The Consequences of Trust (Part 5)
Warnings: Suicide Themes
Author's notes: If you for some reason haven't been informed, there is a companion WIP to this piece from Eames point of view.
Beta(s):
space_raider182
Disclaimer: This story/artwork is based on characters and situations created and owned by the Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. They are not mine, I just like to play with them.
____________
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4
Arthur flees to Paris. It’s a gamble, but he thinks he needs to be somewhere that feels like home. He hasn’t been at ease here since Mal died. It brings back too many memories of life just after leaving the Military. Of life with Mal and Dom when they were carefree. When they were a trio exploring dreams, pushing the limits together. Before Dom moved back to The States with Mal to raise a new family.
He wonders how Cobb could stand it here during the Fischer job, but he thinks it’s because the payoff was so great. The payoff was escape. The payoff was the promise of a life again; of a fraction of happiness in a bleak world.
Arthur had been too focused on the job to reflect properly at the time. Now the memories drift around him like mist. He remembers picnics in Jardin des Tuileries, trips to Le Marais to fawn over buildings, and lunches in le Quartier Latin. He remembers her laughter – the genuine kind in stark contrast to the bitter, sarcastic tone her shade used before inflicting so much pain in dreams.
The memories are painful, but he knows this city like the back of his hand. It’s still more home than any other place can be, than any other place he’s ever had. He secures a small apartment in Montmartre but the familiar flow of the neighborhood still does little to help him settle. Instead he retreats.
The nightmares cycle, a never-ending loop, replaying over and over in his head. They become more detailed and deranged over time. Eames is no longer reserved and without emotion in the dreams. Instead he becomes hard and wrathful, manic even.
The aggression escalates and Arthur dies again and again. His screams, choking on blood, in the dream. He breaks his wrists against the bonds, tears his skin open trying to escape. He cries, and begs, and screams. Always he screams.
He’s never wished more for the blissful, peaceful, dreamless sleep of the Somnacin addicted. But he can’t bring himself to use his PASIV. He can’t give in and put himself under alone. To allow himself to become vulnerable both in reality and in the dream. The possibility of becoming lost. Or to risk becoming trapped.
The constant stress wears on him. Lack of sleep blurs the world, blending nightmares with reality. Death seems to lurk around every corner, and every face holds a threat. Anyone could be there to hurt him, to capture him, to torture him. To make his nightmares reality.
He’s never far from a gun, because at this point he can barely tell what and who is real. On the rare occasion he is forced to venture out for supplies, he falls apart. He’s timed his trips down to the minute so that he can make it back to the relative safety of his apartment before he’s crippled by anxiety. It’s the last shred of self-preservation he has left.
If he didn’t do this he’d have probably shot someone by now. Or he’d have been sent to an institution, which is never a good place for those in the dream share business. They’re too close to the mind as it is, and their lives and stories sound insane.
The work is too obscure, unknown to most of the public. Escaping an institution is near impossible when nobody will believe that your reality is dreaming. He’s seen where that road leads from unfortunate casualties in the trade. He thinks that maybe this is another reason why Mal went through so much trouble to declare herself sane. So that if her plan to trap Dom never got off the ground, she wouldn’t be locked away.
He’s on one of his carefully planned outings, making his way home from the neighborhood market, when a familiar laugh floats through the air. The hair on his body stands on end. He spots Ariadne at the entrance of a cafe, tugging Wild along by the sleeve. A surge of warmth spreads through his body immediately upon seeing her, but it is followed by an icy cold wave of dread. Sweat breaks out at the nape of his neck and he swallows with effort.
The world moves in slow motion as he watches her turn his direction. The moment she sees him he can practically feel the sidewalk drop out from underneath him. He’s floating on anxiety, his hands already twitching for the firearm tucked into his sock brace.
She smiles with such honest happiness that he forgets everything else. Mal flashes before his eyes, the way she was before, and it’s so beautiful he wants to cry. Then she’s moving towards him, calling his name. When she hugs him he can’t help but tense.
“Arthur, what are you doing in Paris?” Ariadne asks as Wild takes his place at her side. Arthur glances nervously around. This is too much, he wants to be at home, safe in his apartment. He hadn’t planned for this.
“I live here.” He says flatly, trying not to engage. He feels like he’s being torn apart inside. He wants so badly to stay and talk to her, to catch up, to have a normal conversation. But he needs to get home before something goes wrong. Before he can’t fight the need to reach for his weapon.
“Since when? I know Paris is huge, really, but I would think we would have seen you around somewhere!”
“I don’t go out much.” That statement earns him appraising look. Ariande’s eyes narrow and he can practically hear the thoughts forming in her head. She’s taking in his appearance now, disheveled and loose. He’s still wearing a suit, as security, as protection, to hold himself together, but he hasn’t had it dry-cleaned and pressed lately.
“Arthur, is everything ok? You aren’t in any danger are you?” She asks, but he knows it’s not the question she wants to ask. Like she knows he hasn’t been working and therefore can’t be on the run. Like she knows that he’s gone off grid for no justifiable reason.
“I’m fine.” He lies. She won’t believe him. He doesn’t care, he just needs out of this conversation. Everything has gone wrong and he’s cursing himself for leaving his flat in the first place. He really had not needed groceries this badly. He could live on pasta for a few more days.
“Arthur,” she tries to continue, but he cuts her off.
“Listen, I’m sorry, I’m rushed for time. We’ll catch up soon, ok?” Internally he’s pleading for her to accept. To leave well enough alone.
“Ok.” She concedes but her expression is clearly disapproving. Before she can change her mind, to press for the truth, he pushes past her, calling over his shoulder as he wills himself not to start sprinting away.
“I’ll call you.”
He doesn’t fail to notice Ariadne’s brows furrow as she watches him race away.
When he arrives home he slams the door shut, checking the locks three times before leaning his back against it. He slowly slides down, eyes shut, placing his groceries on the floor next to him as he tucks his knees under his chin. Fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck, he curses repeatedly in his mind.
***
He doesn’t run into Ariadne again after that. It’s been weeks since, but he still ventures out less than he had before. And when he does it’s at odd hours and without routine. He doesn’t know why he didn’t think of it before; going to the grocery store right before closing or first thing in the morning. It’s much easier to maintain calm and control with fewer people around.
He’s on his way to the store early in the morning when a black sedan catches his eye. It’s been on on the street for days now. Arthur knows his neighbors cars. He was a point man after all, his observation skills will never be turned off.
He runs scenarios in his head. Someone purchased a new car? No, there are no dealer tags, the plates are scuffed and old, dirty. Nobody new has moved in on the entire block. None of the flats are even unoccupied. Guest visiting? Unlikely, the car is there all the time and Arthur has never seen the driver. This leads him to believe it’s someone with skill, someone with surveillance training.
Arthur hasn’t worked a job, hasn’t failed a job in ages. He runs a tally of past debts, enemies, and failed jobs. Nothing comes up as a likely source. The only thing even remotely close is the Cobol job, but Saito had squared that debt after Inception. No other dreamer is gunning for his position. He’s been out of the game for long enough that he’s not taking work from anyone. No, this is something else, something Arthur doesn’t know yet.
He picks up the pace but goes about his routine, not letting on that he thinks anything is suspicious. He’s going to have to change things up even more. He needs to find out who is watching him.
When he returns home the car is gone. Instead of relief he just feels more nervous. He enters his flat and after putting his new supply of groceries away and sits on the couch. He tries to work out who would be after him. Then it hits him.
It’s nobody. It’s no one. It’s just a coincidence, just a random car that happens to be here. It’s a guest, it’s somebody’s new, used, car. Arthur is fucking paranoid. Arthur knows that he’s been irrational. He just hadn’t realized how bad it had gotten. He’d freaked out over Ariadne and his fear had escalated to this. To conspiracies, to thinking he’s being followed, to insanity.
Fuck.
When had his life become this? When had he become this pathetic mess? This man who couldn’t go out to get toilet paper without having a panic attack? He feels the familiar gnawing pit in his stomach and he’s angry.
He’s angry at himself for being so weak. Maybe he should commit himself. Maybe he really does need the help. But then he thinks about being trapped in a hospital, dosed out of his mind on drugs that won’t push the dreams away. Of not being in control. Of being trapped forever behind locked doors because his truth will only be interpreted as lies.
It’s only nine in the evening but Arthur surrenders to exhaustion anyway. He pops a few sleeping pills that he knows will only dull his thoughts slightly and resigns himself to the nightmares for the night.
***
That car is there again the next morning. Tinted windows and sitting up the block, just within view when Arthur peeks out the blinds. He can’t let this get to him. He can’t. This is just a car. This is just Arthur’s mind. Fucking paranoid Arthur. Fucking stuck in his house, sweating in his sleep, weary, and weak Arthur.
And fuck it. He doesn’t even want to stay in the apartment anymore. So what if he shoots someone? They’ll just haul him away. Lock him up. It’s not as if he’s not locked up anyway. Trapped in his own little self made cage. He’s going out. He grabs his gun and shoves it angrily in the band of his pants, not even bothering with any of the holsters he could choose from.
He shoulders on a wrinkled jacket concealing the piece poorly, before wrenching the door open angrily. He’s not even ten steps out the door before the fear starts to wash over him again. He doesn’t even know where he’s going.
He heads towards le Sacré-Cœur, instinct taking him up the hill towards the Romano-Byzantine influenced structure. The Architecture always draws him in. It’s probably not the best place for him to go, really, with the tourists, and the crowds. Too many people. But he’s not thinking about that right now. He’s thinking about how fucking ludicrous his life is.
He doesn’t realize his mistake until someone lazily knocks into his shoulder. He snaps out of his trance, bristling. The stranger mutters a soft apology, and it’s probably Arthur’s fault they collided, but the way he looks right now, half crazed and hollow, they’re not going to blame him at all. He looks around the busy crowd here to visit the church and his throat catches. He feels the heavy weight of the gun at his back and fights the urge to draw it, to point it into the crowd and clear a path.
And then out of the corner of his eye he sees him. A flash of blond hair and paisley print in the crowd. His head whips around to spot again, but there’s nothing there. His eyes dart around frantically. Eames. He just saw Eames. He just saw him, where the fuck?
And then the electric shock of realization hits him again and he laughs out loud. A short bark of hysteria and malice. Because Arthur knows now. He knows he’s insane. He doesn’t just think he’s paranoid. He knows he’s gone far around the bend.
He turns sharply and marches through the crowd, not caring about anyone in his way. People give him wide birth, and when he’s at the edge enough, through the throng of people, he starts to run. He sprints back down the hill, through the streets. He doesn't stop running until he gets home, his legs weak from exertion. His lungs heaving, gulping in air and burning.
His hands tremble as he tries to unlock his door. The keys barely slipping into the lock. He doesn’t even bother locking his door when he finally gains entrance. He just walks to the bathroom, opens the medicine cabinet and swallows the entire bottle of sleeping pills before he can change his mind.
Author's notes: If you for some reason haven't been informed, there is a companion WIP to this piece from Eames point of view.
Beta(s):
space_raider182 Disclaimer: This story/artwork is based on characters and situations created and owned by the Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. They are not mine, I just like to play with them.
____________
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4
Arthur flees to Paris. It’s a gamble, but he thinks he needs to be somewhere that feels like home. He hasn’t been at ease here since Mal died. It brings back too many memories of life just after leaving the Military. Of life with Mal and Dom when they were carefree. When they were a trio exploring dreams, pushing the limits together. Before Dom moved back to The States with Mal to raise a new family.
He wonders how Cobb could stand it here during the Fischer job, but he thinks it’s because the payoff was so great. The payoff was escape. The payoff was the promise of a life again; of a fraction of happiness in a bleak world.
Arthur had been too focused on the job to reflect properly at the time. Now the memories drift around him like mist. He remembers picnics in Jardin des Tuileries, trips to Le Marais to fawn over buildings, and lunches in le Quartier Latin. He remembers her laughter – the genuine kind in stark contrast to the bitter, sarcastic tone her shade used before inflicting so much pain in dreams.
The memories are painful, but he knows this city like the back of his hand. It’s still more home than any other place can be, than any other place he’s ever had. He secures a small apartment in Montmartre but the familiar flow of the neighborhood still does little to help him settle. Instead he retreats.
The nightmares cycle, a never-ending loop, replaying over and over in his head. They become more detailed and deranged over time. Eames is no longer reserved and without emotion in the dreams. Instead he becomes hard and wrathful, manic even.
The aggression escalates and Arthur dies again and again. His screams, choking on blood, in the dream. He breaks his wrists against the bonds, tears his skin open trying to escape. He cries, and begs, and screams. Always he screams.
He’s never wished more for the blissful, peaceful, dreamless sleep of the Somnacin addicted. But he can’t bring himself to use his PASIV. He can’t give in and put himself under alone. To allow himself to become vulnerable both in reality and in the dream. The possibility of becoming lost. Or to risk becoming trapped.
The constant stress wears on him. Lack of sleep blurs the world, blending nightmares with reality. Death seems to lurk around every corner, and every face holds a threat. Anyone could be there to hurt him, to capture him, to torture him. To make his nightmares reality.
He’s never far from a gun, because at this point he can barely tell what and who is real. On the rare occasion he is forced to venture out for supplies, he falls apart. He’s timed his trips down to the minute so that he can make it back to the relative safety of his apartment before he’s crippled by anxiety. It’s the last shred of self-preservation he has left.
If he didn’t do this he’d have probably shot someone by now. Or he’d have been sent to an institution, which is never a good place for those in the dream share business. They’re too close to the mind as it is, and their lives and stories sound insane.
The work is too obscure, unknown to most of the public. Escaping an institution is near impossible when nobody will believe that your reality is dreaming. He’s seen where that road leads from unfortunate casualties in the trade. He thinks that maybe this is another reason why Mal went through so much trouble to declare herself sane. So that if her plan to trap Dom never got off the ground, she wouldn’t be locked away.
He’s on one of his carefully planned outings, making his way home from the neighborhood market, when a familiar laugh floats through the air. The hair on his body stands on end. He spots Ariadne at the entrance of a cafe, tugging Wild along by the sleeve. A surge of warmth spreads through his body immediately upon seeing her, but it is followed by an icy cold wave of dread. Sweat breaks out at the nape of his neck and he swallows with effort.
The world moves in slow motion as he watches her turn his direction. The moment she sees him he can practically feel the sidewalk drop out from underneath him. He’s floating on anxiety, his hands already twitching for the firearm tucked into his sock brace.
She smiles with such honest happiness that he forgets everything else. Mal flashes before his eyes, the way she was before, and it’s so beautiful he wants to cry. Then she’s moving towards him, calling his name. When she hugs him he can’t help but tense.
“Arthur, what are you doing in Paris?” Ariadne asks as Wild takes his place at her side. Arthur glances nervously around. This is too much, he wants to be at home, safe in his apartment. He hadn’t planned for this.
“I live here.” He says flatly, trying not to engage. He feels like he’s being torn apart inside. He wants so badly to stay and talk to her, to catch up, to have a normal conversation. But he needs to get home before something goes wrong. Before he can’t fight the need to reach for his weapon.
“Since when? I know Paris is huge, really, but I would think we would have seen you around somewhere!”
“I don’t go out much.” That statement earns him appraising look. Ariande’s eyes narrow and he can practically hear the thoughts forming in her head. She’s taking in his appearance now, disheveled and loose. He’s still wearing a suit, as security, as protection, to hold himself together, but he hasn’t had it dry-cleaned and pressed lately.
“Arthur, is everything ok? You aren’t in any danger are you?” She asks, but he knows it’s not the question she wants to ask. Like she knows he hasn’t been working and therefore can’t be on the run. Like she knows that he’s gone off grid for no justifiable reason.
“I’m fine.” He lies. She won’t believe him. He doesn’t care, he just needs out of this conversation. Everything has gone wrong and he’s cursing himself for leaving his flat in the first place. He really had not needed groceries this badly. He could live on pasta for a few more days.
“Arthur,” she tries to continue, but he cuts her off.
“Listen, I’m sorry, I’m rushed for time. We’ll catch up soon, ok?” Internally he’s pleading for her to accept. To leave well enough alone.
“Ok.” She concedes but her expression is clearly disapproving. Before she can change her mind, to press for the truth, he pushes past her, calling over his shoulder as he wills himself not to start sprinting away.
“I’ll call you.”
He doesn’t fail to notice Ariadne’s brows furrow as she watches him race away.
When he arrives home he slams the door shut, checking the locks three times before leaning his back against it. He slowly slides down, eyes shut, placing his groceries on the floor next to him as he tucks his knees under his chin. Fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck, he curses repeatedly in his mind.
***
He doesn’t run into Ariadne again after that. It’s been weeks since, but he still ventures out less than he had before. And when he does it’s at odd hours and without routine. He doesn’t know why he didn’t think of it before; going to the grocery store right before closing or first thing in the morning. It’s much easier to maintain calm and control with fewer people around.
He’s on his way to the store early in the morning when a black sedan catches his eye. It’s been on on the street for days now. Arthur knows his neighbors cars. He was a point man after all, his observation skills will never be turned off.
He runs scenarios in his head. Someone purchased a new car? No, there are no dealer tags, the plates are scuffed and old, dirty. Nobody new has moved in on the entire block. None of the flats are even unoccupied. Guest visiting? Unlikely, the car is there all the time and Arthur has never seen the driver. This leads him to believe it’s someone with skill, someone with surveillance training.
Arthur hasn’t worked a job, hasn’t failed a job in ages. He runs a tally of past debts, enemies, and failed jobs. Nothing comes up as a likely source. The only thing even remotely close is the Cobol job, but Saito had squared that debt after Inception. No other dreamer is gunning for his position. He’s been out of the game for long enough that he’s not taking work from anyone. No, this is something else, something Arthur doesn’t know yet.
He picks up the pace but goes about his routine, not letting on that he thinks anything is suspicious. He’s going to have to change things up even more. He needs to find out who is watching him.
When he returns home the car is gone. Instead of relief he just feels more nervous. He enters his flat and after putting his new supply of groceries away and sits on the couch. He tries to work out who would be after him. Then it hits him.
It’s nobody. It’s no one. It’s just a coincidence, just a random car that happens to be here. It’s a guest, it’s somebody’s new, used, car. Arthur is fucking paranoid. Arthur knows that he’s been irrational. He just hadn’t realized how bad it had gotten. He’d freaked out over Ariadne and his fear had escalated to this. To conspiracies, to thinking he’s being followed, to insanity.
Fuck.
When had his life become this? When had he become this pathetic mess? This man who couldn’t go out to get toilet paper without having a panic attack? He feels the familiar gnawing pit in his stomach and he’s angry.
He’s angry at himself for being so weak. Maybe he should commit himself. Maybe he really does need the help. But then he thinks about being trapped in a hospital, dosed out of his mind on drugs that won’t push the dreams away. Of not being in control. Of being trapped forever behind locked doors because his truth will only be interpreted as lies.
It’s only nine in the evening but Arthur surrenders to exhaustion anyway. He pops a few sleeping pills that he knows will only dull his thoughts slightly and resigns himself to the nightmares for the night.
***
That car is there again the next morning. Tinted windows and sitting up the block, just within view when Arthur peeks out the blinds. He can’t let this get to him. He can’t. This is just a car. This is just Arthur’s mind. Fucking paranoid Arthur. Fucking stuck in his house, sweating in his sleep, weary, and weak Arthur.
And fuck it. He doesn’t even want to stay in the apartment anymore. So what if he shoots someone? They’ll just haul him away. Lock him up. It’s not as if he’s not locked up anyway. Trapped in his own little self made cage. He’s going out. He grabs his gun and shoves it angrily in the band of his pants, not even bothering with any of the holsters he could choose from.
He shoulders on a wrinkled jacket concealing the piece poorly, before wrenching the door open angrily. He’s not even ten steps out the door before the fear starts to wash over him again. He doesn’t even know where he’s going.
He heads towards le Sacré-Cœur, instinct taking him up the hill towards the Romano-Byzantine influenced structure. The Architecture always draws him in. It’s probably not the best place for him to go, really, with the tourists, and the crowds. Too many people. But he’s not thinking about that right now. He’s thinking about how fucking ludicrous his life is.
He doesn’t realize his mistake until someone lazily knocks into his shoulder. He snaps out of his trance, bristling. The stranger mutters a soft apology, and it’s probably Arthur’s fault they collided, but the way he looks right now, half crazed and hollow, they’re not going to blame him at all. He looks around the busy crowd here to visit the church and his throat catches. He feels the heavy weight of the gun at his back and fights the urge to draw it, to point it into the crowd and clear a path.
And then out of the corner of his eye he sees him. A flash of blond hair and paisley print in the crowd. His head whips around to spot again, but there’s nothing there. His eyes dart around frantically. Eames. He just saw Eames. He just saw him, where the fuck?
And then the electric shock of realization hits him again and he laughs out loud. A short bark of hysteria and malice. Because Arthur knows now. He knows he’s insane. He doesn’t just think he’s paranoid. He knows he’s gone far around the bend.
He turns sharply and marches through the crowd, not caring about anyone in his way. People give him wide birth, and when he’s at the edge enough, through the throng of people, he starts to run. He sprints back down the hill, through the streets. He doesn't stop running until he gets home, his legs weak from exertion. His lungs heaving, gulping in air and burning.
His hands tremble as he tries to unlock his door. The keys barely slipping into the lock. He doesn’t even bother locking his door when he finally gains entrance. He just walks to the bathroom, opens the medicine cabinet and swallows the entire bottle of sleeping pills before he can change his mind.