tabi_essentially | Glitch

FEBRUARY

"He was found inside a train, did you know that, Mr. Bishop?" Emma asked. "Well the train had a name, and it was Scout. So we just called him Scout. I can't believe he's Arthur. I wouldn't even have guessed that."

Eames liked her, this lady in her mid-thirties who had grown fond of Arthur – or Scout, to her. He was happy to think that someone had comforted him, even if Arthur had probably fought comfort all the way like a bastard.

But he also wished that everyone would stop prattling to him and they could walk faster to the room.

"So what are you, his brother? You're not leaving with Scout until you're cleared, you know. I won't even let you. Even if the hospital was allowed to just discharge patients to strangers who said they knew them..."

"Next of kin," Dr. Grisham said, trying to end the conversation, for which Eames was grateful.

"Scout is British? How did he lose his accent? That's not unheard of, you know."

"We're not brothers, we're married, darling." He said it off-hand, only knowing that it would gall Arthur to no end to learn he'd set it up like this, such a perfect con. Him and Arthur, married. God, but he would scowl.

"Oh," was Emma's soft reply. "I didn't realize."

"It's all right," he said, sparing her a small smile. "It's not the first thought most people have. You're right not to assume." And he saw in her face that she'd built a story around Arthur – attractive, mysterious, obviously dangerous yet vulnerable Arthur. Of course she'd fallen for him. Arthur had been a possibility, one that he had just taken from her.

He also saw that she was still happy that someone had finally come for him. He liked her better for it.

"This way," Dr. Grisham said, leading him past the upstairs nurse's station and down another endless hall.

The Dr. pushed the door open first, and Eames fought the urge to shove her aside. When he finally was able to look into the room, he quelled his urge to go bursting in. Arthur was asleep.

The sight of him, battered and strapped to a hospital bed, briefly rooted him to the spot. He'd seen him in much rougher shape, but somehow the strip of tape across his nose and the accompanying black eyes made it worse.

Emma saw him staring. "He ran into the wall," she said. "Face-first, really banged himself up. But he was okay; just a fracture. That's why..." She waved her hand vaguely toward the room, as if indicating the jacket with the straps.

His focus narrowed to the IV line in Arthur's hand and then he was rushing into the room, thinking, darling, darling and maybe saying it, too.

Now he would wake Arthur, get him out of here, and allow him to quit with the charade of amnesia. The night-terrors he honestly did not understand but Arthur was a lucid dreamer, and once reunited with the PASIV he'd be fine. Eames was certain.

He liked Arthur, his occasional business partner and occasional shag. Liked him and was irritated by him in turns, but mostly enjoyed him these days. He'd seen him wrecked and bloody and torn, he'd seen him survive all kinds of mad situations and come out swinging. He'd seen him with bones broken and he'd even watched him struggle with his work in the past, with dreams. Arthur had seen him at his weakest, as well. It was what made them a safe team. Even if they only saw each other a few times a year, they'd been through it together; Arthur was his number one oppo. There was no one like him. Eames had prepared himself to find Arthur a mess, but he'd thought it couldn't be any worse than watching Arthur dodge bullets and even take one or two.

He had never seen him strapped to a hospital bed.

"Can I wake him?" he asked, forgoing the chair and sitting instead on the edge of the bed.

"Go ahead," Dr. Grisham said. "But I have to stand by, in case he reacts badly."

Eames just nodded and set about undoing the arms of the jacket. That thing wasn't staying on. Arthur wasn't waking up with it to see him staring down at him. Never in a million years. He moved Arthur's arms to a more natural position. Then he placed his palm against the side of Arthur's face.

Arthur looked frustrated in his sleep, as if he were concentrating on something. Eames used his thumb to smooth away the frown between his eyebrows. It was his perpetual scowl, but he didn't like it just then – it looked too worried. Arthur looked too young to be wearing it. His hair had grown out some, and curled at the ends like it did when he didn't bother styling it back for work. He dragged his fingers through the curls, the way he always did whether Arthur approved or not.

Darling. Arthur always sneered at the endearment when he was awake, or rolled his eyes like Eames was being a child. Eames always used it to get him to react in front of others, because he did it so hilariously. But looking at him with his seams torn like this, he said it and meant it. He touched Arthur's face the way he would never be allowed to in front of others, and he waited for him to wake up and swat his hand away like always. He waited for Arthur to say "quit it" or "god, Eames, fuck off, I'm tired."

Instead, Arthur turned groggily into the caress and when his eyes finally rolled open, it wasn't annoyance, arrogance, condescension or the usual hooded look of danger he saw there.

It was just a moment of blank confusion. Dread pooled in his stomach; Arthur always came awake easily, and completely aware.

"Arthur?" he tried.

The confusion turned to focus, and then plain, wide-eyed wonder, the likes of which Eames had never seen in him, not in all the years he'd known him.

Arthur practically launched himself upright and threw his good arm around Eames's neck, pressing his face against his shoulder, breathing in hitching gasps.

Eames awkwardly slung an arm around his back and pulled him close, soothing his back with his hand. They were supposed to be married, after all, a con that was meant to annoy Arthur when he finally found him. He had to make a good show of it. But he had never coddled Arthur like this before, outside of in jest. It felt wrong.

"You came for me," Arthur said against his neck.

"Of course," Eames said, playing along. Maybe Arthur was better at this than he was, or was playing some game with these people that Eames wasn't clued in on yet. "Of course I did, darling." And then, close to his ear, whispering so that no one else could hear: "Sorry it took so long to locate you. You are a bastard to find."

Arthur pulled away, and yes, that was definitely dampness that Eames felt on his shoulder. He was stunned to see that Arthur's eyes were wet and he was swiping at them with the back of his hand, the one that was still in a sling.

"Get me out of here," Arthur whispered so that none of the others could hear. "I'm pretty sure people are still after me but I don't know who they are or why they want me."

He didn't sound conspiratorial or as if he were even playing along with whatever undercover thing he had going on. He just sounded confused. "Arthur?" Eames whispered back. "What's going on?"

"Arthur," Arthur repeated, as if testing the name. "That's me." And then: "I know you. Fuck, I know I know you."

Eames sat, stunned and speechless, as Arthur pulled away and scrambled for something on the cart next to his bed. When he turned back around, he was holding the loaded die up to the light.

"What is this?" he asked. "Who are you, and what is this?"

With a shaking hand, Eames reached into his own pocket. He shielded them from the vision of the others with his back as he drew out the poker chip and held it up for Arthur to see. "Totem, Arthur," he whispered. "What the fuck."

Instead of answering, Arthur just folded the die into his hand, as if he would crush it, and pressed his face against Eames's shoulder again, his free hand practically clawing at his shirt in the back. He was trembling as if he would shatter to pieces, and that was not something he was faking for the benefit of the others in the doorway. The entire bed-frame shook with him.

Finally truly afraid, Eames put both arms around him and held him, like he was holding the pieces together. "Arthur," he whispered. "What's happened to you?"

** ** ** **

Arthur had nothing to pack. The suit he'd come in with was bagged and tagged with his name, and he'd look at it whenever he got to wherever he was going. The man who called himself Luke Bishop had left with a promise to return when he got clearance to have him released. He'd said that he would get all of his papers in order.

Emma brought him lunch one last time. She timed it to her break and sat with him, obviously dying to ask him questions. Thing was, he still had no answers.

"You really are Jason Bourne," she said.

"I guess I am," he said, picking at a cheese sandwich.

"You could blow the room up with a toaster."

He smiled, genial and harmless, with what he hoped was the right amount of mischief. "Maybe."

"And Mr. Bishop is your, your husband then." It wasn't phrased like a question, but it still felt like one.

He gave it some thought. He definitely knew him. There was something about the way his body reacted that felt familiar. It felt like security, it felt a bit like intimacy, but it didn't feel like what he thought marriage would feel like. He could almost swear that he didn't actually see the other man all that often. There was some distance there that didn't feel like amnesia. In fact, he almost remembered the distance.

But he couldn't remember anything else, so it was useless to try to force it to come back.

"He's the only thing I recognize," he said. "Yeah, it feels like I should go with him. I'll get some answers."

"It'll be a big news story," she said.

He choked on his orange juice and coughed into a napkin. "News?" he said, when he could breathe again.

"Well, yeah. You made the news last week. We thought that was how he found you."

Now he had to get away, and before anyone wanted a follow-up story. He had no idea what to expect, but his sense for danger was burning bright.

"Probably a bad idea," Emma said. "You being military and that kind of thing. No one knew."

"My thoughts exactly."

"Listen, Scout. I know you're gonna disappear. But if something goes wrong..." She looked around the room, awkward and unsure, anywhere but at him. Then she drew a card out of her pocket. "If this is some kind of set-up? Will you just call please? The hospital's number is on here too. No cops will be involved. Just, you know. If it goes wrong."

He took the card, smiling. She had more of a clue about his identity than he apparently did. Still, how little she knew of him. He felt to his core that being subdued like he had been was a one-time deal. He had likely been ambushed, and it would never happen again if he could help it.

"Thanks," he said.

A moment later, the man who called himself Luke Bishop (and he felt that was a lie, he didn't know how,) returned with a folder, a shopping bag, and Dr. Grisham.

For a few seconds, they just stared at each other. He searched around in his memory for the face he was looking at, and he found it, somewhere. The patrician nose, that's what it was. And the grey eyes, the softness in them that looked false, the steel behind the charade - those were things he knew.

"I, err, brought you some clothes, Arthur," he said, holding up the bag. "And you've been cleared for release to the care of your primary." He indicated the folder in his other hand.

Arthur. The way he said it sounded correct, as if it belonged there in his mouth. It sounded familiar.

"Thanks," Arthur said, still rolling the name around in his head, trying to get used to it again. He swung his legs out of the bed and gestured for him to bring the clothes over to him.

The other man did, and sat awkwardly on the bed beside him as he looked into the shopping bag. Jeans, button down shirts, a sweater vest, socks, underclothes, as well as various items like soap, shampoo, toothpaste and a toothbrush in a smaller bag inside. This guy thought around corners. He liked that. The clothes looked casual as compared to the one he'd been wearing when they brought him in, but that also felt correct.

"You look better," the man said.

"I feel a little better, now that I know I don't have to get shipped off to who knows where."

He suddenly sensed that this guy wanted to kiss him, and for a second he could only stare at his lips, which he had to admit were lovely. But he didn't want that to happen in front of the others. So he pulled the stupid gown closed, took the bag, and headed into the bathroom.

Once inside, he stripped out of the hateful gown—finally--and took another look at himself. He honestly did look familiar to himself, too. He knew every scar; knew the texture, and the lingering tingle of the newer ones. He just had no idea where they had come from. He tried to relax and dress himself as he thought he normally would, hoping for some insight into his own habits. He ripped the tags off with his teeth and cleared his mind. Socks first, it felt like.

Arthur Bishop. Arthur Bishop, he repeated mentally, as he dressed. He could hear the murmuring voices of the people outside the door. Emma, Dr. Grisham, the man who called himself Luke, who called himself his husband, but he knew absolutely that this was a lie. And something about it pissed him off, too.

After he was dressed, he found himself running his hands through his hair as if trying to keep it back. When he realized he was doing it, he stopped and gave it some thought. He probably needed a haircut. Then he brushed his teeth, got himself in order, and came out of the bathroom.

He felt, for the first time in weeks, like someone named Arthur.

** ** ** **

Eames watched as the staff said their goodbyes to Arthur. Dr. Grisham wanted followups, though her face said she knew she wasn't going to get them. Military special ops men didn't make the news and then come back to keep revealing their identities and whereabouts. He handed over all the forged documents for Arthur's release and subsequent treatment, waited outside while he said goodbye to the nurse who had become his friend, and then took him the hell out of there.

Eames was on the verge of being nervous about something and he didn't know what, or why. Surely Arthur would either give up this game, or if he did have some memory loss, it would return as soon as they started talking. It wasn't unheard of, among dreamwalkers.

He handed Arthur the winter coat he'd picked up for him and then led him to the stolen car outside.

Arthur paused and looked around, his hands in his pockets. "Smells like New York," he said. He refused to look at Eames.

"'Tis," Eames said. "And we've got to lie low. I just found out that you made the news. Whoever attacked you will still be looking."

Arthur nodded. Eames got tired of waiting and nudged him toward the car.

"We have a new car?" Arthur said, as he slid carefully into the passenger seat. It took him a second to buckle himself in, with one arm in a sling. His hands were shaking. Eames didn't want to help him because he refused to believe that Arthur needed any further help.

He got behind the wheel, which he fucking hated. Driving in the USA was one thing, but driving in New York was an entirely different beast. He wished he could allow Arthur to drive, but whatever was going on inside his head was not conducive to safety. And this pissed Eames off.

"We usually do have a new car, Arthur, because I steal one every time I come here."

Arthur just nodded, not shocked by this. "And my release documents? My 'primary care?'"

"All lies." He started the car.

"Eames, you're a forger."

"And you just remembered my name." He turned and smiled before pulling out of the parking spot. He wanted to be encouraging, but these were things that shouldn't even be surprising.

He didn't miss the look of revelation on Arthur's face. Fuck, he was nowhere near remembering, and none of this was a game. Eames had halfway held onto the hope that once out of the hospital, Arthur would drop the amnesia charade. But he was still distant, cautious, a stranger.

"Eames," Arthur repeated. "Eames, Eames."

"Yes, Arthur."

"We're not married."

"No, of course not. I hadn't counted on you forgetting everything in your carefully catalogued mind. I counted on finding you alive, annoyed, and on further irritating you by convincing others that we were."

"Oh." He gave that some thought, and looked strangely guilty about this. "But we have sex, I think."

"Occasionally."

Arthur's free hand lay still in his lap, the other still in the sling. He stared out the window. "What else do we do? I know I've got some training, probably military. But that's not the whole thing. My entire life... What am I? Not special ops."

"Dreamsharing," Eames said, hoping with everything he had that the word would fill in the first essential gap. "And once we find a place to settle, we call Cobb and ask him if he's ever..."

"Cobb," Arthur whispered. "Cobb. Mal. Call Mal. Mal!" He pounded his fist into his lap. "Who is she? Who is Mal?" He turned to Eames, agitated, his eyes bright.

"Mal's dead, Arthur." He felt so weary, having to go through this Mal thing again. "God. Please just remember," he added, almost under his breath.

"I'm trying. I'll keep trying."

They drove in silence, as Eames headed for a hotel that he had booked for them. He could practically hear Arthur struggling in his own mind. And then Arthur banged on the window, scaring the shit out of him and making him nearly sideswipe a taxi-cab.

"Jesus, Arthur! What?"

"I know where we are."

"Well you live in New York for fucksake."

"I know where my apartment is, fuck yes, I know how to get there."

"Then by all means, direct me." His hands were tight on the wheel, his shoulders hurt, his teeth were clenched and he was angry about this whole thing. He didn't know why exactly, but maybe it was the absence of the Arthur that he knew, and this stranger in his car. Yet the silence that descended after his clipped and impatient speech was somehow worse than all of those things combined. His Arthur would have told him to watch his fucking mouth. This man in the car just took a sharp breath and turned back to the window. Eames felt a little sick.

"Arthur, I'm--"

"Look, Eames," Arthur said. "I'm sorry I don't remember anything. I need some time. If you don't have time, tell me now. If we're on a job together and I'm..."

"Arthur, don't."

"Let me finish. If we're working on something, and I'm fucking this up, then just bring me to my apartment and let me figure things out. I can take care of myself. I've probably got phone numbers around of people I can call, if I have to." The words came out as if Arthur thought this was the farthest thing from the truth.

"We're not working," Eames said. "Well, I'm not. You were. We can find answers once we figure out what it was you were doing."

"Who I fucked over."

"Possibly," Eames conceded. "But unlikely. You're pretty solid, Arthur. You don't make a lot of mistakes. And I am very, very sorry for acting like an asshole. I'm afraid for you, and I turned ridiculous."

"Right," Arthur said.

"So."

"No, I mean take the next right."

"Ah." Eames turned right, heading toward the Bronx. He had no idea where Arthur lived, but he was starting to second-guess his sudden knowledge of his own apartment. He would never have thought of the Bronx, for Arthur.

Yet Arthur quite steadily supplied him with directions, until they were circling around a park in an upscale and quiet part of the town. It was an unassuming sort of posh neighborhood, hidden and unlikely.

It was sundown by the time they reached a road that made Arthur agitated, bright-eyed again. He visibly restrained himself from banging on the window once more. "Hey, it's here. This is my building. I live here." He sounded surprised by this revelation.

There were some parking spaces available across from the brownstone, and the roads had been cleared of snow. Arthur got out of the car first, eagerly. Just as quickly, his legs buckled and he had to lean back against the car with his eyes closed.

Eames came around to the other side quickly. "All right?" he said, cautiously laying a hand on his shoulder.

Arthur nodded. "Tired. That's all."

"Your sleeping troubles." That concerned him perhaps more than the memory loss.

"Yeah."

"I'm sure they'll clear up once you're settled. Although to be honest, we can't stay here, I think. Since you made the news, someone around here is bound to recognize you. Whoever came after you the first time..."

"No one came for me," he said. "I don't think anyone here knows me. It was two and a half weeks, Eames. And no one came. Until you did."

A streetlight flared to life over them as Arthur grabbed him by the jacket and pulled him hard up against his body. He had lost weight, his lips were dry and cracked, his hands shaking.

"Not now," Eames said, gently pulling away.

"Sorry," Arthur mumbled, and looked down, to the side, over his shoulder, anywhere. "I don't know what I'm doing."

"That's all right. Come on, let's get you inside." Eames went to the boot of the car and pulled out his suitcase, his traveling work-station that he kept in what could pass for an art portfolio, and the PASIV. He'd bought more clothing for Arthur, but now that they were at Arthur's place, he hardly needed it.

Arthur was already up at the front door when Eames came up behind him. "You don't even have your key, how are you..."

Arthur looked over the names on the roster, and at the keypad below.

"Which name is mine?" he asked.

"Arceneau. Do you remember the..."

But Arthur was already punching in a series of numbers, and then the door clicked open. Eames raised an eyebrow.

"You remember directions, addresses, numbers, that sort of thing. What's gone from you is personal. Your name, your lifestyle, your identity. I wonder why that is."

There was a watchman at a desk, watching a small television with his feet propped up. Arthur motioned for Eames to wait in the entrance while he went to the window.

"Hey," Arthur said, casual and with a smile more charming than any he usually used. "Uhh."

"Oh jeez, Mr. uhh, welcome home. Haven't seen you in months. What happened? You all right? Or..."

Clearly they were not even on a last name basis. Eames weighed this information carefully. People in Arthur's building knew him by sight, but still had no idea who he was. It was no wonder no one had noticed when he disappeared.

Arthur indicated the bandage across his nose. "Got mugged, lost everything. Every last thing. Keys, the works. Can you help me?"

"Sure, sure. Let's see. Which apartment now?"

"Three-eighteen."

The guard cast around for a key-card. Then he punched something into a computer and swiped the card. "There you go. Man, I'm sorry about what happened."

"Yeah, it's all right," Arthur said. "I just went to stay with family for a while after that. It's all good now."

"Well, be careful," the watchman said, handing Arthur the key-card. "Welcome back."

"Thanks," Arthur said, smiling.

Once in the elevator, Eames felt Arthur's eyes on him, hot and dark as they looked him up and down. He wanted something, his entire demeanor changed. But Eames couldn't read this stranger.

"What's that?" Arthur asked suddenly, nodding toward the PASIV.

He took a breath, one that shook in his chest. "It's a PASIV device, Arthur. Your work. It's more than your work, it's what you do, it's what you've done for years, your livelihood, your passion."

"I don't want it." His voice was quiet, firm. "I don't want to use that thing. I don't even want to see it."

"Arthur," Eames said, desperate to change this, any of it. "It will help you remember."

"I remember enough, and I know that that's the thing that fucked me up."

"Can we talk about this when we're settled?" Eames asked.

Arthur nodded curtly.

But once they were inside his door and Eames had put everything down, there was no talking. Arthur crowded him against the wall and shoved his hands under Eames's coat again, tugging at his shirt. He kissed him with lips that were dry and feverish, his eyes closing as if he was in pain.

Normally, given any chance, Eames would take an emotionally stripped Arthur and physically strip him as well. This apartment must have a bed in it somewhere or at least a flat surface nearby, and Arthur was almost begging for it. No one else claimed me, was what Eames's libido heard. I must belong to you.

He pulled away before Arthur could really get to work on him.

"You don't even know who I am," Eames said. "Anything I do now will be taking advantage."

Arthur frowned. "I feel like that would be okay," he said, impatient.

"It wouldn't. You have zero defenses right now."

"I just don't want you to leave yet," Arthur said. "I mean, not only that. That's not why I was..." he stopped, annoyed with himself. "I wasn't trying to do anything like seduce you into staying. I just think that this is something we do."

"It is," Eames said. "And I seduced you years ago."

"Pretty sure that's bullshit," Arthur laughed, still gripping onto his jacket. "I actually remember putting my hand down your pants."

"You've been fooling yourself over this for years, Arthur," Eames said, happy that at least something was returning. "This is a good sign."

"Then what's wrong? I'm cold. I'm hot. I don't want to sleep. I want some real food and I want to fuck you. Please. Please."

"Don't," Eames said, but it was of no use, as was usually the case when Arthur asked him for something. He kissed him helplessly, up against the wall. He felt like he was the one suddenly stripped bare and defenseless. At the end of the day, Arthur could usually have whatever he wanted from him.

** ** ** **

PART FOUR

I feel like this section was a little sappier than most of what I usually write. :) Blame it on JGL looking like way too much of a cuddle-muffin lately.

That said, I will absolutely 100% try to figure in some more writing and posting in the next few days. Can't guarantee that it will be tomorrow though - I'd like it to be, but not sure. That big test I have to take looms ever closer and I've got mad studying to do. It will be over Thursday. ^_^ Meanwhile I am just biting my nails.

Thanks for your patience! :D

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No one else claimed me, was what Eames's libido heard. I must belong to you.

Oh god, why are there tears this early in the morning, tabi? Big, manful, sobbing tears.

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