”
“Fine.”
“But, Arthur, you- Wait. Fine? Really? You’re not having me on, are you? Not going to slip out the second you get dressed and my back is turned?”
Arthur looks at Eames, puzzled. “No.”
“Oh. Why?”
“Seems prudent.”
“Hmm. You know, you do have a very wide streak of pragmatism, however, that was much too easy. Outside the job, you don’t much like depending on others. Well, honestly, on the job, you don’t much like it either. So, what is going on?” Eames studies him closely, then blinks, and stares. “You said don’t remember. How much do you not remember? The job? More?” Eames peers at him.
Arthur considers him for a moment and then sighs. “I don’t remember you.”
Eames looks completely taken aback by that, and maybe a little hurt. “Ah.” He actually backs up a few steps.
Arthur smirks a little sardonically. “If it makes you feel any better, I don’t remember me, either.”
“What, you what? No, that doesn’t make me feel better. At all. You don’t remember anything? How did you know your name? How did you know to call me?”
“I don’t have any personal memories. Things I’ve learned still seem to be there. And, texts, from you, with my name, with your name from your number.”
“Oh. How are you so calm? I would not be at all calm. Also, I would have thought this situation would make you more paranoid, not less. Why are you trusting me with this?”
“You’re in love with me. Him, Arthur, me, whatever.”
Eames looks at him stunned and speechless. After a few moments, he stutters out, “I’m- Why would- Arthur, look, you’re obviously confused. I mean, blows to the head will do that, but no.”
Arthur studies him carefully for a moment. “You’re a very good liar.”
Eames sort of preens, sort of frowns at that. “Yes, I am a good liar, but I’m not lying about this.”
“Okay.”
“No, really, Arthur.”
Arthur sighs because Eames doesn’t seem like he’ll be letting this go any time soon. That’s probably Arthur’s fault, he should have just said that it was obvious that Eames cared what happened to him. “Fine. You’re right, it’s probably just my injury obfuscating things,” he says as sincerely as he can manage.
Eames scowls. “You are not a good liar.”
Arthur just shrugs. He watches as Eames’ eyes slide quickly up and down his towel-clad body almost guiltily and doesn’t understand why Eames doesn’t just admit it. Eames is very obviously attracted and, by his actions, he very obviously cares. Arthur is not sure why acknowledging being in love would make him any more vulnerable than he’s already made himself. Arthur’s mind has been idly dissecting ways to use this to his advantage. He wonders why manipulation is his first impulse, but as he feels no real inclination to follow through, he supposes it might just be the way his mind works, maybe how it has been trained to work.
Arthur feels a little dizzy and goes to sit on the bed. He closes his eyes until the dizziness passes and when he opens them, he finds Eames eyeing him worriedly.
“I think having you thoroughly examined by a doctor might be the best thing,” Eames says.
Arthur considers. It might not be a good idea, but his… instincts, he supposes, are telling him they should leave the city sooner rather than later. “Not here, though.”
Eames looks nonplussed. “No, you’re right. We should find somewhere safer first. I’ll go out and find you something very forgettable and not blood-soaked to wear. You just, uh, rest.”
Arthur gives a careful nod, his head is starting to pound again.
Eames casts another worried look his way and then he leaves.
~~~
Eames keeps looking at him. Arthur is not really sure where they are, having dozed off not long into their trip out of town by car, and he only fuzzily recalls getting on the train. After a few more minutes of Eames stealing glances, Arthur asks, “What?”
“Hmm?” Eames asks.
“You keep looking at me.”
Eames hesitates. “I don’t suppose you have any idea how old you are.”
Arthur frowns at him. “No. Don’t you?”
“Well, I made an assumption, but never confirmed it with you. And dear Arthur, in the outfit I have acquired for you, you look troublingly young.”
Arthur looks down at his rather ubiquitous jeans, t-shirt, and sneakers and the backpack sitting next to him. Arthur’s not sure what Eames is seeing, with the ball cap Arthur has on, he thinks he looks like many of the other tourists they’ve seen. He looks back up at Eames with an inquiring look.
“You look like a university student. I had made the assumption that you were in your early twenties with a baby face when we met some eight years ago. Now I wonder if you were much younger than I thought back then.”
“Don’t worry, Eames, I’m sure you didn’t unintentionally contribute to the delinquency of a minor.”
“That’s not why I- Never mind.”
Arthur tilts his head, studying Eames. “You’re worried for me, something I did back then. Are we contract killers?”
Eames eyes go round and he sputters out, “What?! Arthur, no! Why would you think that?”
“I didn’t really, I just wanted to see your reaction. You were being awfully cagey about what we were doing here. All signs point to something illegal. The contract killer thing was a remote possibility.”
“Ah, so what are your conclusions, then?” Eames asks sourly.
“Something with some violence possible, if not necessarily expected, something someone might come after us for and not just the authorities. I’m thinking theft, but since there’s no concern about moving money or anything else, probably information. Close?”
“Very. You know Arthur, I always thought that before you were a fairly straight-laced sort that got dragged into this by Cobb. I may have to rethink that if contract killer is something that seems viable to your amnesiac self.”
“Cobb?”
“Oh, yes, you wouldn’t remember. Insane man. If we somehow happen to run into him, be polite, but get away as soon as possible.”
“We worked with him?”
“Yes, for quite a while before we realized.”
“Is he dangerous?”
“In that he can be pretty convincing about doing very stupid things.”
“Okay.”
Eames looks at him keenly and asks, “Arthur, what do you think of dreamsharing?”
“Where you go into someone else’s dream, using a sleeping compound? Oh, is that what we do?”
Eames nods. “You don’t seem very impressed.”
“It seems like an interesting concept, but I don’t remember doing it at all. I think about what it would be like to go into a dream and it’s just a big blank.”
“Maybe we could do it. See if we could spark something in you. Or, hell, maybe we could actually find some of your memories.”
Arthur gives Eames a skeptical look. “Has that ever worked before?”
“I don’t really know, never was one for the medical side of it.”
Arthur thinks about it because it seems like something he might have looked into, if only for the sake of comprehensiveness. “Huh.”
“What?”
“I think I must have read about it, I’m getting lots of statistics.”
“So, does it work?”
“Sometimes, for some people, but there isn’t a discernable pattern to it.”
“It could work, then?”
“It could also make it worse.”
“Then that’s right out.”
“No, it’s something to consider.”
“If it can make it worse, we’re not doing it.”
“I’m the one that knows the odds and it’s my head, shouldn’t I be the one to make that determination?” Arthur asks mildly.
“You may have a point,” Eames says grudgingly.
Arthur leans forward, curious about something. “How much do you know about me?”
“Sorry?”
“You haven’t been using personal facts to try to trigger my memory. Maybe you don’t know many… or maybe you’re not sure what’s true?”
Eames laughs a little. “Both actually. You keep things very close to your chest and some of the things I’ve learned have come from unreliable sources.”
“Unreliable sources?”
“The dreamshare business has quite the affinity for gossip and rumor, darling.”
Arthur eyes him, wondering if he knows how caressing his voice sounds. “Okay.”
“No, Arthur, you don’t understand. You, when you’re you, just sort of ignore it and never confirm or deny anything and it drives everyone mad and then they just talk about you even more. There is so much gossip about you.”
Arthur frowns.
“That is exactly the face you make whenever anybody brings any of it up to you.”
“Maybe there’s nothing to tell, maybe I had a very average life until I got into dreamsharing,” Arthur says.
“Well now, as much as I have insinuated that you are pedantic and have no imagination, I don’t actually believe that. While you have a rather alarming amount of patience and you are precise and exacting, you also react quickly and can be vicious in a fight. You’re rather good at tricking people into things, even if you don’t really acknowledge it. You don’t talk about your life before at all. That doesn’t speak to an average life to me.”
Arthur takes that in. “It doesn’t seem to, does it?”
Eames shakes his head.
~~~
They’re in a dream of Arthur’s construction. They’re outside near a road with fenced-off fields on either side and there’s music in the distance. Eames looks around and raises an eyebrow at Arthur. Arthur looks around and shakes his head at Eames. Nothing seems familiar, he doesn’t know why he chose this. He heads off toward the music. As they walk, they can see a tent, a big tent, a big top.
“The circus!” Eames exclaims.
“Huh.”
“Arthur, please tell me you ran away to join the circus, and you were a clown. Please, please, please,” Eames says excitedly.
Arthur looks at the tent and says slowly, “No, I did some acrobatics, but mostly I had knives thrown at me.”
Eames looks at him in astonishment. “Really?”
Arthur quirks a half-smile at Eames and says, “No. Or, at least, I don’t think so.”
“You, you, you’re an awful, awful tease.”
The walk until they’re near the ticket stand. Arthur studies the posters proclaiming the acts and the schedule.
A dark-haired little boy comes over and stands in front of Arthur. “Can I help you?” Arthur asks.
“My parents are lost,” the boy says and sighs exasperatedly.
“Ah, well, sometimes that happens,” Arthur says. He looks around. “We’ll go over and see if we can’t find someone to get on the announcement system.”
Before they can go, though, a somewhat frantic dark-haired couple descends on them calling for Finn. The boy, Finn apparently, lets them fuss over him dutifully. They thank Eames and Arthur and then head off.
Eames frowns after them. “That boy was a bit serious, wasn’t he?”
“Remind you of anybody?” Arthur asks a little dryly.
Eames looks at him wide-eyed. “That was you?”
“I think so.”
“Your name is Finn?”
Arthur puts a hand to his head. “It’s, it’s… my middle name.”
Eames perks up. “Is Arthur your real name?”
“I don’t think I’m going to answer that.”
“Why not? Wait, you remember?”
“Yes.” Arthur says and then rubs at his aching head.
“Arthur?”
There’s a sudden sharp, stabbing pain in his head and Arthur feels sick, dizzy and nauseated. He stumbles.
“Arthur!”
Eames grabs him as he starts to fall and then everything goes black.
~~~
Arthur wakes up in a hotel room bed with a piercing headache.
Eames looms over him. “Arthur, you’re awake! Don’t ever bloody do that again.”
Arthur sits up. “What happened?”
“You passed out! I never should have let you do that. You passed out and if you had stayed out much longer, I was going to take you to hospital.”
“Why? Oh. Oh.” Damn, the job and his head and Eames and that dream. Arthur is both a little impressed by and a little pissed off at his amnesiac self. “Sorry, Eames, didn’t mean to inconvenience you.”
“Inconven- Arthur? Do you remember? Are you back to yourself then?”
Arthur takes stock and after a moment says, “Yes.”
There’s a pause. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say.”
“What did you want me to say?”
Eames huffs. “Nothing,” he says, annoyed.
Arthur looks at him. “Look, Eames, I appreciate your help. I realize you went to some trouble, and I wasn’t my usual professional self, and you probably said things to me that you wouldn’t have otherwise.” Arthur pauses, thinking about all Eames had done and said. “As compensation, I will give you three true pieces of information about me.”
Eames looks slightly affronted, at first, then he looks calculating. “It wasn’t easy,” he says leadingly.
Arthur sigh. “Fine. Five and I will veto anything I don’t want to tell you.”
“Deal. First name.”
Arthur shakes his head, he should have expected that. “Aether.”
Eames looks completely shocked. “I thought you would veto that.” Eames frowns then and looks at him questioningly, “Did you say ‘Ether’?”
“Aether. Greek primordial god. Light or rarefied air. My dad was into Greek mythology.”
“Huh. I am not surprised you go by Arthur. Aether Finn.”
“My mom’s favorite author was Mark Twain. It could have easily been Erebus Huckleberry.”
Eames chuckles at that. He’s still smiling when he says, “Favorite color.”
Arthur is taken aback. That isn’t something he would have thought Eames would want to know, especially with so much information of more value on offer. “Gray.” He smiles and offers elaboration, “Gun-metal gray.”
Eames smirks at that. “How did you get into dreamsharing?”
“Cobb recruited me from ninja training in the lost city of Atlantis,” Arthur deadpans.
“You’ve heard those rumors about you, then?”
“May have started a few.”
Eames looks thrilled. “Arthur, that’s delightful.”
“I was part of a military experiment when they were developing it.” Arthur hesitates, then says, “Mal was part of the team conducting the experiment and she recruited me for it.”
Eames blinks. “I hadn’t realized you’d known her for so long.”
Arthur nods.
“When you were young, what did you wish to be?”
Arthur gives Eames a dubious look. He’s not sure why Eames wants to know that, but he doesn’t see the harm in telling. “Older.”
“Arthur,” Eames chides.
“No, really, I had no particular career aspirations, I just wanted to be able to do everything I’d been told I could do when I was older.”
“So, even then you were very… deliberate.”
Arthur shrugs. “One more.”
Eames looks at him pensively, then takes a deep breath and asks, “Now that you’ve remembered, do you still believe that I’m in love with you?”
Arthur cringes internally, he cannot believe amnesiac him had just flat out said that to Eames. “What does it matter what I believe? You said you weren’t.”
“It matters.”
“Veto.”
“Arthur. Please.”
“Eames, how many people would you drop everything for and come take care of, for days?”
Eames stares at him. He opens his mouth to say something than and closes it again, twice. Finally, he says, “Just you.” Eames rubs a hand over his face. “I’m in love with you.”
“Yes, I do believe you are.”
“Arthur, this is awful. I don’t want to pine for you.”
Arthur frowns. “Then don’t.”
Eames nods. “Yes, I suppose I can find a way to get over you.”
“Or we could try dating.”
“Uh, sorry, what? You do not like me. Why would you date me?”
“Dom doesn’t know my actual first name.”
Eames gives him a puzzled look. “That, what? Cobb doesn’t know? But you’re practically family.”
“Well, he is, apparently, insane,” Arthur says pointedly.
“Yes, well, I’m not really wrong about that, am I?”
Arthur makes a non-committal noise and waits for Eames to think it through.
“You trust me more than Cobb?”
“I do.”
“Oh.” Eames looks pleased and a little touched. “Arthur, would you do me the honor of dining with me tonight?”
“Not tonight, dear, I have a headache.” Arthur gives Eames a little smile. “Tomorrow, though?”
Eames smiles a little, too, while looking concerned. “Tomorrow. Shall I get you something to help with the pain?”
“That would be good.” Arthur lies down again.
Eames goes off and comes back with painkillers and a bottle of water. He hands them to Arthur. “Arthur?”
Arthur sits up a bit and takes the pills and a sip of water. “Yes?” He sets the water on the nightstand next to the bed and lies back down.
“This does mean that you like me, yes?”
Arthur looks up at him and says, “If it gets me veto rights for your wardrobe, I will enumerate the things I like about you.”
Eames laughs, looking reassured. “Oh, no. I do like a bit of mystery. And besides, I quite like the expression you make when you think my attire is atrocious.”
Arthur scowls at him.
“Yes, a bit like that one,” Eames says merrily.
Arthur tries to keep the scowl on his face, but it tips up into a smile.
“Get some sleep, Arthur. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Arthur drifts off, feeling strangely content.
End