Inception 1. Do You Dream of Color?

This fic was written for the inception_kink meme on livejournal. The prompt being: Eames is color blind.

* * *

White Feather

Do You Dream of Color?

For centuries a white feather has been a symbol of cowardice.

In British culture and traditions it only holds negativity.

Such a tiny, weightless thing holding such burden.

Eames knew all this but it never deterred him from keeping it close.

It wasn't his totem but he wanted it to be.

You can't have a feather as a totem.

It wasn't unique enough.

Why couldn't he have two totems?

Who made the bloody rules up anyway?

He treated it like a second totem though. It was so light that no one saw the impression it made in his trousers.

Unlike his totem the feather helped him remember to keep dreaming.

His totem helped him remember reality.

He needed that duality otherwise he was likely to slip precariously through the cracks

* * *

Yellow, Green, Blue, Indigo, Violet…these are just words.

He knows what things are supposed to be…

Certain apples are red.

The sky is blue.

The grass is green.

He memorizes these things for the sake of memorizing but sometimes he does forget.

It's like Chinese: if you don't speak it every once in a while you will forget it, it's just a matter of time.

A matter of when.

But he practices. Makes flashcards.

Corn is yellow.

Fields are gold.

Dirt is brown.

He can't possibly make flashcards for everything right?

Black

White

Gray

These are also words but these are the most important words.

He doesn't need to practice them or make flashcards.

These words Eames understands very well.

They are his world, his words.

* * *

Monochromacy.

He couldn't even pronounce it as a child.

He would just say: "I'm color blind". Whatever that meant and those sad little frowns would appear, eyes dropping, lips quivering.

Why did they feel sorry for him?

How does a person miss what they never had? He never had "color" (again another word) before.

It confused him, annoyed him.

Monochromacy. His condition. Rare. Genetic. Probably fewer than a couple thousand have it.

They should have a little club, a convention.

Eames would make them hats and they would take pictures and talk about how "They don't see color but don't see what all the fuss is about since they live more than half way normal lives."

They would chat about how hard it is to buy clothes without help and sometimes they miss references on the tellie but otherwise they are pretty happy.

Does he miss it?

Again, he never had it.

Does he cheesily wish he did? Sure. If only to feel slightly more normal. To know what the jokes were, what Suzie the weathergirl was actually wearing instead of her usual black drab, to know what all the fuss is about.

* * *

Dumping a large box of Crayola crayons on the floor was often a favorite childhood past time.

He would arrange them in a big pile and look at the foreign words on their sides and divide the big pile into two smaller ones

Teal? That just sounded obscene. What was teal? He thought gray maybe.

Chartreuse? An orange?

Sepia? A green perhaps?

Persimmon? Now that just sounded dirty.

"The colors he knew pile" would only be about a dozen and the other heaping pile was an enigma. But he liked to pretend.

* * *

He gets intrigued

It always starts with your first memory.

That's how it always starts right?

In his case an object.

His mother's necklace. A feather, dangling down. Always tickling his face, within his reach.

His mother didn't like it when he tried to put it in his mouth though.

The feather was true. Something that had one and only one color and would never change.

It was easy to perceive. Nothing else was simpler.

He loved it because everyone saw the same thing when they looked at it. It held no hidden meanings, no hidden colors.

It just was.

If you polled the entire world he was about 99.9% sure that most of the population would not say their favorite color was "white" but his was.

It was what he saw best. What he knew best.

And that's why he also loved snow, loved it when it blanketed everything. Again he knew everyone could see the same thing.

If only someone could see what he saw.

* * *

He gets frustrated

His father, his real father gave him his condition but no one knew where he was. He wasn't in his life.

His one real sister didn't have it. His half siblings didn't either.

The one person who had it was nowhere to be found.

But his family sympathized, tried to understand, his mother especially who felt guilty she bore him into the world with the condition.

There wasn't anything they could do. There was no cure.

"What is she wearing? What color?"

His mother and step father hated when he played this game when they were in public.

They told him it was rude to point, to ask.

But he wanted to know. To learn, to understand.

"You don't know what the colors mean anyway," his sister would say.

This was true but he still wanted to know.

* * *

He gets depressed

Other children make fun of him when they find out.

He tries to hide it but when he grabs things that aren't his they either bully him or just laugh harder.

"Yours is the pencil with green in it, this one is mine."

"Those aren't your gym shoes, yours are white, these are yellow."

"You're supposed to stand by the orange cones. Don't you see them?"

It embarrasses him, how feeble he is, how dependant he is on others, his teachers.

He would walk home crying.

Why couldn't he see what they saw?

A peek into their world?

* * *

He gets special treatment

He always gets more hugs, more sweets, more presents and more attention even though sometimes he doesn't want it nor deserves it.

His siblings always hate him for it; hold a grudge against him, blaming him for taking some of their precious youth and attention away since their parents were always fussing over him. He never lives it down.

He wasn't crippled or mentally challenged he just couldn't see certain things.

Couldn't someone show him?

* * *

He gets used to it

And by high school most people don't know him and some people even think it's cool.

"You're not missing anything anyway."

"Exactly."

He blindly buys clothes on his own, sick of his mother picking things out for him.

People get used to him wearing mismatched items, it's his "thing" and again they think it's cool.

"It brings out your eyes."

"What?"

"That blue sweater."

He looks down at it stupidly like he expects to know what color he's wearing, what they are actually talking about or wondering faintly if they're messing with him.

"Oh."

He's told he has grayish blue eyes. Told they are unique by lovers many a time. He wishes he could see them, see what they see, see how unique they really are but he takes their word for it.

He's told he has dirty blond hair. Again he takes their word for it. He knows what to put down on his identification and passports.

What does dirty blond mean anyway? He has no idea.

He always assumed it meant he was actually dirty, having to wash his hair multiple times until his step father picked up on it.

"You nutter it's a hair color it doesn't mean you have 'dirty hair'."

"They shouldn't call it that! That's way too confusing!"

Blond.

Blue eyes.

Not "light" and "light."

He has his mother's eyes he is told.

Father's hair.

Buying clothes was never fun but he tries desperately even though he can't tell what he's buying.

He goes out of his way to buy ridiculous things, loud prints and awkward patterns.

If he can't see them he might as well make his presence known in a way.

* * *

He doesn't tell people

Things get easier with age but he doesn't like to get into it.

Only his family and close friends know.

When it happens to come up, maybe with an overly curious or perceptive boyfriend he shies away from it, not wanting their pity, those sad smiles.

They always say: "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

And they can't give him a legitimate answer. He hates it.

When they press him asking what kind of color blindness he has he always says: "The worst kind" which usually shuts them right up, assuming the worst.

He laughs off the idea of a support groups.

He wasn't dying.

He laughs off the idea of therapists.

There's nothing wrong his mind, just his retinas.

He shrugs it all off.

There's nothing left to say about it.

* * *

No one ever wants to know what he DOES see and that's the hardest thing to swallow about the whole situation. They only want to know what he doesn't, focusing on the negative.

He is half way convinced no one really understands or ever will.

But he holds onto the feather in the wild hopes someone will understand, takes the time to find out what he does see.

And what does he see?

Light, Dark and in between.

Snow burying their small country home. The lush hills that he once didn't know which color they were now blanketed heavily in white, glistening in the morning sun like diamonds.

The dark night sky hanging low in the sky. Millions of stars and the moon carved into it looking milky and luminous .

The sky after a heavy rain: gray and still, threatening and angry.

And the feather which he kept after his mother passed away.

These are things that he sees and sees well.

He only wants to show someone so maybe they will understand.

* * *

This story has a companion piece called: "Black Moon" told from Arthur's POV. Both stories are from the same verse and can be read alone but encouraged to be read together as it will make more sense later. Both stories run parallel to each other.


	2. If I Could Have Just 1 Pure Thought

If I Could Have Just One Pure Thought...

Six of them crammed into their small country home.

He loved being outside when he was able.

Nature never asked him why he couldn't perceive color.

Nature never betrayed him like that.

He also didn't have much to do indoors as his siblings didn't like him and he didn't have many toys.

Just his imagination.

He knew they were poor without being told.

His step father was away a lot. His mum saying he worked multiple jobs to help "keep the house".

His mum didn't work, she stayed at home to take care of them.

She was a good mum, nurturing, loving, patient, protective, maybe a little too so. She coddled them, keeping them close to her skirts. She was also painfully naive to most things. But he loved her fiercely.

Her children were her life, making up for a first husband that ran out on her and a new husband that wasn't around a lot. She surrounded herself with children, filling her up.

He was about seven or eight when he caught wind of what his father was really out doing when he was away.

He thought he probably had a legitimate job (somewhere) but he picked up on that he liked to get money the fast and easy ways.

He would come home smelling like a chimney. The liquor smell coming off from him also was so strong that it smelled like he had bathed in it, hands impossibly dirty, clothes askew, hair mussed, eyes glassed over. Sometimes he would don fresh cuts or bruises or he would shake a little, stumble into their home, making too much noise.

He scared him a little when he was like this though he was never violent. He usually tried to escape everyone's attention, usually…

"Charlie," he would call out to him sometimes. Eames was the oldest child and the usual target for his step father's "moods".

Charlie wasn't even his name; just a nick name that his step father insisted on calling him because his deceased brother was named Charles and Eames "always reminded him of his little brother." Eames always hated it. He wasn't anyone's deceased brother. He was Eames.

"Charlie, I want to show you something," his dry, horse voice would crack out.

Eames knew to never disobey his wishes when he was like this, it would only cause more of a mess and would make his younger siblings confused and scared.

So he took the brunt of it.

Sometimes he could even be amusing or sweet, bringing him home something because he was the "disadvantaged child" and telling him funny stories. He loved to tell stories and he was always talking.

"I want to show you something," he slurred.

They had traveled downstairs to his little "workshop", basically a 4X4, little area with a crapshoot workbench with rusty tools hanging on the wall, his ashtray full to the brim of old cigarettes, little odds and bits of things he was going to "fix" but never got around to scattered all over.

Eames was leery. His step father always did the "things his mother didn't like" downstairs, out of sight.

Eames suppressed a groan rising in his throat.

"I want to show you how to play dice."

Thus began his step father showing him all the illegal things that he was doing to "provide" for the family.

But Eames had no idea why.

They played dice and cards, he showed him how to pickpocket.

It was "their secret".

Of course this led to his siblings holding even a deeper grudge against him, taking away the attention from their father whom they didn't get to see too often.

He hated it.

He was taking the attention because if he didn't then Lord knew what his step father would do yet his siblings hated him for it. He was stuck and he hated it.

He was a fast learner though and by the time he was nine and "ready enough" his step father took it to the next level and then Eames understood why he was teaching him.

He was a pawn in his schemes, his cons.

Pick pocketing, distracting people while his step father did things or sometimes they would change it up and his step father would do the distracting and Eames would pick pocket. They pulled cons, cheated lotteries, convinced old and feeble minded people to donate money to his "crippled son", sometimes all of these within the same day. When Eames had enough, total betrayal and fury crippling his young mind and he refused to continue his step father would give him these looks and would say: "If you want your mother and your brothers and sister to die then yes just stop."

He would say they couldn't buy food without it and he surely couldn't continue without him when really he was just too proud to get government assistance, to admit that he couldn't provide for his family on just his normal salary and what that was Eames never knew. His father never discussed that or what his "real" job was.

Certainly he could help his step father and mum out by doing just a few more jobs, pick pocketing a bit more?

Eames would stifle back tears and nod curtly.

He was stuck again.

He was tempted many times in confessing to his mum but deep down he thought she already knew but just ignored it, turned a blind eye, hid it in her naivety.

And what would happen if he did say something?

His step father would certainly go to jail or worse and his siblings and mum would really would hate him, they would be put out on the street, maybe they would really die?

So he endured it.

Spent more time in bars, back alleys, brothels and clubs than any ten year old had any right to.

His step father's "friends" took a shining to him though and took great amusement in the fact that he was getting almost as good as them at cards.

He learned to take on "that role". The one where he wasn't himself but he wasn't quite sure who he really was supposed to be.

Was he the street urchin? The traveling side show performer? The delinquent? The con artist? The thief? Liar? Babysitter? Thug? Grunt? Lowlife? Or was he was any or all of these at one time, constantly performing?

As expected he became excellent at lying. Lying to his mother, his siblings, teachers, friends, school mates and even himself.

"Why are you gone all the time?"

"Been staying late after school to study."

"Why are you always with Daddy?"

"I'm not with him all the time, you prat. I have a life too you know. I joined a club after school."

His step father never asked what he saw, never bothered to know what HE wanted or what he dreamed about. It was all about making the next deal, running to meet the next person, securing the next this or that, getting the next pound sterling, surviving week to week, day to day, hour to hour. He had no doubt that they were risking their lives every minute.

He knew where his father hid the money downstairs, spied on him once when he was particularly drunk and stupid. He hid it inconspicuously in some old coffee cans under some boxes. Eames knew he could easily steal it all and leave and sometimes he had half wild thoughts of doing just that.

But he couldn't. He couldn't leave his family with nothing but he was becoming nothing himself.

By thirteen he was surpassing his step father's skills, his step father knowing this and it made him angry.

His protégée was out growing him. The person he built up, molded and sculpted was now raking in more than him on a daily basis.

It hurt his step father's pride, his eyes said but his lips said differently.

"You're nothing without me you little twit! Never forget that! I made you who you are and you'll never be better than me!"

But Eames was.

His strength was cards and he was beating his step father and his friends weekly at poker during their illegal "games".

He wasn't sure how he had honed in on the skill but he still hated it but was somehow pleased he was better at something than most people.

He couldn't see correctly and his life was one big lie but he was good at taking people's money.

He got deep satisfaction from it and he did really love money especially when he could pocket a little himself to buy dirty magazines or fags.

He got pleasure out of knowing that other children his age weren't bringing in money, weren't providers, didn't work hard or even have jobs yet.

He was an adult. They definitely were not.

He did miss out on some precious things by bypassing his youth but he didn't know any other way. Like with being color blind how could he miss what he didn't have?

He was getting hardened, trained, had his role down pact.

Schmoozing became part of the act so he became naturally very good with people, people liking his calm but authoritative voice, his never breaking gaze, the way he positioned his body-his hands, the way he leaned in when they spoke, they way he smiled without showing a lot of teeth. People trusted him. These were things that his step father never showed him. Eames learned these things on his own and was why he was better than his step father at conning and cheating because he adapted to the situation, blending in when called for.

Again his step father knew all this and because he was an angry, surly, proud, bitter prick he was going to send Eames away to boarding school, not wanting him to monopolize, take over, surpass him even more. He wanted to be the sole bread winner of the household, wanted his wife's eyes to light up when she saw the money and he didn't "need Eames anymore now since the kids were all getting older". He would teach William, his youngest half brother, the trade if he needed but both of them knew that was a lie. William was too old, not impressionable and all around no good.

"Don't waste the money on the school I'll just stop."

And his step father would just glare at him.

"But you can never stop Charlie, you can never stop. You're into deep. It's a part of you now. You can't separate the two. Born a thief and you'll die and thief. You need to leave."

His step father paid for the military boarding school out of his own pocket, the hoarded money out of his coffers.

His mum was bewildered, besides herself, hysterical and his parents fought about it. His step father won of course.

"What will I do without you Sweets?"

She would cry into his shoulder and he would hold her tight, her frail form so light against him, sharp edges and bone and scratchy sweater. He would hold her close until her sobbing stopped. He never wanted to let go.

It was all for her. It was always for her.

Even his sister seemed displeased that he was shoving off, hiding her sadness under anger.

His half brothers could give a shit less, almost pleased that the "weird, spoiled child that got all the attention" was leaving.

He wasn't given a choice. He never has. Even with his mum's protests he still left at fourteen and he would only be back scarcely, his step father wanting him away, out of sight.

Darkness and Light.

"You can never stop. You're into deep. It's a part of you now."

"Born a thief. Die a thief."

He only allowed himself to cry over his mum when he opened his suitcase and found she had sneaked in something with a note attached.

_"So you won't forget to keep dreaming."_

It was her white feather necklace, the one she knew he always loved.

Maybe someday he could come back. To not be punished for something that wasn't his fault, for the person he became unwillingly.

Oh geez. Such a downer :( Just like with Black Moon this story starts out very dark but gets lighter. I promise!

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**Reviews are much appreciated!**


	3. Almost Dark

Almost Dark

The boarding school wasn't as bad as he thought though he ached for his mum.

Instead of wearing the feather necklace around his neck he removed the feather from the chain. At first he would keep it in his dresser drawer and pull it out secretly every once in a while but as time went on and he got increasingly more homesick and missed her he started carrying it around in his trousers.

He felt like one of those religious fanatics that carried around little metal crosses or rosaries, putting them in their pockets, touching them to feel closer to God or to remind themselves that they weren't alone, that someone or something was driving them or watching over them.

He would laugh at the imagery and the similarities but he too would be reminded that he wasn't alone when his fingers would brush the delicate feather. The idea that he "shouldn't forget to keep dreaming" was what drove him.

And he did dream, he dreamt bigger. Tried to make the most of what he had.

The life that his step father had built up for him made him good around strangers and the other boys warmed up to him.

He earned that reputation of wearing exactly the wrong clothes in their off times from wearing their uniform but most of the boys were used to this and only lightly teased him. He became popular even.

He used his schmoozing and persuasive skills to win boy's hearts as well or at least convince them to sleep with him; he probably didn't own any hearts. He was always after someone, chasing some Tom, Dick or Harry.

He would have liked to have been chased but pursuing always came easier. As with his condition he just got used to it, accepted it.

It was that sense of duty instilled in him that made him want to pursue, wanting to give instead of take but he got bored easily.

But he did have boyfriends even though it was heavily frowned upon and other boys made fun of him. He didn't care. He frequently got in trouble-caught smoking underage, drinking, again underage, and "fighting"-it was just some good, clean rough housing really, a little drugs, gambling, public nudity (that was hardly his fault), public, grand displays of snogging and of course sneaking into other boy's dorms for a shag.

They couldn't kick him out though-he was at the top of his class due to his expert cheating and bribing or conning his way into other boys doing his homework and papers. They would threaten to expel him and call up his step father but he would just throw more money at them to keep Eames there and out of sight. He was financing their private, expensive institution.

He was golden. If only he didn't have a dull ache in his heart he would think he was almost happy.

* * *

He was 17, almost 18 that May when he graduated. No one attended of course. They weren't "allowed to" as his step father apparently made all the decisions for the household.

Once he graduated he made immediate, hasty plans to return home. He didn't care if his step father didn't want to see him. His heart and body, really his whole being was aching to see his mum, only for a little while. To hold her frail body in his strong arms, to let her know she wasn't alone, to return a little of what she had given him with the necklace.

The day he bought his train ticket to go home he got the call.

"Mum's dead… auto accident. Perry was with her, driving, but I guess he's ok…" his sister was sobbing, hysterical, words barely audible and running together.

Eames couldn't hear much after : "Mum's dead." He couldn't hear anything at all except his blood pounding behind his ears.

He fingers fumbled numbly for the feather in his pocket, he grasped at a light post to support himself and almost fell to the ground, feeling breathless, the wind knocked out of him. The life knocked out of him...

"Dan? Dan?"

"I'm here." But he wasn't.

"Are you coming home? We need to arrange things."

Where was his step father? Where were his brothers?

As if she knew what he was thinking, about to say…

"They left, Dan. They took off right after it happened..." she barely could get the words out through sobs.

"What do you mean they left?" His voice was robotic, small sounding.

"Don't know. Went over to their apartment and everything was gone. GONE!" she practically screamed in frustration.

"Apartment?" his mind was too overloaded with new, frightening knowledge.

"Yes. Our old house on Trimble? They moved weeks ago, Dan. I thought Perry phoned you?"

He felt like he was melting into the pavement. His world was fiery crimson, anger replacing some of the crushing agony of loss. He was having trouble catching his breath, black dots swirling in front of his vision and before he knew what was happening he was slumping to the ground, caving in on himself.

A con.

It was all a con.

Car accident? Them leaving right after it happened?

He played her, played them like a fiddle.

"She had a life insurance policy?" he heard himself ask, burying his face in his hands, his voice sounding like it was coming from a long tunnel.

"Yeah," she sniffled.

Eames squeezed his eyes shut, her one word the final nail in his coffin.

He imagined how his step father got his mum into the car. How he orchestrated the motor accident, timing things correctly so that only the passenger side of the car would be destroyed or maybe he just dived out of the car at the right time, expecting the crash. Either way he knew what he was doing. Eames didn't doubt for an instant he was behind it.

He took the life insurance policy money that clearly was all left to him and ran.

The money he had stored in their basement for all those years, in his coffers wasn't for them to go to college, to fix up the house, to put food on the table. It was for him and his sons to start a life together, to move on to the next con.

Eames had taken part in it, had helped him get some of that money.

_Oh God…_

His sister was still crying, trying to speak through the sobs but he could barely make it out, could barely concentrate through the dizzying revelations.

"Are you coming home?" she repeated.

He had no idea where that was anymore.

* * *

His step father and brothers were nowhere to be found; they looked and exhausted all their connections. They did not attend the funeral of course. It was so hard not to think that his step father repeated his mum's first husband's performance, his sons following.

He couldn't believe he didn't see it. All this time he thought he out grew him, out mastered him, was better at conning and thieving and here he pulls the biggest con right under his nose. He pretended to love his mum, pretended to give a damn about his step children.

He made Eames' life a living hell. He had made him who he was out of pure selfish purposes, to get more money and maybe just to fuck with him. He had sent him away when he realized that Eames was getting better than him and he knew that if Eames stayed around long enough he would probably catch on to the con.

He didn't know what the worst feeling was: that they were all conned, Eames contributed, his life felt like a total sham or that she was dead-the one hurt most by all of this, it cost her life.

They buried her at dusk. Eames wished he knew exactly what that meant. He guessed it was how much light was in the sky but to him it just looked almost dark. His world felt much like that: almost dark

His sister squeezed at his hand, almost clinging to him, unable to look as she was lowered into the ground. Eames understood the feeling. He kept an arm around her protectively and one buried deep in his pocket.

Him and his sister bonded over the experience, having to plan the funeral, making all the tough decisions. You don't go through something like that and not get closer to someone. They were tighter now than they ever were. It was a shame he would have to leave her.

He knew what he had to do.

"Where are you going to go now? What are you going to do? she asked, wiping at her small face.

"I don't know."

But he knew.

He took two buses.

He wanted to see it with his own eyes. To know that the house he grew up in was just that, no longer his home but just a house. The house built from shame, from a lie. The house where he was forced into becoming something else.

The shabby "For Sale" sign was perched outside.

The locks had been changed but he knew how to pick a lock, something his dead beat step father showed him once a long time ago.

He walked from room to room, taking in the familiar musty smells.

He took in everything familiar but yet strange since he hadn't walked through the house in at least a year-the peeling wallpaper, chipped paint, water stained ceilings, buckling wood floors, bare light bulbs, and thread bare and stained carpets all greeted him like old friends.

He walked to the room he shared with his brothers.

All that was left were the badly scuffed wood floors and a couple wire hangers in the small closet.

He stood in the middle of the room feeling he was taking up negative space.

He found himself down in the basement in his: "father's area."

His smell still lingered, mingled with the scents of the space-his tobacco, aftershave, sweat, disinfectant, dust and mold.

There were still some of his things scattered around, little odds and ends like they packed up in a hurry. Which they did.

He found something useful and pocketed it.

He walked through the small house one more time, touching the walls, reveling in old memories and finally standing in the space where his mum's rocking chair used to sit in the corner. Standing in her space, the empty void made his brain hum.

It was unnerving, standing in a space she always occupied. It just felt so wrong.

This house was wrong.

He went into what used to be their dining room and dumped what was left of the lighter fluid he found downstairs on the disgusting wood floor. He lit a fag, taking a few puffs, not wanting to waste the whole thing.

He flicked it into the spot doused with lighter fluid, knowing but not caring that he was leaving behind evidence.

The old dining room erupted in flames a second later, engulfing the space.

He walked out slowly, backwards; watching the flames eat away at the walls, lick away at the floor. He saw the dark spots it left on the ceiling.

He stayed inside as long as he dared until thick smoke singed his lungs, made his eyes water, until he was coughing and feeling dizzy and breathless.

He walked around outside, circled to the back yard, new fag lit.

_"It was a day like this and my house burnt down and the walls were thin and they crashed to the ground It was a day like this and my life unwound you could've struck me a line and that's okay now we could always put it together again. You could've told me a lie, and a lie so thin, so thin now everything's clear day after day and the life goes on and I try to see the good in everyone. If I ever find myself here again I'll give everything."_

He watched the small country home burn, knew it was stupid to watch it as it would pin him to the crime but he needed to see it burn to the ground. He needed it to be gone.

The house only held bad memories and didn't stand for what it should anymore.

His mother loved that little house dearly and now it seemed his step father had pissed away all her dreams.

_"So you won't forget to keep dreaming."_

She had given up everything for her children, for a man that clearly was using her and had given up on her own dreams.

_"So you won't forget to keep dreaming."_

He touched at the feather in his pocket and realized his mum's note was a warning. "Don't let this happen to you" type of message. She didn't want him to repeat her mistakes. He closed his eyes.

_I won't forget, I won't forget._

He enjoyed his fag, wishing he could see what color his old house was as the flames broke through the windows, heavy black smoke swirling up to meet the sky.

He was going to be pinned to this arson but he almost didn't care. He owed it to his mother, his sister and himself to rid them of the bad memories that still lingered in it.

He only left when he heard the fire trucks approaching.

The police found him the next day. He was sleeping on the streets, nowhere to go.

The fire reports found his fag, linked it to him.

He didn't deny it and why should he?

He was going to do time, minimum security, practically juvie. He would still have some visitor's rights, some other small amenities. He was only 17 and his first offense so the sentence wasn't too bad.

He spent his 18th birthday, something he was looking forward to in a cold jail cell. He practically lay on his bunk and started up at the ceiling all day. Definitely not how he imagined spending the milestone. Birthdays were meant to be celebrated.

His sister wouldn't speak to him right away when she came to visit him, sitting with him in the supervised common area. She sat across from him at the shabby plastic table, her eyes red and puffy from crying. They would stare at each other for a while until she cracked.

"God damnit, Dan! What did you think would happen?"

"I wanted it obliterated. I wanted it gone. That house doesn't define us anymore."

She searched his face; hers twisted up in shock, betrayal and bewilderment.

"You're going to get sent away after this. They'll send you to the military or some boy's home; you won't be able to get a normal job. I won't see you..."

He wanted to remind her that they weren't very close for most of their lives and didn't see each other a lot but he bit it back. Despite all that he would miss her. She was unfortunately just a necessary casualty in all this

"Sam, I'll still see you. I'll make a point to."

She clung to him and cried, the guards barking at her to release him and back away from the prisoner. No touching or too close of contact was allowed.

She regrettably released him.

"I can't lose you too," she said as she dabbed at her face with a tissue.

He didn't understand her fear but now he thought he did.

She had lost all of her family. With him leaving she was all alone. He was in "provider" and "protective" mode once again.

It might have been his military training but he felt a huge sense of duty.

"I'll come back for you."

"You better."

* * *

Six months didn't seem like a horribly long time locked up. His sister did come to see him but reminded him every time how angry she was at him.

Just like with the military academy he got on with the other inmates, his fellow juvies.

He got his first tattoo on the inside. The phrase: "I'll never forget to keep dreaming" on his abdomen with sloppy prison ink. He couldn't think of any better way to mark that time in his life and the way he got it he would always remember.

His people skills, good looks and sweet talking earned him lots of perks and he was let go on good behavior.

He was destined to come back though. He had too much time to think when he was inside. Sometimes all he had were his thoughts and he had formulated a plan.

He called up one of his old buddies from the academy almost immediately when he was let go. His sister would be furious with him that he didn't phone her first.

He picked up after what seemed a lifetime.

"'Ello?"

"Rup, it's me…"

"Danny?"

"The one and only."

"Bloody hell. It's been ages man. How you been?"

Eames bit his lip, considered telling him the truth. He had known Rupert all through his high school days. It first started as it always did-Eames chased him. They had fucked but…it was only one time and neither of them wanted to relive it, their personalities were way too similar. Rup hung around for some reason and they got on as friends somehow miraculously after that, Rup worming his way in. Eames only wished he didn't have to keep running. He could keep friends longer.

"Alright... Listen, I need a favor."

"I haven't talked to you in bloody forever and you're already asking for favors? Fuck, Dan," he laughed. "You never change."

"Right."

"What do you need?"

Eames twisted around the small phone booth looking inconspicuously over his shoulders, making sure no one was around.

"I need a gun, Rup. No serial numbers, no record and I need it soon."

* * *

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	4. Keeping Promises

Keeping Promises

There was a pause on the other end as Rup absorbed his words.

"You in some kind of trouble, Danny?"

Eames wants to say: "Not yet" but represses it.

He looks cautiously over his shoulders again.

He was going to have to get used to it. He would be running for a while.

When Eames didn't respond Rup sighed dejectedly into the phone.

"Ok. I get it. If you're in a jam you can call on me, you hear?"

The less he involved anyone the better. Anyone that helped him could be seen as an accomplice, an accessory. He closed his eyes and bit down on his tongue hard almost drawing blood. He promised his sister that he would come back for her but he knew he couldn't keep that promise just yet.

First he had to fulfill the silent promise to his mum-he wasn't going to forget to keep dreaming. He was dreaming of hunting him down and killing him. Killing him dead.

Rupert had a lot of connections of the not so legal variety but even they couldn't track down his step father. It was a path that he had to walk alone

There was a reason why Eames surpassed his step father's skills at 13. He was better than him. He was a 40 year old something man and too cocky for his own good. Eames too was cocky at times too but he was always learning, always changing, always adapting. He would find him-even if it took the rest of his life. He wouldn't stop.

But that did mean he had to keep moving.

Rup was going to have one of his boys have the gun deposited in a locker at the Euston train station. The key to the locker was going to be taped to the backside of a toilet in the third stall in the west most men's loo.

He thanked Rup profusely and knowing he wouldn't want payment but he was going to wire him some as soon as he had it. Which proved to be another problem.

* * *

"I need money."

"Hello to you too."

"Can you wire me some?"

"Can't I just drop it off with the guards when I come visit you next week?"

The less Sam knew where he was or what he was up to the better. If she kept thinking he was in prison, at least for a little while then he thought he bought her some time.

If his step father caught wind of what he was doing he had no doubt that he would be able to track her down and kill her just like he did with their mum.

"I need some now. You know I'll pay you back once I get a job…"

"You were gambling again weren't you?"

"Yeah," because she suggested it and lying was just easier. All in the matter of protecting her.

She sighs angrily and they bicker. Eames reminds her that he's two years older, still her big brother and they fight some more until she finally gives in and wires the money. The prison did have western union so she isn't suspicious of sending it.

He was able to pick it up at the petrol station.

He uses some of the meager sum to buy a bus ticket to London so he can fetch his gun.

Once he's alone in his little motel room he opens the bag and pears at the gun. It's a Beretta M9, serial numbers filed off like he asked. There's even a silencer in the bag. Eames smiles faintly. Rup's thought of everything.

He picks it up, tests the weight and how it feels in his hand and against his fingers.

He looks at himself in the mirror while holding it and knows that he's going to be holding onto this gun for a while. He won't be able to not associate it with taking care of a much needed problem.

He practices with it because he's never used this kind of gun before.

He knows no amount of practice will train him for the real thing however.

_"I'll come back for you."_

He closes his eyes, not wanting to see the reflection of shame and disappointment on his face through the mirror. He has no idea when he can come back to her. A promise deep in his heart. One that won't let go. He only hopes she can forgive him.

* * *

It took five long months.

Five months of barely living-just existing. He barely slept, barely ate. Barely did anything but keep moving. He would stay in cheap motels, homeless shelters or just sleep on the streets like a dog. The money his sister wired him ran out after the first couple days so he had to resort to the old ways. Did he feel good about lifting wallets or cheating at illegal poker games? From swindling people? From tricking them? From lying to them? Praying on the innocent and weak just so he could catch another train or bus when he heard rumors that his step father may be in that town? From using the same tools he was taught by the very same man he was hunting down? The lines between what was right and what was necessary to survive were becoming blurred. He didn't feel good but he didn't feel bad either. It was hard for him to feel anything at all. But he did feel some guilt, hardened around the desire to kill.

He heard whispers from the underground. Old contacts and "friends" his step father had didn't really talk but he was able to catch enough of a trail to follow him halfway around the UK and back.

All the while he's moving; more like running and he can't stop.

He knew his sister may never speak to him again-they may go back to how they were when they were children but he still keeps running.

He has to do it for his mum. He can't let this monster survive.

* * *

He sits in the still running car he's hotwired and stolen looking down below the ridge.

He grips the steering wheel tightly as he takes in the scene below. It's anything then what he expected but he figured he never knew his step father at all anyway. It was all a lie.

But it's over now. It ends here.

The sun is just rising and the March dawn air is exceptionally chilly. It blasts his skin as he steps carefully out of the car.

He watches his hot breath expel out in front of him. Smokes a fag and watches that too.

He leans against the old, beat up car and smokes until it almost burns his fingers.

He doesn't feel anything.

The world is eerily calm and still. He is too.

He gazes down to the almost picturesque scene below. To the large field that leads to a quaint farm. Eames thinks it would almost be peaceful but he knows what's lurking between the walls and he spits.

The morning rays are just lighting up the fields below.

_They're gold_ he recites in his head, thinking back to the flashcards his mum helped him make when he was a boy.

Fields are supposed to be gold. He imagines whatever that's supposed to mean. He knows gold is a metal. It's used to make jewelry and loads of other things. He didn't understand how it was a color. When people would say: "Golden rays" he imagined jewelry raining from the sky. The saying, expression, or whatever it was never made sense or computed with him. Just one of the many things he didn't understand. He felt the familiar weight of the berretta under the waistband of his trousers. That's something he definitely understood.

The corn, its yellow he thinks to himself, sways in the breeze and he spies the farm house just beyond the field, nestled between trees and a dirt road. He wishes he has a sniper rifle. He almost curses himself for not thinking of it.

He smokes another fag and paces a while, watching the sun come up and he is eerily calm. Even his moderate military training at the academy has not prepared him for something like this, for the actual act. He's running on instinct, always has.

The ground is covered with a light frost and it crunches underneath his boots as he moves through the endless field.

He frightens the horses as he walks through the small pasture. They scatter and he can see the heavy streams of breath they're expelling through their nostrils. The air is crisp and it smells like animals, manure and grass. He sneaks around to the back of the big barn and is surprised that it's not locked.

He isn't sure what he'll find but he slips in and he see's him. He's bent over, back to him, sitting on a stool milking a cow and this momentarily stuns Eames. He thinks it's the most absurd thing he's ever witnessed and not all at how he saw this happening. His step father was not a "country" person. Again he is reminded that he never really knew this man. Was his name even Perry Alden? Eames didn't think so. He stares at him for probably half a minute as he works the udders of the cow.

It was a half minute that would normally get him killed. Instead of getting him killed however it only somehow announces his presence amongst the cowbells and moos echoing off the high barn walls.

"I was wondering when you would find me."

His step father is still milking, not a care in the world.

"Turn around."

Eames has the gun trained to his back but he wants to see him when he pulls the trigger. Wants to see the man's face that's killed his mum.

His step father obliges.

He rises from the stool slowly and turns around to face him. His face is not one of surprise or terror but of smug indifference.

"You know why I'm here. Why did you do it?"

His step father laughs, digging his hands in his pockets.

Eames motions for him to stop and again he obliges slowly, keeping his hands to his sides.

"You were always so inquisitive," his voice is hiding a laugh. His face twists up in a snarl, his eyes dark, shiny and mad.

"Don't ask questions you already know the answers to, Charlie."

"That's not my name!" he yells, startling the cows.

He didn't want him to know that he got to him but the nickname had worn him thin over the years. He wasn't anybody's dead brother. It was bad enough he was molded into something he had no control over.

His step father laughs bitterly again.

"You don't know WHAT your name is, you pitiful creature."

Eames continues to train the gun to his chest, eyes narrowed.

"Color blind AND you don't know a thing about your past," he makes a disgusted noise and spits on the ground.

"Is it James? Or is it Daniel, your middle name that you insist on going by?"

Eames clenches his jaw, finger itching on the trigger.

"It's Daniel," he spits out.

His step father laughs again, shaking his head.

"You really have no idea do you?"

"Shut up! You're going to tell me right now why you did it!" he trains the gun higher in true military form at his head. He was always a good marksman, his shots true.

"No, Charlie or Daniel or whatever you call yourself ! Why WE did it. Ask yourself why we did it. You helped me and so did your father..."

His resolve slips and so does his arm that's pointing the gun. He falters, his mind rattled. The bastard knows how to get to him, guilt him and wear him down. He should already have pulled the trigger but his words stunned him, kept him locked in place.

"That's right. Your biological father," he continues when he notices Eames' pause.

"Shut up!" he screams but it's weaker this time, his voice thin.

His step father takes a small step towards him and Eames makes a motion with his gun for him to back away and his step father stops but doesn't retreat.

"You're not in the least bit curious about him? Hmmm? He's my brother, Char...Daniel."

And now his words have their tethers in him because he's barely heard anything about his biological father, his mum not wanting to mention him, too hurt over the way he ran out on her. He only knows that his name is James Eames, he left shortly after his sister was born and that he passed along the Monochromacy, his color blindness to Eames. His mum never kept any photographs of him.

He continues to train the gun on him but the gun feels heavy and awkward in his hand and his arm is getting tired from pointing.

He knows somewhere in the back of his brain that his step father maybe lying to him, setting him up, conning him but another part of his brain is latching onto the idea that he has information about his father, his real father. His mind still can't wrap around the idea that his step father, rather ex step father is related to the man that ran out on his mum the first time.

His step father is closer to him now and Eames curses his stupidity, his hastiness in trusting this man.

"Why don't you put the gun down and we'll talk. Hmm? Man to man."

But Eames doesn't put it down.

"How about you tell me what you know or I put a bullet between your eyes?" He tries hard to sound confident and cold but his voice is still too small.

His step father chuckles a bit and crosses his arms.

"That's not how this is going to work. You can shoot me if you like but then you'll never know. You'll never know about the first man that ran out on you and your mum and you'll never know where to find him," he chuckles, flashing crooked, stained teeth.

A silence falls over the barn, the animals unusually quiet or it could be that Eames can only hear his heart pounding in his chest and the blood behind his ears.

His step father takes another step towards him.

"How about it? Throw the gun over there and we'll go up to the house and talk. Then once we've had our chat you can decide if you want to come back for the gun. But I do warn you," he's fishing inside his jacket and is showing Eames he's grabbing his fags. "I do have a shotgun stored in the house and I will use it if you try anything," he lights a fag and offers one to Eames-a peace offering.

Eames' arm is lowering and he's taking the cigarette and fuck. Is he really doing this?

"How can I trust you?" his step father leans in and lights both their fags.

The older man, once his teacher inhales deeply and exhales out his nose, looking around the barn.

"You don't but we'll make more progress without guns being waved around. You are a clever boy aren't you?" he winks.

Eames tosses the gun to the side.

They smoke, morning light filtering in through the small, high windows and they listen to the cows in the barn. After they're finished they take turns frisking each other because he's right-there is no trust. Both are men of action, con men, liars and thieves and they don't want to take any unnecessary risks.

He walks numbly after his step father as they pass tractors and farm equipment, chicken coops and animal pens and into the little farm house.

Again Eames is struck that this is anything but what he expected. It could all be a con within a con within a con. Maybe his step father is working another con at this place? Could your whole life be a con?

He sits him down at a small, worn kitchen table and offers him a drink but Eames declines. His step father is scooping coffee into an ancient percolator and is looking out the kitchen window presumably to the livestock milling around.

Most people would see that as a protective or nurturing gesture but all Eames can think of is that it's fake, another lie wrapped up in a fantasy world, another mask he's wearing.

He stands and leans against the counter, new fag dangling in his mouth and he regards Eames.

"That brother I told you about? The younger one that died? He's your father. Only he's not dead." He lights the fag on the gas stove.

Eames watches his step father look about the room bored and smokes. He listens to the percolator whistle and hiss.

"He is dead…in a sense…his name is Charles and yours is too," he shoots Eames a look and Eames can only stare back at him. His words twist inside him. They anger him, make him feel sick, intrigue him and sadden him.

"I don't believe you," but it's only half true.

His step father shrugs and takes a drag.

"And you don't have to. What you do with this information is all up to you, kiddo." Smoke is ringing around his head and is pooling on the low ceiling, the faint morning light cutting through it. The smell of coffee is filtering into the room.

"Even if it was true…"

"It is," he takes another drag and regards Eames coolly.

"We were both in love with her. What started off as a con ended up as lovers' quarrel. It was supposed to be a routine, in and out con. We always worked things together. Charles was going to make her fall in love with him, gain her trust and then convince her to take all her money, put it her suitcases and run away with him. Then I would play the criminal and steal the suitcases as they were leaving. You know pull a gun on them or something. We would split it fifty-fifty. But we fell in love with her. Charles went too deep and married her, had children with her. They named you Charles but your mother hid that from you for some reason. I think it was because she found out...eventually that my brother's name wasn't really James but Charles too and after he left her she didn't want that name passed on to you," he pauses to deposit ash into the sink. "Charles started the con but our differences, our fight over her forced him to leave so I finished it," his voice is bitter and Eames picks up on a hint of hurt. They're both conmen but Eames knows that this is real hurt. This story has at least one true element to it. He's looking around the room again like all of this is old knowledge, taking great interest in his fag.

Two brothers marrying and then having children with the same woman at different times only to actually finish the con, killing her. It was almost too much to wrap your mind around.

"If you were in love with her…"

His step father, his uncle puts a hand out to stop Eames. He takes another long drag and extinguishes it in the sink.

When he trains his dark eyes back on Eames there's something there that Eames doesn't want to admit. There's pain and remorse and again Eames knows that it isn't a lie.

"I was in love with her and in a way I think I did get attached to you two as well. You weren't just my step children you were my niece and nephew too. Why do you think I took the time to show you all that I know? You were my brother's only son and I loved him, Charlie…we were very close. You had potential and reminded me so much of him."

Eames' anger is mounting and he isn't sure if it's because he doesn't want to hear this story, because he isn't his father's son nor this man's nephew or because he knows the story is laced with the truth.

"Why finish it?" he can barley spit the words out through his gritted teeth, his fingernails digging into his thighs sharply under the table.

His uncle strokes his chin and has a faraway look in his eye. A slow smile materializes on his face as he turns to look at Eames. The percolator has stopped.

"What have I been trying to tell you since you were a wee lad? You're born a thief and you a die a thief. We can't separate the two lives we have, Charlie. It's a part of us. It's who we are. No more, no less. My brother started the job and I needed to end it since he couldn't thus ending our quarrel."

Eames is rising from his chair before he knows what's happening, practically toppling it as he stands up quickly, snarling with anger.

"She was my mother! Did you ever think about that? She would have given the money to you if you would have asked. Would have given you anything since she blindly loved you and turned a blind eye to all your illegal activities!" he screams and he knows it's juvenile but his explanation of why he still killed her is just too cold.

"If you loved her as much as you said…" Eames hangs his head, grabbing the table for support and is shaking from the pure fury he is feeling.

"True love doesn't last for people like us, Charlie. Camaraderie and brotherhood, yes. There are strengths in numbers but you've always been a bit of a lone wolf. As for me," he's opening a cabinet, rooting around for something. "I always thought having a partner was easier, the payouts greater," he fishes out a mug and unplugs the percolator.

"You sure you don't want some?" he's pouring the heavy dark liquid into a cup.

Eames upends the table, sending it crashing.

"My whole life…my entire life is sham, a lie because of you. You forced me into your scheme," his vision is white hot and he's finding it hard to breathe. 

His uncle doesn't bat an eye. He's scooping heavy spoonfuls of sugar into his mug glancing out the window.

He lifts his mug, blows into it and turns around to face Eames like he didn't notice the crash of the table being flipped.

"We both want the same thing, Charlie. I understand you're upset about your mother but we can work together to find your father, my brother. We can all work together, all of us. We'd be unstoppable together," he takes a small sip from his mug.

Eames takes a step back from him because the situation was impossible before but now it's reached new dizzying heights of insanity.

He shakes his head, practically spitting with anger.

"I would rather die…"

And his uncle his laughing behind his mug, taking a cautious sip, leaning against the counter.

"And you will, Charlie if you don't. You can't be a lone wolf forever…like I said strength in numbers."

He doesn't know if it's a threat but the menacing look in his uncle's eyes says it's leaning that way.

"Where is he? You said you knew where he was," he shouts, taking another step back.

"In America but where exactly I don't know," he shakes his head. "I lost track of him about ten years ago. When I told you that he was dead it's because it's true. I don't even know what name he's going by anymore."

And then Eames is turning on his heel and is making his way to the door. That's all the information he needs and really he can't take anymore.

He'll find his father. He found his uncle; he can certainly track down his father however long it takes.

"Charlie! Don't do this. You need me. You say your life is a lie then depend and fall back on the people who know that life and feel that same way." Eames pauses with his hand on the doorknob.

"Once you walk out that door the offer expires and I can't say for sure what will happen to you…what will happen to your sister…"

He whips his head to his direction and his uncle is smiling smugly behind his mug again.

"You sent me away because you knew I was better than you and I still am. Now I'm going to fucking kill you and I'm going to enjoy it you fucking bastard. You may want to come after me but you do not threaten my family, my sister," and then he's whipping the door open and running, running faster than he's ever ran before back to the barn, back to his gun. He's calculating in his head how much time he has before his uncle finds his shotgun, presumably loads it and is positioning himself. The military training he's had gives him the upper hand and maybe his uncle knows this but either way his uncle is going to die, right here by his livestock and the ridiculous farm house, this folly of a mythical life.

His legs and chest are burning when he plows into the barn, scooping up his gun and then he's flying back out to find cover and a good position. He reaches the goat pen when he hears the first shot. He dives to the ground for cover but not before he pinpoints where the shot came from.

His uncle's greatest downfall is and always will be how cocky he is.

Another shot is fired as Eames crawls through dirt and mud and finds cover behind an old dog house. His uncle is shooting out the kitchen window. He waits for the third shot, this one dangerously close as part of the dog house explodes and then Eames is returning fire as he knows his uncle has a longer reload time to release the shells. His first two shots ricochet off the window sill and he dodges another close shot from his uncle. He fires twice more and the second pierces through already shattered glass and connects. He's too far away to see exactly where but he doesn't give himself time to think. He's running, taking cover behind whatever he can find and is pointing his gun as he whips open the kitchen door and enters. His uncle is sprawled out on the blood ridden floor in an awkward, bent position, blood pouring out of a bullet hole in his lung.

His uncle is writhing and wheezing, pooled in his own blood. It smells like manure, blood, coffee and grass as the scents from the kitchen mingle with the outside from the shattered window.

He points his gun at his uncle's head and his uncle's eyes widen a little though they are glassy.

"Where is he?"

His uncle laughs but the laugh turns into a wheezy cough and he's sputtering blood.

"In the US but you won't find him without my help." His tone suggests he's lying or hiding something.

Eames puts more pressure on the trigger and sneers down at him.

"I will find him and I make good on my promises. I said I was going to put a bullet between your eyes if you didn't tell me what you know and I now I am."

And he does.

The room is strangely quiet after the echo of the shot tapers off and he takes in the dead, crumpled form of his uncle splayed out on the cheap linoleum.

He leaves the farm, the filthy, peaceful, fake world behind without a backwards glance.

He palms the feather in his trousers and tells his mum that he's kept his promise-he hasn't forgotten to keep dreaming.

He gets back into his car and drives without really knowing where he's going only knowing he needs to keep dreaming. He needs to go to America.


	5. Chasing Ghosts

Chasing Ghosts

_Best laid plans of mice and men…_

Something he read once in the academy and his life definitely feels that way.

He keeps moving. Chasing bruised skies, deserted roads, countless miles, inestimable footsteps, empty hotel rooms, sleeping under the stars, constantly looking over his shoulder, not sure where he'll end up from minute to minute. He carries the feelings of guilt and unpredictability around like suitcases. But he's adaptable. He blends into his soundings, making sure he isn't followed, keeps his head down and doesn't stay in one place before he's recognized.

He doesn't keep much in his head. He lives on instinct and adrenaline-his gun and the clothes on his back his only companions. When he does think, and he tries not to, it's almost always about getting to the States. But it isn't going to be easy. He doesn't have a passport and he doesn't have enough money to buy airline tickets. Even with thieving and conning it'll take a while.

And then there's the issue of what he'll exactly do once he gets there. Eames has never traveled outside the UK. He has no contacts whatsoever in the States. He doesn't have many now but he knows he has a couple lifelines in cases of emergencies. In the UK he feels like he can move around without being noticed. He knows where to slip in between the cracks and become invisible. If he were to up and leave to the States without any kind of a plan he didn't know how long he would make it on his own. And then there is the exceptionally tricky and complicated matter of him not knowing where his father is. He would be chasing ghosts.

He thinks of his sister too. By now she knows he was released from juvie and is rightfully pissed at him for not telling her. She probably feels abandoned and betrayed like Eames forgot his promise to her. But Eames hasn't forgotten he just chooses to not act on it right away putting his selfish desires before it.

He hates himself for it of course but if she knew the kind of life he was living, the kinds of things their step father, their uncle taught him she would be abhorred, running out of his life just like their father and uncle. He didn't need that.

If she knew that Eames was using the skills he taught him to do unspeakable, illegal, cruel things in order to survive, that he killed their uncle in cold blood…Eames can only imagine she would turn away from him for good and he would feel like the last man living on earth and he really didn't need to feel like that. But he already felt it as he was alone all the time and his thoughts were a dangerous place.

So he doesn't call her. Though he wants to. Wants so badly to feel that familiar human contact, the connection of two human beings on a certain level. Wants to tell her all about what he learned-their step father is really their uncle, their mum was caught in between the two brothers and the horrible long con that took her life and that their father is alive somewhere in the States. But again he knows he can't. He wants to find his father for a reason. He tries to tell himself it's to speak to the man he's never spoken to, to get his side of the story, to try to understand their disorder, maybe connect with him on that but really it's to kill him.

He was a part of the scheme to con his mum…to eventually take her life. He caused her pain and for that reason and reason alone he must pay.

He also thinks about what he's done and what he still has to do. There's blood on his hands that will never wash off. He doesn't regret killing him but he still feel some amount of guilt. He's taken his half brother's father away and he knows all too well the pain of losing a parent. He's lost both of his. He's also killed a blood relation. Killing a person that is in no way related to you doesn't seem so bad but when they're blood...it just sits too heavily on his chest.

He wonders when he can stop sleeping with a gun under his pillow. When he'll stop jerking awake when he hears the slightest of noises thinking it's the police or some of his uncle's cronies looking for blood.

Days, weeks, months pass through him and he's only vaguely aware. He's performing again but he isn't just a street urchin, a thief, a conman, a wanderer, a liar and a sneak this time- he's something else. He's hardened and morphed into someone he doesn't really know.

He researches all that he can find on his father when he can but most of what was left was set ablaze in his old house, now long turned to dust and ash. He finds little. He follows up with old contacts that are in the same dark arts as Eames. Everyone thinks that Charles or James Eames is dead.

_Best laid plans of mice and men…_

He's learning new skills and sharpening them every day. He knows in his heart that he is and will always be a better conman and thief than his uncle. But he still doesn't know everything and he's young and he's tired of constantly moving, barely resting. He can outrun them but he can't outrun himself. It all catches up with him.

He gets caught.

He's stolen a fair share of cars when the going got particularly rough and he either lost his hard earned money to petty thieves as he slept on park benches or a homeless shelters or just run of the mill muggers in dark alleys. He steals cars when he can't catch a train or a bus or when he really needs to feel the open road at his back.

The police trace the stolen car; find Eames sleeping in it on the side of the road. Eames didn't even know he had fallen asleep. Can barely remember where he was headed to, had felt he had lost track of everything, weariness taking over.

He's thrown back in prison. But it's serious this time in a maximum security prison. He's charged with grand theft auto and he could serve anywhere up to seven years. That's seven years he doesn't have to waste, his promises to himself and others slipping through his fingers.

It tougher this time around but not impossible. He uses all the skills he's learned from the academy and his uncle's training to blend in, to adapt, and to be who they wanted him to, to obey, to take charge, to fight to be on top, to be taken advantage of, to schmooze, sweet talk and be liked.

Things happen to him that he doesn't want to remember. He's forced to do things in order to survive. But that's what he was doing before and maybe his whole life and he knows he'll never forget those things that happened in prison. Maybe one day he'll want to remember so he can become a stronger person so he gets another tattoo when's inside. The words: "Born a Thief. Die a Thief" in Latin above his hip bone. He figures he should embrace it instead of running away from it. If it's on his person then he can't be afraid of it. He knows what his next tattoo will be. A large one on his chest but it's too intricate for prison ink and he figures he'll save it for when he gets out. If he ever gets out.

He still doesn't call her.

He's a long way from home and he figures she's none the wiser.

He's six months in and the lack of anything from his past life starts to get to him. He hasn't had any visitors and at times he thinks he'll go quite mad.

His resolves crumbles one miserable evening when the other inmates are being truly unbearable-him having to ignore it or grin through it all, not showing any weakness to them. His fingers are dialing the number she had given him so long ago. He's doing it without thinking. He's not even sure if she's still living with her mum's friends from the church anymore.

"How dare you."

"Sam…"

"Don't. Do you have any idea what I've been through? Oh, that's right. You don't!"

"Sam," he starts gently. "I'm sorry..."

"Get stuffed you bloody arsehole," she cuts him off.

He thinks he hears her sniffles and he's again reminded of how horrible he feels for putting her through this but he knows it would be worse if she knew all the truth.

"It's always been about you. You got all the attention when we were children. You got all the attention from Perry, going out together, leaving the house to go on those secret trips and never talking about it. You're bloody selfish, always thinking about yourself."

If she only knew it was the complete opposite. He didn't want that attention when he was younger but took it because he knew if he didn't that something bad would happen to his family.

"I'm almost afraid to ask where you are…"

"Then don't…"

"Wanker."

He smiles a little into the phone. Despite her animosity he's missed her immensely. Just hearing her voice gives him some hope and strength. He swallows hugely knowing the next part is going to be difficult.

"Sis, I'm in prison. Grand theft auto. And no I don't want anything from you. Just want to let you know I'm ok and that I miss you."

He hears her pause on the other end as she absorbs his words.

She unleashes another slew of curses and painfully foul yet adorable cuts against him.

"How long?"

"I don't know...Seven years maybe? Maybe five if I'm really lucky for good behavior and such…" He's always had pretty good luck when it came to gambling but when his life was on the line he could never bet high stakes. He's never had good luck when it came to his person.

"Dee knows a lawyer," she begins going into some half hairball scheme to get him out.

"Sam, it's ok. I don't need anything from you…"

"I don't bloody care what you want. You may be selfish and not care about what happens to yourself but others do. Did you ever think about that?"

He hadn't.

He lets her talk him into (maybe the sweet talking and convincing attitude just ran in the family?) hiring a lawyer. He's up for parole in six months. The lawyer may help talk down the sentence given some of the circumstances Eames had to deal with.

This means of course he has to tell her where he's at and he really doesn't want to do that. But he does.

"I don't want you visiting me. I don't deserve it…"

"Sod off."

So she visits him anyway.

The prison is far but she manages to visit at least once a month. It's heartbreaking and also invigorating to see her. He's reminded he's not completely alone in the world but at the same time it reminds him of all the things he's missing by being locked up. It reminds him of the things he should be doing, the people he should be tracking down and killing. His life is one big vicious cycle.

Six months comes around in a flash. Before he knows it he's up for parole. He's met with the lawyer his sister knows. She competent, knows the system well and deems Eames worthy of "saving". He could do without the religious preaching but she was a damn good lawyer all the same.

Eames is stunned when his sentence is reduced to a year and a half-his lawyer playing up all the right angles. "He was a scared, abandoned, misguided youth. Forced to live on his own, etc, etc." He could swear he heard small violins playing in the background when she was pleading their case.

Of course when he got out his sister wanted him to come home with her, wherever that was. He didn't think he had a home anymore and knew he probably wouldn't ever again. In his wildest dreams he envisioned living in a house by the ocean. Just owning a house that he could call his home. He wanted to be able to walk in the front door and know the space was his and someone would be waiting for him, asking him what he did see instead of what he didn't. These are just pipedreams though. They weren't meant for people like Eames who lived a double life. Who are thieves, backstabbers, liars, criminals, conmen, the dregs of society. He had too much time in prison to think. Now he needed to act.

His sister wasn't giving him any choice in the matter. She knew him too well; she didn't want him to run away again and to leave him. She was giving him a second chance.

But he couldn't.

She wouldn't look at him when he slung his bag over his shoulder, sun in his light hair, cigarette burning in the morning sun. She wouldn't meet his eyes but he did hear her say under her breath: "Don't bother contacting me again."

Watching her get in the car and try not to cry in front of him, watching the taxi take off down the road and become smaller and smaller until nothing at all was one of the hardest things he's ever had to do.

* * *

He's caught again three months later. Undercover police officers busted up the underground gambling ring Eames had involved himself with in a desperate attempt to make some good money.

The police give him an ultimatum after he did some minimum time again in prison: Go back to prison or join the military and serve the country.

Eames chooses the military because he's already familiar with it and he figures he'll become a better marksmen. Better at gunning people down and killing them.

But there is the particularly tricky aspect of him being color blind that no one knows about and if the military catch wind then he's sealed his fate to rot in prison. No one wants a color blind solider.

He need to pass physical exams at Sandhurst in order to enter and that does include various vision tests. He's thinks he's read something or heard along the way that eye tests, specifically to test for color blindness can be faked.

"My, my, my. Calling on another favor?"

"Look I'm sorry, Rup," he feels like he's apologizing to everyone. He can't do right by anybody.

"You have me worried 'sall."

"I'm…" Eames doesn't know how to finish that thought: _"I'm fine"? "I'm a recurring delinquent to society and only twenty years old"?_

"I'm safe, alive and still ticking. That's all you need to worry about. If anything at all."

Rupert sighs heavily into the phone. "I heard through the grapevine that your sister is a wee bit upset. You wouldn't have anything to do with that eh?"

Eames winces. He knows Rup is just trying to be a friend and trying to be jovial with him but him hearing through mutual acquaintances that his sister is upset over Eames leaving once again just eats him up inside. He's running to protect her and to extinguish all the people that have hurt her and Eames over the years. Eames wonders if he'll ever tell her the truth one day or if she'll speak to him after their father is dead as well.

He shakes his head to rid himself of the thoughts. He can't think of that now. First he has to worry about passing the bloody eye exams.

Which means he needs to confide in Rup about his condition, something that he suspected that Rup may already know from just observing Eames over the years. But he could be wrong. He just really doesn't want to get into it.

"I probably do have something to do with it, yes," he finds himself saying, hiding the pain under light sarcasm.

Rupert doesn't press him and Eames is again reminded of why he liked him so much in the first place. Besides him being dashingly handsome of course. Too bad they were too similar, sometimes like one mind. One of Eames was bad enough. Add two in the mix…

"Danny…"

His voice is too warm, too full of charm and full of concern.

"Right….I'm to be a military brat once more. My exams at Sandhurst are in a week."

Rupert laughs.

"But you hated the military life."

"Yes and I still do."

"Oh," the way Rupert states it means he understands Eames' predicament.

"It was that or prison right?"

Eames sighs into the phone.

"Just don't let that get back to Sam."

They shoot the shit for a little while and Eames almost feels like its old times back at the academy and he's chasing Rup around campus like a puppy dog. Like things are halfway normal.

But they are anything but.

"I need help passing the eye exams, Rup," he finally ends up saying after a time and he knows that things will be different between them now and it pains him. It pains him when he has to confess his weakness, his disorder.

"Ok?" he sounds confused.

"Rup…I'm…" he struggles with his words.

He takes a moment to compose himself. He feels like he's standing over a precipice ready to drop head first over it at any second.

"I'm color blind," he finally manages to blurt out after a time.

There's a pregnant pause on the other line as he imagines Rup absorbing his words. Eames twists the phone cord around his fingers tightly, bouncing on the balls of his feet anxiously.

"Wow…I, uh, had no idea," he says breathlessly, sounding legitimately shocked.

"How do I pass the exams? Surely there have been others that have faked more and still got in?" He wants to steer all conversation away from himself.

"Sure, sure," Rup still seems to be memorized and Eames prays that he'll not ask any more questions or pity him.

Rup is confident he may know people that know people that work at Sandhurst who can tell him what to expect for the eye exam.

"I have to know all the answers."

"You can't see color at all!" he sounds aghast like the situation just got more difficult.

Eames sighs. "Yes. I'm monochromatic. I can't interpret color at all…"

"Jesus," he breathes and there's another pause. "Then how's your memory?"

Eames bristles. "Fine. Why?"

Rup chuckles. "Because, mate you are going to have to memorize the tests. I remember my cousin's friend said that they make you look at those pictures with the circles with the dots and numbers inside and ask you what number you see and so forth…bloody hell."

Rupert assured him that he would get back to him with more information about the tests.

"Thanks, I owe you."

"I know. I'm keeping a tab. I will collect one day," he hears his endearing chuckle echo and fade before they hang up.

* * *

Rupert doesn't fail to deliver a few days later.

Because Eames needs someone to help him memorize the tests he meets him at the Kings Cross train station.

He embraces him in a quick hug as a way of greeting as he's still the same old Rupert-all boyish, suave smiles, inquisitive, intelligent eyes, a calm presence, and still tall, dark and handsome as ever.

They go over the findings once they're alone in Eames' motel room.

Rupert's insider was able to procure copies of the actual tests themselves. That and Rupert pulls out something from his travel bag and throws it to Eames.

It's his Beretta M9. Eames stares stupidly at it in his hands.

He blinks at Rup who's trying to hide his smile but failing horribly as he's looking over some papers.

"Thought you might want that back. Probably has some sentimental value."

To Eames it stupidly does and he was furious when it was taken away from him. He's stunned speechless for a while, feeling the familiar weight of it in his hands.

"How did you get it?"

Rup waggles his eyebrows.

"I know people."

Eames rolls his eyes. Eames may be the criminal but Rup was practically shitting illegal contacts, practically more a criminal then himself. He swears Rup was one of those people that was connected to everyone in some way, shape or fashion.

"I could just kiss you." Eames was overcome with relief and almost giddy with elation, a huge weight lifted off of him, knowing he may have a shot at actually not going back to prison and having his familiar weapon back.

Rup just cocks an eyebrow, slight smile tugging on his lips, still chewing on a pencil, looking down at the tests scattered all over the top of the bed.

"You could but we've already gone down that road once and we know where that leads but I can't say your offer isn't tempting."

Both of them are huge flirts and sometimes it's just a game to see who can do it more to either each other or other people-all jokes, teases and ribs. It's just another of the many reasons why they would never work out as a couple but as friends they seemed to gel together. That is if Eames can ever stop running. Eames believes he needs someone opposite of himself to be able to keep them in the long term for a relationship. Whether he deserves someone is another matter.

Eames is about ninety percent sure Rup was joking. Their sarcasm knows no bounds sometimes. But sometimes the lines get blurred.

"We'd get a disease from this motel room anyway and I'd like to keep my life thank you very much."

It brings out a little forced laugh that almost seems laced with pity or hurt from the tall brunette and then Eames is convinced that Rup wasn't joking earlier. Eames does what he does best and runs away from it. Whatever Rup may feel for him or had felt for him in the past shouldn't concern Eames or be present in the situation.

Eames feels a slight blush on his cheeks anyway and clears his throat. "We should probably get started."

They dive in, Rup drilling him until Eames swears he can recite the tests in his dreams.

* * *

"Everything must be black and white?"

They had quit for the night after the umpteenth hour of memorizing tests, Rup showing him what the numbers inside the circles are, helping him form ways to remember. It reminds Eames of when he was a little boy and his mum helped him make flashcards to memorize what colors went with what things.

Both of them were slumped on the dingy motel room floor, backs against the bed, passing a bottle of Jack back and forth, looking up at the white pop-corned ceiling-both of them agreeing it looks like something out of a 70's porn film.

Eames takes a huge swig from the bottle liking the way the dark liquid burns his throat on the way down.

"And gray. Don't forget gray." He probably would have shut down the conversation earlier but the Jack and Rup's curious eyes were helping him forget he didn't like talking about it.

Rup rolls his head back and forth a little on the bed like he's shaking his head.

"Fuck. I can't even imagine…" he trails off.

Rup eyes him curiously after a moment and Eames feels he's put under the microscope. He's five years old again and people peer at him too closely when they learn he can't see color, trying to figure him out by just looking at him.

Eames feels his heart sink. He loves Rup dearly but he still doesn't ask him the important question and it hurts him a little since he holds him in such high regard. It's the question Eames has been dying someone to ask him since he can remember: _"What do you see?" _

Eames only wants to show them.

* * *

The day of the tests came by before he knew it. They were grueling and long and Eames thought he would pass out from the stress of trying to remember everything for the tests.

But he passed.

He's never particularly enjoyed the military life and aspect of it all-too constrictive, regimented, too rule orientated, everything laid out for him and Eames was not that kind of person but it was better than going back to prison.

He was a hamster in a wheel-spinning around and around, not getting anywhere. He was entirely frustrated that his plans of getting to the States were delayed once again but he figured that there was a slim chance by being in the military he would be sent abroad on tours or missions.

In a lot of ways the military life was like prison-getting up, eating and sleeping at the same time every day, going to bed in the same uncomfortable bunk every night, always being yelled at by somebody straight in the face and always reporting to someone The routine was mind numbing at times and Eames' mind was one that was hard to shut off. It craved to be set free.

He was loud, probably spoke his opinion too often, made too many passes to the other soldiers and officers and got caught doing things he shouldn't be doing-mainly in the beds of other soldiers. It was like the academy all over again but he was running with the big dogs now.

He knew how to keep his head down, stand attention and to take orders though. He was always a fast learner and despite his indifference to the military life others took a shining to him.

It all meant nothing to him. He was just biding his time like he was still in prison, only going through the motions until he would be able to move about freely again.

He does research on his father when he can in his free time. He still hasn't found anything.

He's moved up quickly in the ranks.

He makes Sergeant when he's 25 and things start happening rapidly. Again he could care less about the promotion and the more responsibility that comes with it. He only cares about the sweeping news that's taking over his base and all the things that come with it.

A new technology was developed at Oxford and his base immediately snatched it up once it went public.

"Dream sharing," he tries it on his tongue to test out how impossible it seems. And it does.

But it intrigues him all the same. It intrigues everyone.

What really intrigues him is the possibility to travel to the States to share the technology with the US-to develop it further. Then Eames gets really interested in dream sharing but he knows it's for selfish, personal reasons.

He doesn't think much of it at first but as he was in his office, getting up, rounding his desk ready to exit, palming the feather in his trousers he overhears two officers talking in the hallway directly outside of his office as they pass by and it makes him pause. He stops to listen.

"We just went under for the first time to experiment, to get a grip of everything and it's like having your subconscious on display for the whole world! I was thinking about my little girl and how her birthday is coming up this weekend and she kept popping up in the dream everywhere! Not only that but there were pink balloons and presents, the whole bit."

The other officer made some noises in astonishment and consolation.

"Makes me wonder other things too. If you're a particularly angry person or just in a mood does that mean the dream will pulse red?"

Their voices trail off as they walk further down the hallway and out of earshot.

Eames stands frozen behind the closed door.

Pink. Red.

Eames doesn't see color at all…

Eames closes his eyes and draws in a shuddering breath.

He can't see color at all. It certainly would reflect in the dream if others shared it with him.

He had been a fool.

He had just sealed his own fate. He would be heading back to prison.

* * *

He uses his rank, begging off requests that they enter his dream to practice and prepare, to stretch the limits of the dream sharing. Eames is a practiced liar and conman-he's able to weasel out it and evade their persistence.

They don't have enough resources devoted to the dream sharing and after a few months they're given orders that they are to leave for the States. Fort Irwin in southern California specifically. The General at Eames' base has correspondence with the General at the Fort Irwin-them forging a friendship over the years.

When Eames gets the news he nearly jumps for joy. He's been waiting six years to get this chance.

He likes California. Likes the atmosphere, so different from where he grew up-palm trees, sandy beaches, miles and miles of coast line, intense hot sun, and dry heat.

He thinks he can get used to it.

The minute he steps off the plane he gets that feeling bubble up inside him, his Beretta safely tucked away in the confines of his bags and he knows why he came to the States.

_I'm coming for you…_

He doesn't want to go AWOL but if that's what it takes to find the bastard so be it. And Eames will find him. It's just a matter of when.

It's the middle of September when they arrive and the air is crisp but instead of falling leaves and bare branches it feels like sand and desert. Fort Irwin is much larger than Eames' base and it' something to get used to. He can't say that him and his subordinates were treated unfairly or cruelly as the officers and Lt. Alexander who was overseeing parts of the operation were cordial and polite but he got an overwhelming feeling they weren't particularly welcome. They were a dozen English blokes amongst the vast sea of hot blooded young Americans. They stuck out like sore thumbs. People steered clear.

Eames was out of his element. He felt more exposed and slightly off his game but this didn't last long. He was adaptable, always learning to change to his surroundings. He may not be the center of attention, ass grabbing, flirt that got his way most times like back at the academy or his military base but he was respected by his peers and his American counterparts.

But he missed it. That thrill of people paying attention to him, laughing at his jokes, leaning in close to make contact with him, even just listening to him. He didn't want to admit it but he was lonely. He had many men warming his bed at night, it only getting easier as he moved up in the ranks but there was another void that needed to be filled too and Eames wasn't really sure how that would happen.

He liked to pursue but the American soldiers weren't biting so he focused his attention on researching his father. He searched American databases, having more resources available to him but still finding little to no real specific information.

There were literally hundreds of Charles Eames' listed in public records. He had no idea where to start. The whole thing was getting to him. He fancied himself a pretty strong individual with an almost constant iron will be even he made mistakes, fell down and felt broken. He again was spinning his wheels, not getting anywhere fast. How long was too long? Was six years already too long of a time to waste to chase a ghost? He wasn't even entirely certain if his uncle was telling the truth or not.

He swept papers off his desk angrily, furious with himself for getting so caught up. He's content with staying in his makeshift office all night when two of his privates are fumbling through his door wanting to drag him out to get a drink and to: "explore California, military nightlife."

He doesn't want to and it really isn't like him. But they're persistent and Eames resolves he isn't getting any work done anyway so he lets them.

The hole in the wall place reminds him a little of the pubs back home-ancient jukebox, ratty pool tables, worn oak bar. It's too loud, too smoky and too crowded. It's perfect.

He miraculously worms his way to the bar but he's at one end of it, around a corner-definitely not a prime spot. His subordinates seemed pissed already, hanging on to on another-having traveled over to the billiard tables. Eames internally shrugs. He people watches, always liking figuring out people's stories upon first glance. Just a stupid tick he developed over the years.

The bartender is bloody oblivious so he lets his eyes wander through the smoke and haze.

There are two American privates sitting in a corner whooping and hollering, having a gay old time. The one with thin shoulders and dexterous hands used to be an art student he surmises. His slightly droopy eyes and little frown despite his laughter enough evidence. His friend is an all around jock and football hero, attention whore and idiot.

He spies a group of American soldiers huddled together in a booth kitty corner from him. Some of them are hollering to another that it's his birthday, clapping him on the back, shots being passed around.

Eames smiles and continues to sweep the bar. He guesses people's life stories all the while trying to flag down the bartender. He does after a time ordering single malt whiskey thinking it'll be his new drink, only having it once before. It's quite good and worth every penny and it cost him a lot of pennies.

He's about to leave the bar and make his way back to his cronies at last when someone approaching the bar catches his eye. It's one of the blokes that came from the "birthday booth". He realizes it's the birthday boy himself having seen just his slight profile before but he remembers. He remember his mates clapping him on the back and shoving shots in his hands.

Eames starts the game just like with all the others though for some reason it's more difficult with this one.

He takes in the young officer's lean but muscular body, his tall frame, his long, precise fingers, perfectly pressed uniform, shaved dark head and hauntingly beautiful dark eyes that seemed infinitely deep. He's gorgeous without trying. He's too far away to see them very clearly in the dim, smoky bar but there's something in his eyes-reserved, put out, commanding, intelligent, naïve, wounded, tired yet wide-eyed with youth, a walking contradiction. He realizes he's staring but he can't help it. The young man is intriguing. Probably the most interesting creature that's walked into the bar, hell maybe the most interesting person he's seen around Fort Irwin yet.

And he can't figure out his story or maybe he doesn't want to and then the young officer is meeting his eyes from across the other side of the bar. Eames does the most rational thing and waves his fingers a little and winks because why the hell not? He feels he deserves a little distraction after everything he's been through lately.

The birthday boy with the untold story averts his eyes quickly, maybe a little too quickly and then Eames is too intrigued and the game is on. He wants to pursue.

He grabs his drink and approaches him and he can see the young officer stiffen a little in the shoulders as he sidles up next to him.

The birthday boy is trying his best to ignore him. Eames knows this behavior well, has witnessed it many a times when he's performing cons.

**"Buy you a drink? I overheard it was your birthday?"**

The birthday boy is focusing much too hard on the bar, his shoulders and back still tense but Eames knows he's weighing his options maybe deciding if he wants to talk to Eames or not, maybe deciding if he likes or dislikes his accent.

After another failed attempt to flag the bartender down the young officer, looking defeated, turns to Eames' direction and he is rewarded with the other man's full attention and the cool, disinterested expression he's wearing on his young face. The other man is looking him over again, weighing his options, all calm and calculating.

Eames is doing the same but is getting distracted on seeing his face close up. More specifically his eyes. They're exotic looking and Eames can't place them. They're deep and dark and Eames almost wishes he knows exactly how many shades of brown they are or maybe they're just black they look so dark. He realizes he's staring again so he sweeps his eyes over the rest of his person liking what he sees as well.

He faintly realizes he's a bit nervous. He didn't think he ever got nervous around people.

**"It is my birthday but no thank you."**

**His words rattle him out of his supposed nerves and he leans in closer to him. He can feel the heat the other man is giving off and can smell the pleasant scent of his aftershave.**

**Eames waves down the bartender, pretending not to hear the young officer's words.**

**He smiles a little shooting him a: "You're not getting out of this" look.**

**"What do you fancy?"**

**The other man is shaking his head a little and opening his mouth to speak to presumably argue further with him but Eames cuts him off. He can't lose him just yet after they just met and barely know each other yet.**

**"It's your birthday and if I'm not mistaken twenty one is special in the States, you can drink now, no?"**

**A little surprise flickers across the younger man's eyes and he averts them back to the bar like it's the most interesting thing in the world and Eames has to suppress a grin. He loves when he catches people off guard when he observes them. People always think they are invisible in a crowd but they certainly are anything but to Eames. It's like a treasure for Eames to unbury and discover.**

**A slight blush seems to creep up on the younger man's face and he shifts his weight from one foot to another.**

**He seems nervous too maybe even embarrassed and Eames takes that as a small victory. The birthday boy stammers out that he wants a beer and Eames shrugs at that-the inexperienced drinker doesn't seem to make personal decisions very well. Eames files that away for later.**

**He's going to enjoy discovering things about this one.**

**After the bartender comes back with the drink Eames allows himself to look him over again, both of them drinking in silence, letting the din of the crowded bar take over.**

**He's a Corporal he discovers and this only intrigues him and turns him on more. Twenty one and already a Corporal. Though he was twenty five and a Sergeant, no small feat at such a young age. Both of them are over achievers, that much they have in common. That and probably little else. Eames will still have fun discovering what he can though.**

**Eames is feeling the affects of his strong whiskey and has a strange feeling crawling all over him after attaching himself to the young, gorgeous Corporal. **

**"Well Corporal," he lifts his glass to him. "Cheers to you, mate on your birthday," the clink glasses and both take heavy gulps.**

**The other man is definitely blushing and he mumbles out a "thank you" and then his rowdy friends and fellow soldiers are pulling him away from the bar, back to the booth and away from Eames.**

**The young Corporal doesn't look entirely relieved he's leaving his company and that helps smooth over some of the hurt and defeat Eames feels. He hadn't even learned his name yet and already his friends were cock blocking him.**

**He settles into a corner to get pissed. He joins up with his crew eventually for a bit but he's more intent on watching the back of the pretty brunette's head than anything else.**

**He spies the birthday boy getting up to leave after a time. Eames slams his drink and decides he needs a fag and to follow him. He knows he didn't leave his party as there weren't goodbyes passed around. He figures he went out to make a phone call or to smoke. Eames thinks it's the later.**

**His presumptions are proved correct when he finds him leaning against the side of the building, staring up at the moon like he's transfixed.**

He leans up against the building with him and they smoke in silence. Eames likes his silent company, how the moon and fall air feels on his skin.

He picks up on the other man's New England accent through their talk and is delighted when he surprised the other man with his prowess.

Both of them are a bit sloppy with drink but Eames hides it better. The young Corporal is still a bit wet behind the ears with alcohol consumption it seems.

He's discovering him, unraveling his mysteries- he attended an all boys military academy like himself, presumably sent away as well as his tone indicates it wasn't his choice. He's a bit of a loner and probably prefers to be by himself as he seemed a bit awkward with the group he was with. He's secretive and slightly damaged goods as evident in his refusal to tell him his name which Eames thinks is ridiculous but Eames laughs it off. He should be deterred. Any normal person would be put off by these traits but Eames isn't any normal person. It all adds to the intrigue.

But he's still nervous even when he asks him to not move as he goes to get them another drink. Hell, he's not even 100 percent sure the Corporal is gay. He just goes on a gut feeling that maybe he is and the way the Corporal averts his, blushes and tries not to make too much eye contact confirms he's physically attracted to Eames but is either too shy or damaged to act on it.

So Eames acts on it for the both of them-running on instinct and feeling like everything else he's done in the past.

He's almost floored that the Corporal is still outside, around the side of the building when he comes back with the beers.

He opens up talk about work, sticking with safe subjects first. He purposely doesn't talk about why he's in the States specifically, going around the subject, only explaining he's helping consult on a new technology which Eames justifies is partially true. The tone of his voice spoke of that topic being off limits of sorts and the Corporal seemed to catch his drift.

And he was back at the academy and his base, doing what he did best-talking himself up, flirting and telling stories and jokes. It might have been the alcohol but Eames could swear that the other man seemed to relax more and more as the night went on and even seemed to enjoy himself a little revealing hidden dimples as he smiled, flashing perfectly even, white teeth.

During a lag in their talk he noticed the Corporal was reaching into his jacket for his cigarettes when Eames, being the perfect, polite British gentleman reached for his own, beating him to the quick and pressed one into his hand.

His fingers brushed his warm, soft skin making him tingle but the reaction from the other man was truly curious.

The Corporal seemed completely stunned and his eyes were mysteriously closed. His body seemed to tremble a little. Eames thought maybe he was having a fit or seizure and was concerned, regarding him wide eyed but then he noticed the faint smile on the other man's lips and Eames relaxed a little though he was still puzzled. He filed that away for later too-definitely worth investigating and diving deeper into.

After he confirmed that the other man was indeed ok they smoked his British fags followed by more drinks. Eames was intoxicated then and he knew it wasn't completely from the alcohol though it did help matters. It was from the young Corporal. The gorgeous birthday boy with the mostly untold story with his exotic, deep eyes that wouldn't let you go. When he chanced putting his arm around him hours later after both of their parties had left them it felt like something familiar.

When the Corporal grabbed at him and kissed him as they were leaving the bar it felt like the world had dissolved around him, the ground literally feeling like it bottomed out leaving him weightless. He was so soft and warm, young, inexperienced lips finding his, exploring all the intricate details of his mouth. He was delicate he found through his hardened demeanor and when he kissed Eames he did it like the world was ending. Eames was left feeling lightheaded and breathless-drunk on too many things. They both were.

Somewhere in the back of his brain a little voice was telling him to pull on the reigns-to stop as they both were getting too caught up in everything but rational and coherent thoughts were getting pushed out as their bodies would touch or lips would brush.

He took his wrist shooting him a smile.

"I want to show you something."

Breaking into the training room and bringing in someone that wasn't privy to the information wasn'ta good way to start his time in America but as he watched the doe eyed young Corporal take in the dream sharing machine, touching it fondly and faintly like an old friend he knew he was making the right decision.

Eames prepped the machine and the Corporal flashed him a boyish smile-all dimples and flushed face.

"Is this what you wanted to show me?"

Eames took him in his strong arms, him feeling like he was made specifically for him, the Corporal sighing softly against him and brushed his lips to his getting a shiver from the other man.

"No, darling. I want to show you something else. Something even better."

Eames had him sit in one of the chairs as he set the timer and readied the IVs.

He took a seat next to him after he gently inserted his IV. He inserted his own IV and their eyes met, their hands a heartbeat later. Eames felt pressure on his hand as they both slipped under and entered his dream.

* * *

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	6. Turning Into Dust

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Happy Holidays! :)

* * *

Turning Into Dust

He sees he what he sees. He's never wanted more than the opportunity to show someone. But he still sees what he sees. His chest feels tight yet loose at the same time. His heart throbbed almost ached at the idea of sharing something so intimate with someone else, to let them in, a peek into his world.

And why has he? He looks over to the man whom he doesn't even know his first name. The younger man is looking around curiously and Eames is content with just watching him, letting the other man absorb the world Eames has created. Sunlight streams through the thick wood, water drips off branches and leaves, snow is melting, puddling on the grass that's trying to show itself. Eames sees this but he wants to know what the Corporal sees.

The Corporal takes a couple hesitant steps forward, heavy, visible breathes expelling out in front of him in the chilly air, treading on the lightly snow covered earth and reaches out his hand to touch the trunk of a nearby tree. The bark is hard and brittle and the Corporal cocks his head a little to it curiously.

"How did we get here?" he seems to ask no one in particular, his eyes on the tree.

Eames joins him on the other side of the tree, wrapping his had around the trunk, it rough under his fingers, flashing the younger man a smile.

"I'd explain it to you but it would take too long," he winks. And he wants to ask him so badly if he sees color in his world or if everything is just black, white and gray but he's almost too afraid to find out. He selfishly just wants to enjoy this with him.

"We're dreaming?" the young Corporal with his hands still on the trunk of the tree cranes his neck upwards to the impossibly tall trees that obscure the sun. Sunlight bathes his form as he smiles and closes his eyes, inhales deeply.

Eames answers him by moving his hands from around the trunk of the tree and placing them around the other man's waist and kisses him deeply. The Corporal stiffens a little as his hands loosen from around the trunk and he feels him tremble in his arms. Snow falls through early morning branches, slips through pine needles, plops to the crystalline snow already on earth, water trickles, runs down to meet the stream, the air is completely still and the Corporal's warm mouth is exploring his like melting snow.

* * *

They're walking hand in hand in a snow encrusted field, still as a first breath and Eames hasn't worked up the courage to ask him what he sees. The other man is radiant-morning sun in his dark hair, flushed cheeks and softening his normally rigid and set features. There's a boyish charm and feeling to his light steps as they make tracks in the light snow and Eames doesn't want to ruin the moment.

Snow falls lightly from the sky and both men crane their necks up to watch and taste it. They crest a hill and suddenly they are looking at a cemetery, dark figures gathered around a casket and snow is falling more rapidly, obscuring the world before them. They walk hand in hand, a little more slowly and the Corporal's eyes are getting wider and wider, breath getting more and more labored as they approach the obvious funeral going on. When they are just upon the figures gathered around the casket, it being lowered into the earth, they pause. Eames can't tell if there are tears in the other man's eyes or if it's just snow but Eames hasn't dreamt this. Somehow the other man is manipulating the dream, his thoughts filtering through.

The casket dips lower and lower into the earth and the Corporal turns to him. He can barely see his face now; the snow is flying more wildley.

"I did this," and Eames can barely hear his words.

Eames approaches him, wants to take him in his arms and comfort him since he's obviously struggling or mourning or both. He doesn't understand but he wants to. He reaches out a hand to the other man but the Corporal withdraws, takes a couple steps further back, craning his face up to the endlessly falling snow that blurs them both into white oblivion.

* * *

The earth is downy and soft yet cold and wet all around him. His eyelids flutter open and are full of gray clouds that are rolling lazily past him as snow gently falls. Snow collects on his eyelids and everywhere, burying him slowly. He looks to his side and sees that the Corporal is lying closely next to him in the snow, arms outstretched a little, eyelids half lidded and a faraway look on his face as he watches pine trees sway. Eames doesn't know what he just saw but he knows it's troubling the other man so he gets up from their sanctuary of ice and gets the other man to his feet as well and they walk hand in hand away from this part of his world.

Eames wants to show him and because he doesn't know where to start he starts at the beginning. He leads him through the forest, his backyard when he was growing up, to his small country home. It's the same as he always remembered only blanketed with soft white and still Eames can't ask him.

The Corporal's eyes are wide with curiosity as they tread lightly over the white earth. There's a pain in Eames' chest as he leads the other man up the small walk to the paint chipped front door-old worn wood, hinges that threaten to fall off at any moment. It pains him greatly like he's carrying around more weight inside him to take him back to his childhood home, the house that was a lie. But he also feels flutters of newness like his body is very much awake yet he knows he's asleep in a chair in the training facility building with the Corporal by his side, them hand in hand. The house is just as his step father, his uncle left it-barren, full of empty dreams and broken promises. It surprises Eames that the house is empty-not how he wanted it to be but try as he might he can't will the house to be full-to be full of people he thought that loved him and the ones that truly did were either killed or taken from him without his choice.

Eames feels weak in the knees and struggles for breath. He hadn't expected this. He thought it would be so easy to manipulate the dream, having no real experience being the dreamer but as his eyes wander over faded, peeling wallpaper, buckling, water stained wood floors and cracked ceilings he realizes it's not a dream, it's a memory. He cannot control or change the past.

He faintly realizes he's paused, standing in the middle of the empty living room right where the coffee table used to be. The Corporal is still holding his hand and when he realizes that Eames has stopped he pauses too and shoots the other man a curious look over his shoulder, eyebrow cocked. There must be something showing on Eames' face because as the Corporal takes him in his own face softens and he approaches his space at once, searching his eyes.

"This is my home," Eames closes his eyes when he says it because everything has become difficult, even the words and he's still having trouble breathing.

"But it isn't anymore," the Corporal's voice is excruciatingly gentle and he feels a squeeze at his hand. Eames begrudgingly opens his eyes and the Corporal is smiling beautifully, eyes shining and Eames feels like he can breathe. He feels that the Corporal's emotion, his attention and dare he say his love is giving him air, breathing life into him. He feels he's returning the smile and he squeezes back-something real and palpable despite him knowing it's a dream.

And then the Corporal is leading Eames around his old childhood home and Eames lets him. They pass from room to room. The Corporal touches the walls faintly like he wants to understand and Eames finds it touching, touching that the Corporal is accepting it all even if Eames isn't.

He's lead into the basement, his uncle's secret place, the place where Eames' life as a lie started and Eames is resistant but he feels the Corporal's strength flood into him as he takes his hand and leads him down the concrete steps.

"This is where it started," Eames breathes smelling the familiar musty smells, his uncle's tobacco and aftershave, his mum's antique things now long gone. He remembered he wanted to show the Corporal the beginning and in a lot of ways it all started here. But not anymore.

Eames tugs at the younger man's hand. "Let's go."

The Corporal is looking around like he doesn't want to leave, like he's content with staying and Eames isn't sure why but he knows what happens next and they can't be inside the place when it happens.

They just make it back outside and even though Eames can't see color he senses that the sky has changed. He guesses its dusk but he's not certain. The snow is also gone. The grass has shown itself. Its summer he knows because again this is all a memory.

The flames and smoke rise out of the house slowly and Eames doesn't remember if it happened that way or not. The two men stand with clasped hands and watch as the house is consumed with dark heavy smoke and rising flames and despite the heartache Eames is glad it's gone, his home and what it stood for. The Corporal was right it- it isn't his home anymore. He wanted a house by the rolling ocean, someplace completely different than his small country home.

Ash falls from the sky like little paper shards but it's all wrong. Snow is falling steadily again and Eames looks to the other man because he isn't dreaming this but now he's not sure anymore. The memory fades, blurs and the Corporal's constant presence gives him the push he needs. The snow and ash morph into white feathers. Eames cranes his head upwards and laughs and laughs because his mum told him to never forget to keep dreaming and Eames was worried he did. He turns to the man next to him and he's smiling too, feathers dancing and gliding off his young face. The other man has helped him to remember to keep dreaming.

They watch as his former home is consumed by flames-breaking windows, charring walls, wood spitting and crackling. The feathers, pure as the snow itself and dawn's earliest light covers everything, obscuring the scene and themselves. He can barely see the Corporal as the feathers are falling faster and faster-a world of white.

"I did this," Eames says after a time and just like when the Corporal was confessing his sin around the cemetery with the coffin being lowered into the ground he can barely hear his own voice.

He thinks the Corporal is looking at him but he can't be sure, he can barely see his hand in front of his face, the feathers clinging to every surface.

"I know," he thinks he hears the Corporal say and Eames reaches for him desperately but the world is being consumed by fire, ash and feathers-black, white and gray, all that Eames has ever known and he can't find the Corporal in all of it. They're burning too he knows, the flames and smoke have somehow impossibly found them in his dream and they are dwindling, becoming a part of it all.

"What do you see?" again he can barely hear it as the fire and feathers are drowning out all sounds.

His heart is on fire too at the Corporal's question and he swears just for the briefest of seconds he can see something beautiful dance in front of his vision, like a swirl and maybe its color or maybe it isn't and he almost doesn't care. There isn't anybody else now. He only wants this man, the man he barely knows and can't see clearly because he's asked him the question, the most important question.

"You, darling. I only see you." It was true and wasn't at the same time and his heart is bursting, being consumed by the flames, the ash and smoke. If he could construct a dream, a world strictly based off this perfect creature, the Corporal, than he would. He would live and dream only for him.

His limbs are disappearing and still he reaches for the Corporal, him feeling so close. He's becoming nothing but he feels he's gained everything just by him asking Eames what he sees. Their fingertips brush through the billowing smoke and swirling debris. He feels his body consumed by heat and he isn't sure if it's from the fire or his burning desires. His body is broken apart, whisked away with the feathers and wind, both of them carried away like dust.

* * *

His eyes open to blazing sun and white heat soaking in through his clothes and there are things clinging to him-dust, ash, feathers, bits of his old home, all rolled together into one making an impossible combination. The Corporal is in the mixture too-his smell, taste and feel. Eames closes his eyes and breathes it in. He feels grass and dying leaves underneath him. He flexes his muscles and tries out his limbs. He thought he had dissolved into nothing from the fire, thought they were dead. He thought they would have woken up…

He feels disorientated and his lack of experience being the dreamer grips him and holds him fast. He thought for sure that if you die in the dream that you wake up. But maybe they didn't die? Were they still dreaming? He turns his head to either side feebly, grass tickling his face but he doesn't see the Corporal. Eames gets up on shaky knees, dusts himself off and takes in his surroundings. It's a park and there's a playground a short distance away. He can hear old, rusted metal swings sway in the gentle breeze and distant children's laughter. Grass and leaves become sand as he approaches the jungle gym. He spies a figure sitting alone on a park bench, too far away to make out their face but the silhouette is unmistakable. It's the Corporal. Somewhere there's wind chimes knocking in the gentle breeze, leaves blow past him and catch on the cuffs of his trousers but his eyes are transfixed on the Corporal's form.

He makes his way over to him, sand sinking beneath him, filling his shoes and he dodges children. The Corporal's gaze never wavers or leaves the playground; his eyes are big and transfixed, not acknowledging Eames' presence. Eames turns and follows the Corporal's eyes to where he thinks the younger man is looking. There is a man maybe in his forties with light, close cropped hair, clean shaven face, broad shoulders and crooked, tobacco stained teeth flashing in the sun. The resemblance is a little daunting like he's looking at an older version of himself or a relative. Eames again has a feeling things are getting out of control like the dream is slipping away from him just like the sand. The man the Corporal is watching is helping a young boy of maybe eight work some monkey bars. Both of them are laughing without a care in the world like it's all just them. Eames eyes them curiously trying to understand why the Corporal can't stop watching them. As Eames continues to watch the boy he can't help but see the similarities-the dark hair, the flash of dimples, the large, dark exotic looking eyes. It' the Corporal and his father he surmises.

Eames suddenly feels like he's watching something very private which he is and he averts his eyes. He puts a reassuring hand on the Corporal's shoulder, the real Corporal, anchoring him.

"You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bit bigger, darling," the pet name just rolls off his tongue and he's reminded of Rup and the affections he would bathe Eames in. The Corporal's eyes are still on the scene, barely blinking.

"You mustn't be afraid to keep dreaming," Eames urges even more gently, almost a whisper. It's a warning and a plea. As much as he wanted to know this man and wanted to show him, rolling around in memories seemed to be detrimental to them both. They should create new memories. He applies more pressure on the Corporal's shoulder and finally he turns and gives him his full attention like he just noticed he was standing there. He blinks at him-autumn sun in his hair, his big dark eyes like reflective pools. Eames sticks his hand out to the younger man and the Corporal eyes it after a time like he's still moving in slow motion or underwater. The Corporal takes Eames' hand-his touch light and soft. The walk hand in hand out of the park. The Corporal's eyes never leave the scene of him as a younger boy and his father as he holds him up and he works the monkey bars, a constant loop being played over and over.

The world spins and shifts under their feet like they're walking on a moving record player and just like the frames of a film reel things flicker rapidly in front of them, dissolving and changing.

He sees what he sees and because he wants to start somewhere new he sees the ocean, someplace he's always dreamt of living if he was given a choice. But he's not given a choice in a lot of areas in his life. They walk the beach, crystal sand stretching out for miles, waves lapping at their shoes and he senses the Corporal relax, his muscles unclenching. Eames almost sees him smile as the Corporal closes his eyes and inhales deeply. The air is saturated with salt and burning leaves and when the wind ruffles through their hair he can taste salt on his lips and can feel it on his face. They chase the tide for a while and the Corporal is smiling. Eames returns the smile and gets the sense that the Corporal is at home. They walk the long beach until Eames can spy a cliff in the distance and the Corporal stops. He sees it too. A house appears at the top of the cliff like a shimmering mirage and Eames can feel the Corporal stiffen next to him.

Beach becomes dying grass and leaves again which becomes a well maintained front walkway with perfect brick under their feet in a blink of an eye. Eames is staring up at a huge house of immaculate construction- all brick and white gleaming wood, everything polished and pristine. The elegant front door of the house swings open and again Eames can feel the Corporal stiffen.

They move through the house but it's not the same as Eames' house. The Corporal has an odd expression on his face somewhere between fascination, fear, respect and doubt and Eames knows that this is the Corporal's house or at least used to be. Eames is angry yet intrigued and he shares some of the Corporal's fear and fascination. This doesn't feel like a dream. It feels like another memory as they move from room to room. Everything is sparkling clean, almost suffocatingly so as if the very air has been scrubbed and polished. He peers at the Corporal closely like he just now noticed something and something clicks. He notices the precise, clean shaven haircut, his perfect shave, and his impeccably pressed clothes. The Corporal came from a home of perfection it seemed. A figure cuts across the hall, too quick to really comprehend cutting off Eames' thoughts and startling him. Eames gets a strange feeling and that runaway train, out of control feeling grips him.

The house grows very still and dark like all sound is sucked out. Heavy, saturated clouds cut rapidly across the sparkling clean windows and Eames feels a chill down his spine. He looks to his side for the Corporal but he's gone and fear is added to the chill he feels. He begins searching the dark clean rooms stupidly in a blind panic. They aren't alone in the house now and this isn't like revisiting Eames' childhood home at all. This is like a nightmare. He'd shout out the Corporal's name but he doesn't know it and why doesn't he? He feels slow and stupid as he stumbles into immaculate rooms with nothing in them and there are so many rooms but the Corporal is nowhere to be found.

Lighting cuts across the windows lighting up stark clean rooms and thunder booms a heartbeat later startling Eames and his heart pounds at even a more ferocious speed. He stupidly calls out: "Corporal" to no avail and he pops his head into another room when lightning flashes against the window and he sees a familiar silhouette outside. It's the Corporal. Eames rushes out of the room, flies down the stairs and rips open the front door not bothering to try to find the other back exit to the house. He feels the dark figure at his back, lingering in the hall as he exits the house and he shudders. Raindrops fall and collect on his every surface chilling him to the very core. His feet squish on grass and he nearly slips as he hurriedly runs around the house. He comes to a skittering stop when he sees the Corporal on the opposite side of him looking drowned from rain as he watches a scene unfold around the perimeter of an in ground swimming pool that's collecting rain. Eames blinks rapidly, rain getting in his eyes and he can't quite comprehend what he and the Corporal are seeing.

A boy of maybe ten or eleven who looks petulant and defiant is arguing with the dark figure who turns out to be a woman maybe in her forties. The dress she is wearing is starchy looking and faded around her frail form like it's been worn and washed many times. The woman's boney hands too are cracked, worn, raw and almost bleeding from being washed too many times but that's not the most frightening thing about her. The woman's eyes are dark and vacant like a doll's, sunken and too big for her thin face and her mannerisms are stiff and robotic like. The Corporal's face is vacant too; his eyes blank and not moving, a deep set frown on his pale face. He looks washed out and miserable but also like he's serving a penance. Eames wants to go to him, take him in his arms to end this but the scene, the heated argument going on with the young boy and the woman is in between the Corporal and Eames and Eames feels stuck.

_"So you won't forget to keep dreaming." _And he hadn't but the Corporal has and the memories needed to stop for both their sakes. Eames peers at the young boy doused in rain with his hurt and angry eyes and Eames again notices some similarities-the same dark, exotic looking eyes as the woman, the dark hair, the cheekbones. This was the Corporal as a young boy, older than the version of himself at the park. The woman was also his mum. But this scene, this memory is very different from that memory with his father at the park. The young Corporal and his mum are arguing. The woman is almost crying and when the argument reaches a fever pitch Eames can pick up on the younger Corporal's practically screamed words above the rain: "I'm right here! You never see me do you?"

The words stun Eames a little, stirring in his chest and he can only blink. The words anger him, enrage him but also sadden him. In some ways he felt the very opposite of the Corporal-people saw Eames too much and wanted too much from him but Eames was the one that had the problem seeing.

Everything slows down to the point where Eames almost thinks it freezes all together but he can still move and he can see the Corporal, the older version, blinking from across the other end of the pool. The young Corporal has invaded his mum's space and has shoved her and Eames can feel his eyes go impossibly wide as time slows to a lurch as the woman is propelled backwards, slips and falls head first into the pool. Water seems to explode around her frail, worn form. Eames hears a sickening crack and the pool seems to change colors but what those are Eames doesn't know. He sees what he sees and it looks like the unmistakable form of blood skimming the surface of the rain ridden pool. The older Corporal is closing his eyes and the younger stands stock still as his mum's broken form sinks lower and lower into the pool, her watery grave. The younger Corporal screams things, screams at his mum to swim, to get out, to do something. Then he just screams and it's like the lightning has hit Eames, jolting him it frightens him so much and still he feels like he can't do anything but pathetically watch like he feels like this needs to happen and whether that's for the Corporal or himself he isn't sure.

He read someone's theory on dreams once and how they thought it purges you of plaguing thoughts as you sleep even of ones you didn't know you had. Maybe this was the way for the Corporal to purge these nightmares, these plaguing memories weighing deeply on his soul. Time speeds up and seems to go back to normal. Dark, heavy clouds roll steadily past in the dark sky. The woman's body floats to the surface of the blood ridden pool lazily drifting around face down, rain hitting her bloated body and the young Corporal laughs. It's the scariest thing that's happened in this memory yet Eames thinks .The laugh starts small but then grows bigger and bigger until his laugh is of a mad man, racking his body leaving him crying and breathless and still the older Corporal's eyes are closed to all of this like he's seen enough. Eames has too. But the dream or memory, it's getting harder to keep track, shifts again and suddenly they're plunged deeper into darkness. Its night now and millions of stars are out, dusting the sky with their brilliance.

The younger Corporal is gone and it's just the two of them by the tepid dark pool with the body of the Corporal's mum still floating. Eames goes to the Corporal at once but the Corporal's eyes snap open and are transfixed on the dark moon hanging low in the sky and he moves away from him. Eames trains his eyes to the dark sky and the moon is strange like something he's never seen before. It looks dark like a new moon but it isn't…

The Corporal shies away from Eames' touch and stumbles hurriedly away, back inside and Eames is dumbfounded with his behavior. Was this another memory or just his overall reaction to the previous ones? Eames numbly follows after him into the house but he doesn't know where he's gone and he's almost worried the Corporal's mum will return with her frail yet bloated form dripping pool water and blood, hair plastered to her face smelling of chlorine and death. Eames shudders and runs around the huge house like a labyrinth shouting out: "Corporal, where are you?"

He hears sniffling as he ascends the stairs and follows the sound to a bathroom. The bathroom is bathed in darkness save for a little moonlight shining in through the blinds. The Corporal is sitting on the tile floor with his knees drawn up tightly to his chest like he's trying to cave in on himself, sniffling into his sleeves. Eames crouches down to his level until he's on his knees and tries to soothe the Corporal. The Corporal's eyes are trained to the solitary window, barely blinking and muttering to himself.

"What's that, love?" Eames leans in closer to try to catch what the Corporal is saying under his breath.

"528 days…"

"528 days for what?"

Eames doesn't know how much time they have left in his dream and he'd be kidding himself if he thought they would spend so much time reliving memories and not good ones at that. But they got to be fanciful and free at the beach for a little while at least.

"Until it happens…but it's happening now…"the Corporal's eyes are dark and shiny, his body trembling and all Eames can think to do is take him in his arms thinking they didn't have much more time in the dream.

The Corporal mutters more things and is crying and Eames soothes him.

"Darling, listen to me. This is very important. What do you see?"

The Corporal stiffens in his arms and thankfully his crying momentarily stops. The Corporal turns his eyes to Eames' direction and there's confusion yet warmth there.

"I see you," he smiles. Eames returns the smile and kisses him getting momentarily distracted.

When they break away and Eames regains enough composure he tries again: "No, darling. What I mean is…do you…do you see color?" his voice is weak and strained in the dark bathroom with the cold tile and the strange moon filtering in through the blinds. The Corporal regards him with a furrowed brow seeming to think about his answer. "Of course I do," and there's something in the Corporal's eyes. Eames knows that look; he's dealt with it too many times before. Eames was a liar and cheat, a criminal and thief, a killer and a conman and he knew when people were lying or hiding something. The question he's about to ask the Corporal is stopped short however as his eyes open to the familiar high ceiling and beams of the training facility. Eames blinks a few times feeling stunned but also a little depressed and exhilarated like he just got off a roller coaster and the adrenaline rush hadn't worn off. His hand is still enclosing the Corporal's. He hears the Corporal make a gagging sound and as Eames is removing the IV from his arm he hears the Corporal vomiting.

Eames is on him at once as the Corporal deposits all the contents of his stomach. He soothes him much like when they were in the dream or memory and eventually the Corporal stops and regards him-all flushed face, glassy eyes and stained uniform.

"That was…such a rush," the Corporal says deliriously and Eames just nods and caresses his cheek. The Corporal still seems a little drunk or maybe still sick. Eames makes sure to clean everything, the dream sharing device included, not leaving behind any evidence they were there.

"Let's get you cleaned up," he hoists the young Corporal up and helps him as they leave the training facility behind, back in the cool, fall, night air. The Corporal lolls his head back looking up to the dark sky absent of the strange moon and smiles. Eames lives for that smile, the flash of dimples and white even teeth. He lives for this man. Despite the disturbing images and memories he just shared with him he would go anywhere this man went and he was sure they would be laughing about the shared dream tomorrow but right now he needed to make sure the Corporal got cleaned up and put to bed.

The Corporal clings to him as they make it to Eames' temporary dorm. He may have to share with other officers in the future but he's given his own very small one for the time being. Once they get inside he maneuvers the Corporal over to the tiny washroom. He runs some water, wets a towel and wipes off his sick ridden face.

"Take your uniform off. I'll get the stain out," Eames tries to hide the slight blush on his cheeks as he deposits some soap on a damp washcloth, eyes trained to the sink. He hears cloth rustling, boots thunking to the floor and a stained uniform is handed to him a short time later. He tries to respect the Corporal's privacy, conserve his modesty but it's hard to avert his eyes when the Corporal is standing next to him with only his white undershirt, boxers and dog tags on. Eames mumbles something to him, maybe a thank you and tries to keep his focus on scrubbing at the spot where he got sick on his uniform but it's hard. It's hard when all he can think about is what the Corporal looks like without the rest of his clothes on and the dream they just shared-so powerful and impressionable.

Eames hands a swaying Corporal a toothbrush and some paste. He hadn't gotten a chance to even open his set yet since he just arrived, giving the Corporal something to do. The Corporal crowds his space, brushing his teeth feebly and watches Eames as Eames scrubs away at the spot. His plan backfires on him though as the Corporal is even closer to him now and Eames can feel the heat coming off of him, the scent of his aftershave and toothpaste mingled with the sour smells of vomit. He also smells a little like this place-the dry, desert heat and burning autumn leaves. Eames doesn't realize he's stopped scrubbing until the Corporal eyes him. His big exotic looking eyes give him a look and there's amusement and an: "I caught you staring" look.

Eames goes back to his work maybe too quickly and blushes. When they finish he offers to hang up his uniform to dry and he knows he's trying to buy more time, to keep the Corporal here and it's selfish but they shared an experience and Eames wants to talk about it if the Corporal is willing and able. Eames hangs the Corporal's uniform over a chair and when he turns around the Corporal is on him, all warm limbs and sloppy mouth as he fumbles with Eames' lips for a kiss. Eames accepts the sloppy kiss and breaks away, taking a couple steps back.

"I think you should sit down. I think you're still a little drunk," but Eames' voice is betraying him, cracking with emotion and his heart is beating fiercely from the Corporal's unexpected touch. The Corporal just shoots him a devious, defiant look and strips off his t-shirt quickly, throwing it to the floor making Eames swallow hard. The Corporal stumbles towards him and dares him with his eyes to argue. Eames backs away a little and the situation feels like it's getting a little out of control again just like with parts of the dream. Eames has rarely if ever backed away from an opportunity but the Corporal is still a little drunk and was just sick. It wasn't good timing and he would feel guilty taking advantage…

But oh, the Corporal looks very good with his shirt off-all pale skin and hard muscle underneath. His skin looks soft and it's pure, not a blemish or marking, the very opposite of Eames. Eames finds that he likes this about the Corporal-how his hair and eyes are dark where his are light, how the Corporal's skin doesn't have any tattoos or history like he's an empty canvas. The Corporal is a whip of a thing but Eames knew not to underestimate him as he was learning slowly that the Corporal was someone to not quickly assume. As if to prove the point the Corporal keeps approaching closer and Eames keeps taking steps backwards away from him like they're doing a secret dance. He can't keep his eyes off his exposed skin and devilish smile, distracting him and the Corporal backs him into a wall. Eames hits it with a thud and the Corporal advances on him at once, taking Eames' moment of distraction and crowds his space, his arms on either side of his Eames' head. Eames is trapped. He can feel the Corporal's hot breath on his face and everything seems to slow down like they're back in the dream. But this isn't a dream this time. This is very real.

The Corporal seems to take enjoyment from their faces and their bodies so close together yet still not touching like a tease. Eames swallows hard and he knows he could easily break away, that the "prison" that the Corporal has put Eames in is not steadfast. He could easily push aside the Corporal's arms or duck under them and if Eames knows that then the Corporal knows this too. But Eames wants to be trapped against the wall with the Corporal's immaculate skin around him just like the Corporal's house, pressed very close to him.

"Kiss me," the Corporal breathes, pushing air on Eames' face and Eames has never in his life denied anyone a kiss before and he doesn't plan on starting now. All his prior thoughts about not wanting to take advantage of the Corporal come rushing back at him but the Corporal is looking at him so eagerly, so expectantly that Eames cannot say no. The Corporal obviously wants this and Eames will give it to him because Eames wants it too. The Corporal had said the very important words, awakening Eames and the least Eames could do was pleasure him if that's what he wanted.

Eames closes the very short distance between them capturing his lips and it's a different kiss then when the Corporal grabbed at him outside the bar. The kiss is soft and gentle with longing laced underneath. The Corporal's tongue slides in to meet his and its warm and inviting and Eames wraps a hand around the Corporal's neck working his fingers in his cropped locks and the Corporal's hands are all over Eames' hips and back and Eames can't remember anything anymore.

They break away from the kiss to breathe, both sucking in air and the Corporal is playing with the zipper of Eames' uniform, eyes to the floor, a blush on his sweet face and oh Eames doesn't know how far this will go but he'll oblige the Corporal. He lets the Corporal unzip his jacket of his uniform, tipping over Eames' hat as well, tossing them both towards the door-the only exit. The Corporal works his hands very slowly over Eames' chest. He can feel the intense heat of the Corporal's fingers through the thin fabric of his undershirt making him shiver. The Corporal works his way upwards and rests his hands on Eames' pecs and Eames can sense the Corporal smiling, liking what he was feeling. The Corporal moves slowly upwards again to his dog tags, slipping them from underneath his shirt and pulling at them, bringing Eames down to his level which is not a lot as they are about the same height, maybe only an inch difference. The Corporal tugs Eames down for a kiss and it's needy and hot this time and Eames grabs at the Corporal's hips crushing them both together leaving them breathless. It's a fierce struggle against the wall as hands and knees are everywhere but eventually the Corporal gets Eames' shirt off. The Corporal's dark eyes go a little wide softening into warmth as he takes in Eames' prison ink. Eames dusts his fingers over the Corporal's neck, the touching moving to kisses as the Corporal explores Eames' bare chest, running his fingers over his tattoos.

Feeling the Corporal bare-chested pressed against him is getting to be too much and he's growing hard. He sucks at the sensitive area on the Corporal's neck and the Corporal is making delicious sounds like little gasps and mews of pleasure. The Corporal's talented fingers trail down to Eames' navel and try inching lower and Eames is maneuvering them towards the bed, not able to handle the Corporal's teasing and touches any longer.

Eames hovers over a flushed Corporal who looks a bit dazed yet eager and Eames' asks him if it's ok with his eyes. The Corporal responds by spreading his legs a little wider and tugging at Eames' belt loop, bringing him down into a kiss. Eames explores the intimate crevices of the Corporal's mouth as the Corporal's fingers are exploring Eames' backside, trying to bring him down lower. Eames obliges and explores the Corporal's pale skin. He sucks at his delicate collarbones kissing down to chest until he gets to his navel. He circles it with his tongue slowly and the Corporal goes rigid and squirms underneath him moaning. Eames' erection is pressed tightly against his pants and the Corporal thrusting up to meet his slow sweep of his tongue is not helping. He feels dizzy when he lets up, running his rough thumbs over the Corporal's ribcage. The Corporal has worked his hands around Eames' front and is unbuckling his belt. His dark eyes are half lidded, his lips swollen from kisses yet his eyes look shiny and eager. Eames presses in closer, sweeping his tongue over the side of the Corporal's neck and lets the Corporal work his belt off, Eames' cock throbbing at the close proximity of his fingers. The Corporal fumbles with his button and zipper and Eames helps him work his pants down and off. The Corporal is on him immediately, touching his cock through his boxers and Eames is done for.

He pries his body away from the Corporal's, shimmies off his boxers and undresses the Corporal the rest of the way slowly, kissing the revealed skin. The Corporal's cock is hard and leaking. It's significantly darker than the rest of his skin and Eames wonders what color it looks like. Maybe red? Slightly purple or different shades of flesh tone? Eames hovers over the Corporal on the bed again and runs his fingers over his glistening cock, the Corporal doing the same to him. He lies on top of the Corporal, feeling the air is knocked out of him and devours his mouth. They're pelvis to pelvis, their erections gliding off each other and they're both grunting and moaning into each other's mouths. Eames shifts a bit and balances the Corporal's legs on top of each of Eames' shoulders, elevating the Corporal slightly off the bed. Eames presses his face in closer so he has good access to the Corporal's cock and hole. He wets a finger in his mouth and explores the Corporal's hole, the tight ring of muscle, circling it. The Corporal shakes at his touch, clutching the side of the bed, his breathing hard. Eames experiments and pushes in his finger a little liking how the Corporal's heat envelops him. The Corporal hisses out in pain, his head thrown to one side, eyes closed but he moans and wriggles a little like he wants more. Eames pushes his finger in up to the knuckle and the Corporal struggles for breath like a drowning man. Eames fucks him with his finger slowly, gently and the Corporal is sweating, fisting the sheets, swearing but moaning and after a while he moves with him.

Eames presses his face in closer and laps at his entrance with his tongue as he moves his finger in an out of the Corporal, the Corporal thrusting his hips up to meet him. The Corporal swears loudly, his body shuddering as he feels Eames' tongue try to enter him at the same time as his finger and the Corporal's cock is leaking pre come on Eames, dribbling down his thighs, getting everywhere. Eames removes his finger, his mouth greedy and he circles the Corporal's hole with his tongue first and the Corporal is becoming undone, a mass of goo in Eames' hands. Eames circles his thumbs over the Corporal's sharp hip bones while he pushes his tongue inside the Corporal's slippery heat, his own pre come leaking all over. The Corporal fists Eames' hair, shuddering. Eames pushes inside him slowly, hitting nerves and clusters of muscle. He fucks him with his tongue, starting slowly at first but the Corporal barks out to go faster so he moves in and out of his heat quicker. The Corporal moves with him, fucking back on his tongue and the Corporal is confusing Eames for God as he's constantly saying: "Sergeant" and "Oh God" the two phrases running together becoming one. When Eames' tongue gets tired he goes back to his fingers, entering him with two. The Corporal is getting good and stretched, his inside already slicked up from Eames' tongue and Eames can barely take anymore as he's biting back his own needs, his cock ready to explode at any moment and aching horrible. The Corporal is asking for more, is body wrecked and fucked open, his chest moving fast, his dog tags tinkering and Eames wants to give him more, wants to give him everything. He removes his fingers from deep inside him and envelops him, fisting the Corporal's cock. The Corporal shoots him a look and Eames knows that look almost as well as when people are trying to bluff him. It's a look of want, of approval and need and Eames doesn't need to ask twice. He places the Corporal's legs back down on the bed and hovers over him once more. The Corporal hooks his ankles around Eames' back and Eames feels lightheaded.

He circles the Corporal's hole slowly with his cock and enters him after a few slow sweeps. He lowers himself slowly feeling every inch as the Corporal's tight heat envelops him. Eames closes his eyes because it's marvelous and he hasn't even done anything yet. The Corporal is tight and slicked up, slippery and hot around his cock. Eames pushes in until he's full to the hilt and the only sound in the room is the two men gasping for breath and panting. Eames rests his sweaty face in the crook of the Corporal's neck and after he lets himself and the Corporal get used to how he feels inside he lets up from the Corporal's neck so he can see the Corporal's eyes and chances moving. Their faces are close together and their eyes never break as he moves. He fists the Corporal's cock and the Corporal's eyelids flutter, his eyes seeming to roll back in his head.

"Oh fuck. Yes. More," the Corporal breathes as Eames moves in and out of his heat, the Corporal thrusting his hips up to meet him. They find a rhythm quickly and Eames isn't going to last. He was ready to go even before he entered him and now he'll come quickly with the Corporal all around him, moving in and out of his slippery hole. A few strokes in and he feels he's getting close. He fists the Corporal's cock quicker and the Corporal gasps out, almost a quick cry. Eames enters him and the Corporal thrusts up to meet him and Eames is going over the edge. He grips the Corporal's hips and comes, fucking the Corporal through his release, filling up the Corporal with his come until it's dribbling out of his hole and the Corporal is right behind, coming in Eames' fingers as he fists him and Eames' body is spasming, tremors and jerks from the powerful release racking his body, the lower half of his body feeling like jello.

He rests his face in the crook of the Corporal's neck again and the Corporal puts his arms around him, stroking his back. He lies on top of him, still inside him, the Corporal's ankles still around his back as he tries to regain his balance and breath back, feeling the Corporal's heart beat fast against him. They detangle after they both feel like they can breathe again, the Corporal snuggled against his chest and Eames feels like this night has been one of the best of his life. He smiles and the Corporal turns his face to him. Eames catches him in a kiss. His first night in American and he had met someone, someone special. They had shared the dream together-the first dream where Eames was the dreamer, the Corporal had asked him what he saw and they just had mind blowing sex. He would never forget this night. The search for his father could wait. Nothing else mattered right now then the man lying next to him. Eames rests his eyes for what he thinks is a moment, his head sinking into his pillow that feels like feathers are stuffed inside. He hears the Corporal mutter: "528 days…" as he's presumably drifted off already. Eames smiles again and follows him into sleeo. He knows what he'll be dreaming about.

* * *

He awakens to bright light hitting his eyes making his face twitch. For a moment he thinks he's back in the dream or memory and is lying in the grass with dying leaves all around, a playground just in sight. He rubs at his eyes but keeps them closed. He rolls over on his side feeling the soft bed underneath him remembering the events of the night before. He reaches out a hand to the other side of the bed pleased with himself that it's not a dream. His hand only feels cold sheets. Eames cracks an eye open and blinks stupidly at the empty space on the bed next to him, his mind slowly coming out of sleep. His hand seems to recoil from the cold sheets. The Corporal has been gone for hours, presumably slipped away in the middle of the night and Eames closes his eyes because it must be a dream. It must…

He opens his eyes again a short time later and accesses the situation. The Corporal's clothes are gone and he doesn't see any kind of note left for him. It's so early but Eames needs to get up but his body feels heavy, his heart too but somewhere deep down he reasons there must be an explanation for him leaving, slipping out like he was embarrassed. They shared something too close and intimate for him to act so coldly. He had said the right words, had asked him the important question. This couldn't be the last time they meet; he has to know the Corporal really didn't want to see him anymore so as he showers and dresses he devises a plan.

* * *

A week goes by and Eames settles in though he only has one thing on his mind. Him and his boys set up the huge dream sharing machine which takes time. They go over all the information and showcase various things to the officers at Fort Irwin. Regrettably Eames does not see the Corporal anywhere.

"I went over his file and information and I think he would be good for the job."

Lt. Alexander eyes Eames over his own paperwork from his position behind his huge desk. He takes off his glasses and nods after a time, digesting his words.

They were in Lt. Alexander's office. Eames made a point to come see him right after breakfast and made sure to look into one Corporal Arthur Marek in his free time as well. Eames thought he looked like an Arthur and the thought made him smile yet pained his heart at the way he left him cold that morning. Eames was to assemble a team and normally the Lieutenant would oversee who would be working under him but Eames didn't think it would hurt if he dropped the Corporal's name, requesting him specifically.

"I actually met him. Nice chap, good head on his shoulders and a real leader. Very admirable that he made Corporal at such a young age."

He himself made Sergeant at a very young age too but he leaves that bit of information out. Lt. Alexander nods again and Eames sees the spark of acknowledgment in the Lieutenant's eyes. Eames knows how to work people, knows how to work the angles having pulled cons on people for the majority of his life. He'd lie and pull a job on Lt. Alexander if it meant he could see the Corporal just one more time. Fort Irwin was a large base and Eames was going to be busy with the dream sharing training program for a while. Who knew if and when they would see each other again.

"We need officers of the highest caliber for this mission. We need the best to represent not only yourself but Fort Irwin as a whole in the best light possible."

Lt. Alexander rubs at his jaw and meets Eames' eyes for one of the first times since he arrived in his office that morning.

"You're right. I'll have it arranged that Corporal Marek be brought in on this. I'll see you back here at oh nine hundred. You're dismissed."

Eames salutes, biting his tongue to hide his smile and pure glee. The Corporal may be avoiding him or too busy with work but Eames needed to see him again, to be around the man that had asked him the most important question. Eames picks at his uniform once he's outside. Some white feathers from his down pillow have escaped out and had gotten on his clothes when he laid them out that morning. He picks a small feather off and it's small and frail, white and delicate just like the Corporal. He pockets it because he thinks it looks like a smaller version of his feather and old habits die hard.

They assemble back in Lt. Alexander's office a little later and the Corporal's the last to arrive. The Corporal's eyes sweep the office but he doesn't look at Eames directly or linger on him like he' trying to avoid him all together. This should sting but heat ignites through Eames' body at seeing the Corporal again. Lt. Alexander introduces them and Eames almost rolls his eyes. They know each other very intimately already. They shake hands and the Corporal's face is as hard as stone, his very light face looking even lighter like he's gone pale.

"Corporal, good to see you again."

The Corporal only nods curtly and Eames can't help his stomach sink a little at seeing the Corporal so tight and pinched, so closed off. He knew they were working, were under the microscope and critical eye but he could at least give him the courtesy of being cordial. Eames feels himself smirking anyway, his body vibrating and humming from the Corporal's touch and the prospect of them working together closely on the project. He can't keep his eyes off the Corporal as Lt. Alexander is debriefing them, bringing the Corporal up to speed on everything. Eames can't help but remember the dream they shared, the night they spent together and the way the Corporal left. He's bound and determined to put the pieces back together. Just like uncovering the mystery of his father's whereabouts he needed to figure the Corporal out.

After they're dismissed Eames requests to see the Corporal privately in his office. He really didn't have much work to go over with the Corporal but he needs to confront him, air the dirty laundry with him if they're going to be working with each other intimately over the next couple months and really he just wants to be in his company.

Eames props his feet on his desk when they're alone in his office and the Corporal's taken a seat and still the Corporal hasn't uttered a word to him. He thought having a drink would lighten the mood, going back to how they first met and pours them scotch from his secret stash in his desk drawer and still the Corporal's face is ashy and sullen like he's biting something back. Eames hands the Corporal a glass and the Corporal downs his in one shot even before Eames can take a drink. Eames hides his smile behind his glass, cocking an eyebrow and takes a small sip of his own.

He discusses work with the Corporal and the Corporal looks surprised like Eames had ulterior motives for the private conference which he did. The Corporal doesn't smile, doesn't show Eames any warmth, emotion or any kind of affection like the whole night they shared didn't happen. Eames stares at him, trying to figure him out, like he's playing his game of guessing people's life stories in public places. But the Corporal isn't cut and dry as the memories he shared with Eames have proven. The Corporal doesn't mention anything about them or that night at all and it gets to Eames because the Corporal looks like he wants to say something but he won't. Eames pours them another drink and he feels he has the courage to ask him as the good scotch is working in his system.

"Why did you leave?"

He pours himself a glass after he refills the Corporal's and hides the bottle of scotch back in his drawer. He meets the Corporal's eyes and Eames can tell his cheeks are flushed. He can't see color but he trained himself to notice the change in people's faces and eyes, to watch for the signs of someone looking embarrassed. Eames feels something stir in his chest at finally seeing emotion on the Corporal's face, something other than stern disapproval stony mpassiveness.

"Sergeant, I want to make something clear since we're obviously speaking freely now. This relationship is going to be strictly professional and in regards to what happened on the 21st..."

Eames laughs because the Corporal sounds ridiculous. Professional? They were anything but professional that night. It was the Corporal's birthday and Eames wanted to show him a good time, the night slipping away from them but then after they shared the dream the Corporal was the one that wanted to show him a good time.

Eames hides his smile behind his glass as he takes a long drink.

"You like spouting orders like a good soldier, you've been trained well. I don't give two shits about protocol and we're talking off the record. I want to know why you left since you were the one that wanted it in the first place."

The Corporal's face burns deeper and Eames thinks the reaction is curious like the Corporal regrets his decision.

"I am not having this discussion with you. I will only respond to you professionally. It was a mistake, it won't happen again."

There's something in the Corporal's voice and mannerisms like he's making it up as he goes along and there's slight anger and fear in his voice. It makes Eames' heart skip a beat uncomfortably. Could it be possible that the Corporal just doesn't remember? Eames doesn't want to believe it but he feels himself getting angry too. He decides to test his theory.

"You're angry because you don't remember."

The Corporal clenches his jaw and averts his eyes and it's all the submission that Eames needs. He knows those looks when people are trying to play along or hide something. The Corporal doesn't remember. Eames feels like he's falling down a dark well, suspended in motion like his body won't allow him to fall. And he's angry and he's hurt.

"You make these little delicious noises when you come." He says it without thinking maybe reliving the moment or maybe lashing out or both. He's not sure anymore.

"Sergeant, if there's nothing else you wish to speak to me about regarding the dream sharing..."

Eames removes his feet from his desk and eyes the Corporal curiously. He believes it but doesn't believe it at the same time that the Corporal would forget their night so easily so Eames decides to torture himself a little more.

"528 days. Does that mean anything to you? You kept muttering it in your sleep," he hides his broken, fake smile behind his glass. He waits on bated breath in hopes that maybe miraculously the Corporal does remember, it all a cruel joke.

The Corporal's mouth is a thin, hard set line but there's a flicker of something in his eyes like Eames struck a nerve and Eames takes that as a small victory. Maybe he can help him remember…

"I have no idea. Anything else you needed?"

Eames reaches into his pocket and draws out the tiny down feather from his pillow. He deposits the feather into the Corporal's hand quickly and again Eames holds his breath and feels like everything rides on the Corporal's reaction. The Corporal regards the feather with revulsion and anger and rounds on Eames.

"Is this a joke?"

And it's hard for Eames to hide the hurt this time because he thought for sure the Corporal would remember his memory and the white feathers that rained from the sky. The Corporal's reactions are true, like he really has no idea what Eames is talking about, almost looking offended. Eames can only stare at him stupidly in defeat. And then the Corporal turns on his heel sharply and leaves, not waiting to be dismissed. Eames is left alone in his office, the heat of the Corporal still strongly in the room like it's radiating in the air. Eames drinks the rest of the scotch straight from the bottle, not bothering to pour another glass and tries not to think about the Corporal's reactions to everything he was trying to remind him of. He thinks faintly that maybe it was a mistake to request the Corporal for this mission as now the Corporal clearly hates him but it's too late now. If he requests someone else the Corporal will surely get in trouble and he doesn't want that. He knows what he wants and he sees what he sees and he figures its a long road ahead of him to be able to get it.

* * *

This story has a companion piece called "Black Moon" that runs parallel to this story but from Arthur's POV. Both stories can be read alone but encouraged to be read together as it will make more sense later. The stories will interweave and lock together.


End file.
