By slight ligaments we are bound

[coffeewithconsequences]

 Title: By slight ligaments we are bound
Author: CoffeeWithConsequences
Author's e-mail: CoffeeWithConsequences@gmail.com
Pairing: Arthur/Eames
Rating: Mature
Author's Note: Written for the 2017 Inception Reversebang, in response to picture 204 by marourin.
Summary: Arthur and Eames finally get together, and things seem perfect. Over time, Arthur realizes something is off, and once he starts digging, he uncovers a terrible secret.

It took so long. Years and years of circling each other, getting a bit closer, then pushing away. Arthur knew most of that was on him--he’d been attracted to Eames since the day they first met, but always cautious, always afraid to give in to his temptations. He didn’t want a quick fuck, and he didn’t want to be made a fool. For his part, Eames never made himself completely clear--he flirted, he made veiled advances, and then he danced away like a boxer, for weeks or months at a time. Upon their next meeting, he started again.

Finally, though. Finally, it happened, and it wasn’t just a quick fuck, and Arthur wasn’t made a fool. It was an actual date, followed by another actual date. It was sex that started out unsure, then turned sweet and frantic in equal parts. It was breakfast the next morning, and then the morning after that. There was a hesitant courtship, mostly long distance, with phone calls and Skype-sex and the occasional odd package. Eames even wrote a couple of letters, though Arthur stuck to the civility of email. There was a whole year of strange and new and unsure and exciting.

After a while, the strangeness stopped, but everything else remained. They started letting each other know when they’d be where and meeting up more often. It was excruciatingly embarrassing, but Arthur made Eames a key to his house in Los Angeles, and he was rewarded a few weeks later with a FedEx envelope containing keys to Eames’ flat in London. Eventually, they stopped trying to hide it--they told nobody, but they let those who knew them best figure it out. After a middle of the night phone call from a mysterious woman kept him awake for three nights, Arthur swallowed his pride again and asked Eames if they were monogamous. Eames grinned and said he’d assumed so, then explained the phone call was not actually a lover, but a family member. A niece. Arthur’s mind was doubly blown at the idea of Eames being his exclusively and the idea of Eames having a family.

For months, Arthur was as content as he could possibly be. Dom and the kids were safe, there was no price on his head, and he finally had someone who understood him effortlessly, who gave him what he needed and didn’t ask for more than he had to give. He slept better than he had since childhood. The tension he’d carried in his body for more than a decade started to relax. Eames walked him through art museums, pointing out things Arthur had never noticed, and he took Eames to basketball games. The whole thing was like the montage in the middle of the movie, the happy couple, finally together, and not yet knowing when tragedy will strike.

The tragedy didn’t start out tragic. It was just that, over time, Arthur came to an odd realization--Eames didn’t bother him anymore. All of the habits that had driven him crazy when he and Eames just worked together seemed to have disappeared. At first, he laughed at himself, thinking it must honestly be the blindness of love messing with his mind. Once the idea was in his head, though, he started to pay attention, and he realized that it was true--Eames was simply always agreeable. Whatever Arthur wanted, in a given moment, was more or less what he got. Usually, he didn’t even have to make his preference known, whatever it was just happened. Eames had silently and subtly shifted his life around to make it more palatable. Every time Arthur was in London, more of Eames’ outlandish vintage furniture was gone, replaced with the clean lines Arthur favored. Every time they met up, Eames’ clothes were more subtle, more tailored. When Arthur had a taste for Thai, it appeared. When they went to a movie, it was always the action films Arthur preferred. It wasn’t just that he was being humored--Arthur knew he was prickly, and that a successful relationship with him would have to include some level of humoring--he was being catered to.

The realization made Arthur uncomfortable for a couple of reasons. The first was obvious--he wasn’t actually a completely selfish prick, and he didn’t want Eames to give up things he enjoyed, pieces of himself, just to make Arthur happy. The second was harder to explain--he felt, in some way, like a mark. He’d spent years watching Eames pour himself into whatever mold was most expedient on a job, showing himself to be whatever and whomever someone wished in order to get close to them. Now, Arthur saw Eames doing the same to him, albeit in a much subtler and more long-term way. Always a chameleon, this time Eames appeared to be changing his pattern to suit Arthur’s. Arthur was no expert on relationship health, but he was pretty certain that wasn’t how it was supposed to work.

It took weeks to figure out how to call him on it. When everything was going so well, when he’d spent months so happy, the last thing Arthur wanted to do was make waves. Beyond that, he had no idea what to say. How do you tell your boyfriend he’s doing too much to please you? But Arthur knew he wouldn’t feel secure and content again until he’d addressed the subject, so, after a lot of thought on what he was going to say, he finally brought it up.

They were in Los Angeles, both recently off jobs and spending some down time together. They’d had a nice dinner (Eames turned out to be a pretty good cook) and were each a couple of glasses of wine in. They’d gone out to sit on Arthur’s little patio and watch the city begin to darken. The evening, like nearly every evening spent with Eames in recent memory, had been absolutely lovely.

“There’s something I need to ask you about,” Arthur finally said. He tried to hide his nerves, but Eames knew all of his tells. He rubbed the stem of his wineglass back and forth between his finger and thumb.

“OK, what’s up?” Eames turned fully toward him, clearly ready to hear something serious. The skin around his eyes crinkled slightly, as if he were concentrating, or trying to guess what Arthur might have to say. “Is everything OK?”

He was, Arthur thought, the picture of a perfect boyfriend. Why was he doing this? Why couldn’t he just enjoy it? He sighed, and began. “These past few months have been...amazing.”

“I think so, too.” Eames broke in, smiling widely.

Arthur continued. “And I want to make sure you know that I am really happy with you. I’m happy we finally got together, and I’m really happy with how it’s working out.”

“But?” Eames prompted, the lines between his eyes growing deeper as he frowned.

“No, not but…” Arthur was flustered. This wasn’t coming out the way he’d practiced it in his head. “The thing is, the longer we’re together, the more I realize that I don’t really know you. You just...change. You become whatever I want you to be, or need you to be, in a given moment.” As he said it, far more bluntly than he’d intended, Arthur realized just how completely true it was. Even in bed, Eames morphed seamlessly, switching from dominant and unyielding to submissive and pliable, from intense to playful, depending on Arthur’s mood. It happened so constantly, and so well, it was barely noticeable.

“I’m not sure I understand,” Eames said. “You’re upset because I’m too...flexible?” He smirked. “Given your rigidity, darling, I think it’s pretty well necessary for me to be willing to bend on occasion.”

Arthur shook his head. “It’s not that. I know I can be inflexible, and I really appreciate your willingness to just let things be my way so often. But this is more than that. The longer we’re together, the clearer it is that I have no idea what your real preferences are, or why. Do you like Thai food, or Indian? Do you wake up early, or sleep late? Jesus, Eames, I don’t even know if you prefer to top or bottom! And I know nothing about where you came from. There was that one call that you said was your niece, and nothing since then about a family. You know my whole story, but I don’t know any of yours!” By the time he stopped for breath, Arthur knew he’d been building up to ranting. He was embarrassed, but not really sorry.

Eames smiled. “I just assumed you already knew everything you wanted to know,” he said, his voice soft. “Did you think I’d been hiding something from you?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know,” Arthur forced himself to put the wine glass on the table before he broke it. “I just...I feel like there has to be more. You have a history and memories and dreams and a life that I know nothing about. You’ve always talked a lot, but never really about yourself, at least not in any way that could be honest. You tell stories, but you don’t...you don’t give anything away.”

Eames frowned, then slowly nodded. “I guess that’s true,” he said, slowly. “I’ve been forging a long time, Arthur. Both topside and below, really. And that’s easier to do if you bury your actual self, so you have room for whomever you’re taking on.”

Arthur took a long breath before he answered. “I think maybe right now you’re still doing that,” he said. “The part you’re taking on is the one of my boyfriend, or whatever. But there’s still not really any you in it.” He reached out awkwardly and grabbed Eames’ hand. “And I want you. All of you.”

Eames grinned. “You can have any part of me you’d like. You know that.” He raised his eyebrows lasciviously.

“Don’t change the subject, Eames.”

“Alright, alright!” Eames raised his hands in mock surrender. “It’s not intentional. I’m not trying to hide anything. It honestly just doesn’t occur to me. If you want to hear every story of my childhood and meet every second cousin, you may. I’ll dig it all up if you want to know about it.”

Arthur was briefly shocked. He’d expected some sort of resistance, or at least some reticence about reliving what could well have been painful early years. But Eames’ face looked totally open.

“Just tell me where you want to start,” Eames continued. “Chapter 1, I am born?”

Arthur chuckled. “Yes,” he said. “But we’re probably going to need more wine first.”

They talked for hours. When the bugs drove them in from the patio, the sat on the couch, and when they started yawning there, they moved to the bed. The sun was beginning to rise before they finally went to sleep, Eames sprawled out on his back and Arthur on his stomach, with one arm thrown across Eames’ chest.

Eames made good on his word--answering every question Arthur thought to pose, and spinning off into stories and tangents far more real than his usual anecdotes. He explained that he was born into wealth, the second of three sons of a businessman and his socialite wife. He grew up in a giant house with parents who were mostly concerned with their own affairs, but he was close with his brothers. He was well-educated, public school all the way through, but had disappointed and shocked everybody in the family when he refused university and went into the military. His relationship with his family had disintegrated from there, and was further degraded when he turned to a full-time life of crime. His father’s connections had rescued him from a few early run-ins with the law, and after a particularly bad one, wherein Eames had been caught stealing a painting, his father told him never to contact any of them again. So he hadn’t.

Eames had been talking quite some time before it occurred to Arthur to ask the obvious question, the one Eames hadn’t already answered. “So, what’s your name, then?”

Eames laughed. “Alexander Eames,” he said. “I changed it legally in my early 20s.”

Arthur nodded. His own research into Eames as a potential team member, years back, had gone that far. “What about before?”

Eames sighed and tipped his head back. “Christopher Marshall Cumberland.” He groaned. “Isn’t that awful?”

Arthur chuckled. “Can’t really picture you as a Chris.” Then an even funnier thought struck him. “Or a Topher! Oh, please tell me you were a Topher!”

Eames cuffed him playfully. “I most certainly was not. Chris Cumberland.” He took a heavy breath. “God, that’s another lifetime, now.”

“Do you keep track of your family at all?” Arthur couldn’t quite imagine not at least knowing where your family was and if they were alive. He wasn’t the best son, maybe, but he could never cut his parents out completely.

“Yeah, I check on my brothers every now and again,” Eames said. “But really, it’s been so long...it’s like they’re not really my family anymore. Just people I used to know.”

“What about your niece? The one who called?”

“Sarah,” Eames said. “My eldest brother, Jacob, his daughter. She’s in university now. Has a bit of a hard time. Hits me up for cash every now and again.” He shrugged. “I don’t really know her, but I figure it’s something I can do to help.”

By the time their conversation had faded into occasional murmurs, both of them halfway asleep, Arthur felt more at ease than he had in a long time. All of Eames’ answers made sense, and he’d seemed to have no problem at all telling his stories. It really had been just force of habit for him to keep his own past and preferences hidden with Arthur, not any intention of manipulating him. Arthur fell asleep smiling, glad he’d finally brought his concerns to light.

Over the next few months, there were subtle changes in Arthur and Eames’ relationship. Eames was still very accommodating, and Arthur came to believe that Eames really didn’t care about what movie they watched or if they walked or drove. But Eames mentioned specific instances in his past more often, and Arthur learned that Eames didn’t like sushi or Tom Clancy and had a fondness for anything combining chocolate and mint. These were small things, but Arthur treasured them, feeling closer to Eames with each new morsel of knowledge.

They’d both been working shorter jobs, but then Arthur was called away on something longer--several months in Japan. It wasn’t dangerous or particularly interesting work, but very tedious and time consuming, and because Eames was in New York, the time difference made it hard for them to connect as often as Arthur would have liked. The phone calls and Skype sessions they managed were nearly always with one or the other of them exhausted, so they mostly kept in touch through bursts of text messages. Eames was a fantastic texter--bitingly funny one minute, sweet the next, and filthy after that. When Arthur looked down at his phone and saw a string of messages from Eames, his body felt lighter.

Late one night, Arthur laid in his hotel bed and opened his phone, intending to reread Eames’ messages of the day and perhaps use them to jumpstart his imagination and jerk off before going to sleep. As he read through them carefully, he noticed something off. If he hadn’t been so intent on savoring every word, he probably never would have caught it. Complaining of the incessant rain in New York. Eames had written it was “like being at school in Kent.” Arthur was nearly certain, though, that Eames’ last story of school had been set in Yorkshire.

Arthur sat up, his intentions for his hand and his dick forgotten. He could be remembering wrong, or Eames could be mistyping. It wasn’t anything that he should be concerned about. But it still stuck in his head, and the feeling of discomfort and distrust he’d harbored before he and Eames’ long talk once again came up in his throat.

“This is ridiculous,” Arthur muttered. He felt foolish and paranoid, but also knew he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about the discrepancy until he found a reason for it. It was like trying to balance accounts and being off by a few cents--it didn’t make any difference, but it ate at you just the same.

Arthur started to type a message back to Eames, asking him to clarify, then stopped himself. Eames had been nothing but patient with Arthur’s prying into his past, but he had to be feeling mistrusted from it. There was no reason for Arthur to let his own paranoia impact Eames that way. Instead, he erased the text and reached for his laptop. It should be easy enough to figure out where Christopher Marshall Cumberland went to school--those records had to be online somewhere.

Thirty minutes later, Arthur hadn’t moved from his position, cross-legged on the bed. His phone was forgotten beside him as he stared at his laptop screen. He read carefully, over and over, making sure of what he was seeing. He was hot all over, his stomach dropped from his body like he’d just fallen several stories in a broken elevator.

On the screen was the obituary of Christopher Marshall Cumberland, who had died mysteriously in 1998. He and his family--businessman father, socialite mother, one elder brother, one younger--had been on vacation in Morocco when they all died in their hotel beds. None of the bodies showed any sign of foul play, and the autopsies gave no clues. The entire Cumberland family simply did not wake up.

Arthur searched for hours. Previous to the date of the obituary, everything he found on Christopher Marshall Cumberland was exactly as Eames described it. There were even digitized copies of the high school newspaper from The King’s School in Kent, showing an athletic young Chris. The images were blurry, but the boy shown in them could well have been a 20 years younger Eames.

When he could find no more, Arthur sat back and rubbed his eyes. A glance at the digital clock told him it was after 4am, but he wouldn't be sleeping. He had no idea how to make it all make sense. Had every single thing Eames told him been a lie? How was it possible for Eames to really be a boy who died twenty years ago? How had the Cumberland family died? What did any of this mean?

Arthur’s instinct, as before, was to confront Eames directly and demand explanation. There had to be some reason for all of this, something he just wasn’t seeing. The problem was that Eames lied so easily--if he wanted to tell a cover story, to make Arthur believe, he probably could. Arthur didn’t want to think that Eames was playing him--it made his chest hurt and his stomach turn just to consider it--but if Eames was playing him, Arthur needed to make it stop.

For the next several days, Arthur stewed. In an effort not to engender Eames’ suspicion, he continued to answer texts, but he avoided Skype, not sure he’d be able to keep his composure upon actually seeing Eames’ face, knowing it was the face of someone who was supposed to be twenty years buried. Every night, Arthur spent hours scouring the Internet, looking for more clues as to what had happened--there were a lot of articles reporting the same information, and a few conspiracy theories on defunct message boards about the Cumberland family and their mysterious deaths, but nothing tangible. At the end of the week, Arthur didn’t really know anything more than he’d found out the first night.

When Arthur’s job wrapped up, he’d intended to go visit Eames in New York. He considered canceling the trip, making some excuse, maybe going to England to see if he could find anything other information about the Cumberlands. Finally, though, he decided against it. He couldn’t avoid Eames forever, and he was steeled enough now not to fall for any explanation Eames could spin. It was time to confront him.

Arthur didn’t give Eames any warning about his arrival. It was late by the time he got into the city, and he went directly to Eames’ hotel. When a knock at the door didn’t rouse Eames, Arthur used his lock picks to get inside. He’d never gone through Eames’ things before--that wasn’t his style--but if Eames wasn’t around, he was going to do so now. Maybe he’d find some clue there.

The room was quiet and dimly lit, and Eames was asleep on the bed. At first, Arthur was confused. Like most of those who worked in dreamshare, Eames was a very light sleeper; the knock on the door should have woken him. Then Arthur realized Eames wasn’t sleeping naturally; he was hooked to a PASIV. He must be practicing his forge. Glancing at the timer, he saw about 10 minutes left--a couple of hours below.

Arthur considered going through Eames’ things while he was in the dream, since he was unlikely to wake up. Despite his concerns, he couldn’t make himself do it. Perhaps if Eames hadn’t been in the room, but his sleeping presence just made Arthur feel too slimy. Instead, Arthur decided to hook himself up and see what Eames was doing below--it was a bit odd for him to be practicing a forge in his room, at night, instead of at the work site where he could be monitored. Maybe something else was going on. The situation was just odd enough to make Arthur nervous.

The dream was nearly pitch black, with no discernable shape. It was immediately off-putting, and nothing like Arthur would imagine Eames’ dreams to be. Nothing like he’d imagine anybody’s dreams to be. It took several long seconds for Arthur to even be sure he was oriented up and down and standing on his feet. It was as if gravity was not sure of itself. Finally, Arthur began to walk slowly forward, half expecting the ground to disappear beneath him with every step.

Arthur wasn’t sure how long he walked through the darkness, but he felt the world was amorphous, shifting around him. When he reached out, there were no walls. Above his head there was no indication of a ceiling. It didn’t feel like he was outside, either--there was no wind and no sound. Eames was nowhere to be seen.

Nervous, Arthur tried to dream himself a gun--he didn’t seen any specific need for a weapon, but he would feel better having one. To his surprise, it didn’t work. A hundred times or more he must have flicked his eyes closed in a dream and created a shoulder holster, a loaded Glock. This time, no matter how hard he tried, he never felt the familiar weight. Swallowing panic, Arthur tried different types of guns, then tried to create anything--a ball, a stone, a flashlight. Nothing. He couldn’t create in here.

For the first time since his discovery, Arthur wasn’t confused or angry. He was scared. He was trapped in this blackness, and there was no way out.

“Chill the fuck out,” he muttered to himself. “The timer will run out eventually.” With the lack of any better plan, he continued to slowly walk forward.

The door wasn’t really a door as such--it didn’t seem to have edges, or a distinct shape, or a handle. It was simply in front of Arthur one minute, and then the next it was gone, but he was standing in a room. The room was warmly lit and slightly dusty. The furniture was indistinct, but Arthur’s immediate feeling, upon crossing the threshold, was one of being near Eames. The room felt like Eames.

It was unsurprising, then, to see Eames was there, standing in front of an old dressing room mirror. For a moment, Arthur was calmed--Eames was practicing a forge. He’d never actually seen him do it before, as he always insisted upon complete privacy until he thought he had it down, but it was something natural, something he should be doing. It was something Arthur wasn’t afraid of. Eames didn’t seem to notice Arthur’s entering the room, so Arthur walked forward. As he was about to speak, he moved behind Eames, looking into the mirror.

Arthur’s heart stopped. It was only for a moment, but it literally stopped. The shock ran through him, electric, turning him cold and then burning him up. He opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out. He wanted to turn and run, but his body was rooted in place.

Though Arthur could see Eames in the room--his broad back, his slicked back hair, the smooth line of his nose and side of his full mouth--the mirror did not show Eames. The creature in the mirror looked nothing like Eames. It was enormous, taking up the entire field, much larger than Eames’ reflection should be. Its shape was grotesque, like a sculpture made of tiny pieces of clay stuck roughly together, obese, with barely distinct limbs, belly, and breasts. The lump that must have been its head was too small for the rest of its body, but had a huge orifice where the mouth should be, open and toothless. There did not appear to be eyes. Oversized hands were raised as if in praise.

“Arthur.” The voice, at least, was Eames’, though he did not turn around. “You ought to have known better than to come down here. You know I don’t like an audience when I’m working.”

Arthur stuttered for a moment before he replied. He could not tear his eyes away from the creature in the mirror. “What…what are you doing? What is that?”

Eames chuckled. “It’s my reflection.”

Forcing himself into action, Arthur took a step forward and held one hand out, making sure the form in front of him was solid. The shoulder he touched felt exactly like Eames’ shoulder should feel. Arthur reminded himself that nothing that happened here mattered--he could be scared breathless, but in ten minutes, he would still wake up in the hotel room and be just fine. In the mirror, the creature didn’t change. Arthur couldn’t see himself at all.

“That’s not what you look like,” Arthur said, softly.

In the mirror, the creatures’ mouth twisted into something like a grin. Then the shape shifted. It happened both quickly and without edges, the same way Eames morphed from one body to another in a dream. After a moment, the mirror showed a completely different, but equally terrifying, reflection. This time, it was medium sized, maybe four feet tall, with dark fur. It had pricked ears, a tail, and fangs. Its eyes glowed red, and each hand bore long claws.

Arthur sucked in a breath. “What the fuck are you doing, Eames? What kind of trick is this?”

Eames chuckled, and the creature in the mirror seemed to chuckle with him. “It’s not a trick.” Suddenly and without preamble, Eames turned and grabbed Arthur around the waist, pushing Arthur to stand in front of him, his big arms locked firmly around Arthur.

There was a brief struggle, but Arthur felt oddly weakened, as if he couldn’t fight Eames off even if he’d been willing to hurt him, so he fell still and continued to look at the mirror. Arthur could see himself now, but behind him wasn’t Eames. A new monster had taken his place, this one almost-human looking, with Eames general height, but marked green skin and long, stringy white hair. Its eyes were vacant orbs.

“This isn’t funny,” Arthur whispered.

“No, not really,” Eames agreed. Arthur tried to focus on the voice, which still sounded like Eames, and the feeling of the arms around him, which felt like Eames’ arms. He couldn’t pull his eyes from the mirror. “I take it you decided to look into my story? Nosy bastard.”

Eames didn’t sound particularly angry. Arthur was trepidatious, but he’d come here for a reason, and no matter how weird and frightening whatever was happening might be, he needed to see it through. “Yes,” he said, wishing his voice weren’t shaking. “Christopher Cumberland died in 1998. Along with his family.”

“Indeed.” Eames still sounded calm.

“So who are you, then?” Of all the questions Arthur had, that seemed the most pressing. Maybe after that was one was answered, the others would fall into place. “And don’t fucking lie anymore, Eames.”

“No reason to lie now,” Eames agreed. He tightened his grip on Arthur to just the point of painful. “But it’s not an easy question. I’ve got many names. Many forms.”

The image in the mirror shifted again. This time, Arthur saw himself being held by a large woman. Her breasts were bare, her skin mottled red. When Arthur tensed, a huge set of wings flared behind her. Arthur gasped.

“The Norse called us mares,” Eames said. “Demons who came while you slept and stole your dreams, or your breath.” Eames moved a hand around and cupped Arthur’s cock through his trousers.

Arthur drew in a harsh breath. “Like an incubus?” He couldn’t even predict his own voice now. While panic coursed through him, his body responded to Eames as it always did.

“Yes,” Eames said. The creature in the mirror smiled. “Something like that.”

As Arthur watched, the reflection changed. He saw his own drawn, frightened face and tensed body, and behind him was now a distinctly male creature, tall and thin, with wide eyes and a grinning, lascivious mouth. Its hands were clawed and it’s ears elfin. “In Old Germanic,” Eames voice came from behind him, though the creature’s mouth moved, “the word was alp.”  

Before Arthur could swallow enough to find an answer, the mirror shimmered again and now he was being held by a withered old woman, barely up to his shoulder, with stringy white hair and a hooked nose. Though she was tiny, the strength of her grip on him didn’t change. “In your country, at least in the Deep South, it was the hag. She’d fuck you in your sleep, riding you until you had no more air.” The finger running up and down Arthur’s cock continued, feeling like Eames, but the mirror showing the old woman’s skinny, long-nailed finger instead.

Arthur shook and tried to pull from Eames’ grasp, which was stronger than he’d ever thought it could be. He struggled, but Eames kept him there with no apparent effort. In the mirror, the hag barely moved. “What...what do you want?” Arthur’s head spun. “Is Eames still in there?”

The hag in the mirror smiled, showing rotten teeth. “I AM Eames.” The voice was still the one Arthur knew. “I have been Eames all along.”

Arthur thought he was screaming, but no sound came out. In the mirror, he was now held by a larger creature, with a build not unlike the one Arthur recognized as Eames. In fact, the creature looked very much like Eames, but for his pointed beard and horns. “A jinn,” Arthur breathed, recognizing the shape from art he’d seen.

“Got it in one,” Eames’ voice replied from behind him. The jinn in the mirror grinned.

“You killed the Cumberland family,” Arthur said, slowly. “That’s why the mystery. You killed them in their sleep.”

“I did,” Eames replied. In the mirror, he was now an ethereal looking woman, slight, with long, flowing hair. She appeared made from air, or shadow. Terrifying and silent, her mouth opened in a scream even as Eames’ voice continued from behind Arthur as normal. “When I did that, it was with this form,” he said. “The Russian Nocnitsa, who kills children in their nightmares.”

Arthur’s fear propelled him forward. “Why are you in human form? What do you want?”

He could feel Eames grinning, even as the image in the mirror changed again. The general female form remained, but it was clearly dead now, a young woman whose skin was peeling away, her eyes blown open sockets, water dripping from her corpse. “Wouldn’t you rather be a handsome, dashing man than go around as a domovoi,” he answered. “She’s been drowned, haunting the dreams of Latvians, looking for their breath to take as her own.” Arthur felt Eames breathe on the back of his neck, though the image in the mirror didn’t change. “Hard to get laid like that.”

Arthur shook, unable to stop. If he hadn’t spent his life seeing unbelievable things, his brain wouldn’t even have been able to continue moving forward. “Can I check my totem?” he asked, unable to reach into his pocket due to his pinned arms.

Eames laughed and shifted shape in the mirror again. He was handsome now, in a totally different way than usual. Slight and pretty, dark skinned, with dreamy almond-eyes. “Trauco,” he said. “Popular in the Philippines, and responsible for all sorts of mischief, especially unwanted pregnancies.” He sighed. “But he’ll kill you too, if motivated right.”

Arthur saw his totem in the mirror then, floating in front of him in the air, out of his reach. “Checking it will show you this is a dream,” Eames said, the mouth in the mirror matching his words, “but it doesn’t matter. We can go up and go through this all again, if you’d like.” He laughed. “These are just some of my faces.”

Suddenly, what Arthur saw in the mirror was Eames again, holding him tightly, his body pushed snug against Arthur’s. Arthur could feel Eames strong arms, his hard stomach, the bulge of his cock. He could smell Eames’ cologne and the smell that lived below it, of ink and smoke and sweat. He could feel Eames breathing. For a fleeting moment, he felt sure this had been a rare natural dream, something he’d wake up from, horrified, and wonder what in the hell his subconscious was trying to work out.

“It’s real, pet,” Eames breathed, close to his ear. “What better job for me than the one I have? Traipsing in and out of people’s dreams, and getting paid? Settling down next to unprotected brains for hours a day, stealing their secrets? Dream share was made for us. No need to hide, just wear a new face.”

The mirror changed again. The new creature who appeared was huge, its body a bear, an elephant’s trunk falling over Arthur’s shoulder, the long tail of an ox flicking from behind it. “A baku,” Eames explained. Arthur realized that though the arms around him felt the same, he couldn’t see them when he looked down. Eames’ voice was the same, but his smell had changed. He smelled like an animal. “The Japanese thought we were made of spare parts, left over when the world was created. We eat nightmares, but also good dreams. We eat fear, but also hope.”

A strange feeling filled Arthur. The terror was still there, his eyes unable to pull away from the spectacle in the mirror, but he also felt empty, without desire. Even his breathing seemed to slow and require effort. “Are you doing that?” he asked, the fear rising in his throat.

The baku in the mirror grinned. “You’ve been the best part, Arthur,” Eames voice said. “The biggest challenge. Even after all these years of being allowed into people’s dreams, causing chaos in their heads with their open invitation, there’s been nothing like laying down next to you. You sleep like there’s nothing else in the world, your mind totally blank. Nights in there are years long, filled with endless horror, endless joy. I feed on your grief and your pain and your hope and your love, and I’ve never been stronger.”

Arthur felt like he was going to fall. His knees no longer wanted to hold him. This couldn’t be real, it couldn’t be happening. The arms he felt but did not see continued to hold him up. “There’s nowhere to go, Arthur,” Eames voice continued. “Nothing will change.”

“Of course it will change,” Arthur gasped. His breathing felt labored again. The baku in the mirror shifted back, briefly to Eames’ actual form, then to the jinn Arthur had recognized, grinning and maniacal. “I’m not going to let you live off my dreams!”

The jinn laughed, and so did Eames. “You aren’t going to have a choice.” Though Arthur felt no hand move toward his face, he watched in the mirror as the jinn lifted his arms, a needle and thick, black thread appearing from nowhere, as things did in dreams. Arthur was paralyzed, completely unable to move. Only his eyes changed as the jinn began to use the needle to take large, jagged stitches, sewing shut Arthur’s mouth.

Arthur’s screams made no sound. He could feel every stitch, every push of the needle through his lips, every pull of the long thread. It was excruciating, the worst agony he’d ever felt. His head swam and he prayed silently to pass out, but there would be no relief here. He could not move, could not scream, could not escape. The jinn stitched slowly, but not carefully, the distances between the stitches uneven, the stitches in all different sizes.

When it was finally over, the needle and thread disappeared along with the jinn and Arthur saw Eames in the mirror again. Eames was still standing behind him, holding his body up. “Poor Arthur,” he cooed. “You’ll never be able to tell anyone.”

Arthur’s mind swung wildly. The pain had barely receded, making it difficult to think. The panic showed in his reflection, and Eames continued. “We thought inception was such a big thing,” he said, laughing a little. “Putting an idea in someone’s head, such a novelty. But I’ve been able to do that all along, darling. Everything you’ve ever felt for me, every time you’ve been anxious, or aroused, or,” he laughed, “tongue-tied. It’s all been me. I’ve had control of you for years, Arthur. Nothing is going to change now.”

Eames ran his hands over Arthur’s still paralyzed body. “You’ll wake up, and you’ll remember this. Remember it like a dream. You won’t be sure if it happened, or if you just need a long vacation. But it won’t matter, because you won’t be able to tell anybody. You’ll find me asleep next to you, and you won’t want to trust me. You’ll be afraid. But you’ll be logical, dedicated Arthur, and you’ll swallow your fear. You’ll let me fuck you, and you’ll let me lie to you, and you’ll make yourself believe I love you. You’ll make yourself believe I’m real. The memory will get hazy, but if you ever try to bring it up, with me or with anybody else, you’ll feel just like you do now, your body immobile, your lips sewed shut. You’ll be ashamed and afraid, and you’ll force yourself to swallow it, to ignore it, to pretend it never happened.”

Eames leaned down, his mouth touching Arthur’s ear, as Arthur watched in the mirror. He lifted one finger to Arthur’s lips, radiating agony, and said, dramatically, “Shhhh!” Then he hugged Arthur tight from behind, and feeling returned to Arthur’s limbs just as the dream began to fade away.

Arthur woke up slowly. His head felt heavy. He pressed his lips together in phantom pain. Next to him, Eames was waking up as well. “Arthur!” Eames grinned. “What a great surprise!”

When Eames reached for him, Arthur pulled back, instinctively recoiling, his stomach flipping in anxiety. His lips burned and his eyes widened.

“What’s wrong?” Eames asked, pulling back his hand and looking slightly hurt. “Are you OK? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Arthur shook his head slowly. Eames’ face was Eames’ face. The pillow on which he’d woken up held Eames’ scent. As he studied Arthur’s face, Eames’ expression of concern was one Arthur had seen a hundred times before. Everything was as it should be.

Arthur forced himself to move toward Eames on the bed, holding his arms out. Eames drew him in, and the hug felt like Eames’ hugs always felt, just on the right side of overwhelming. Still, Arthur was uneasy, almost panicked. I’ll just talk to him about it, Arthur thought. He remembered why he came, and the questions he had. He remembered the feeling of a bad dream he couldn’t shake. As he leaned against Eames’ chest, he opened his mouth to speak.

Though they weren’t the words in his mind, what Arthur heard himself say was, “I love you. I missed you.”

Eames pulled Arthur away far enough to meet his gaze. There was something predatory in Eames’ eyes, something that usually made Arthur’s blood quicken, but made him tense now. “I love you too, darling,” he said. He brought one hand up and traced Arthur’s lips. “I’m going to keep you with me for a long, long time.”

Endnote:

I am deeply indebted to “11 Mythical Sleep Creatures From Around The World,” written by Adam Bulger, Van Winkle’s, 12 October 2016. (https://vanwinkles.com/11-mythical-sleep-creatures-from-around-the-world)