croik

To Master Post

Part 3 of 4

Arthur called Olivia. He had seen her only a handful of times since the infamous Platt "Block Party" a year before, but he didn't have to offer any explanation to get her to go out with him. They went to a club on the west side that was darker than the places he usually visited, filled with a seedier crowd. Olivia didn't complain, and after a few drinks she was lit up and the most honest she was capable of being.

"I'll be there at the party next week," Arthur said as they stumbled out of the club at closing, his arm around her waist. "Wallace said she'd be there, too."

Olivia all but cackled against his neck. "So you do know Wallace? You know, I heard a rumor that you fucked her for a gram of coke."

"Well." He laughed to keep from scowling. "It wasn't coke."

Olivia continued to laugh, and as much as he hated the thought of such a rumor circulating at all, she abruptly tossed him a bone. "Then maybe I'll look for you at the party. Show you something special."

"Special?" he prompted. "It'll have to be a little more than 'special' to get my attention."

"You'll love it," said Olivia, rocking into him. "You love anything that's new. And this is new. One of a kind. You won't find anything like it out here."

Arthur frowned, recalling who Olivia's wealthy mother was, who lived in her building, what connections they had and if any of them were military. "Then I'm looking forward to it."

Olivia shrugged her purse off her arm and began to paw through it. "Are you bringing a boyfriend?"

"I don't have a boyfriend. Roger's just a friend."

"Whatever." She at last fished out her phone. "Just let me know if you're going to show up with a party, so that I can order--"

She jolted and stumbled, almost dragging him down, and it wasn't until a man raced ahead of them that Arthur realized what had happened. "Fuck!" Olivia shouted, and she heaved one of her red pumps at the fleeing figure. "My fucking purse!"

"Hey!" Instinctually, Arthur ran after. Olivia's purse was white and easy to spot tucked under the thief's arm as he wove through the nighttime crowd. It reminded Arthur too much of his dream at Roger's, and he sped up, wanting to end the chase as quickly as possible. He was already gaining. At first he thought that the thief was merely slow but then he realized it was him--he was simply that fast.

"Son of a--" Arthur pushed harder, and could almost reach out and grab the asshole when steely fingers hooked around his arm. All his momentum worked against him and he was spun, skidding into an alley. Before he could stop himself he smashed face first into a cold brick wall. The stone grated his cheek, forehead, and chin, and blood began to seep almost immediately from his nose.

A man crushed into him from behind. Arthur struggled, but with his chest already to the wall and a forearm digging into the back of his neck he had no leverage and nowhere to go. He went still. God damn it, he thought. I can't believe I just fell for that.

"Fucker's fast," someone panted behind him.

"My wallet's in my left pocket," Arthur said. "Cash and cards. Go ahead."

A hand shoved into his pocket and wrestled the wallet out. He could hear it being flipped through and then the thief grunted. "Aren't you Arthur?"

Fuck. Arthur clenched his fists against the wall. "Who's asking?"

Jagged fingernails bit into his scalp, pushing him harder against the brick. "You've been poking around," the thief said. "And you're going to tell me what you've learned."

"I don't know what you're--"

The man detaining him reeled back, and Arthur struggled, but then a knee slammed into his lower back. He yelped as he was scraped into hard brick again. "You know where that PASIV is and you're going to tell me," the thief said.

Arthur closed his eyes. There were at least three of them, and though he hadn't heard the clink of a gun or seen a knife, he knew they had to be armed. They won't kill me, it's not worth it to kill me, he told himself, and the thought kept him calm. "I don't know where it is yet," he said. "I haven't had enough time."

"Don't you try and--"

"If I knew where it was I would have extracted it already," Arthur snapped.

The thief grunted again. "Then you're going to tell me everything you know, starting with who you're working for."

He heard the unmistakable flick of a switchblade, and when he opened his eyes dull metal was moving slowly closer to his face. He renewed his struggles but the man holding him wouldn't budge, and true fear threatened to dissolve what remained of his self-control.

"Fuck!" a woman's voice shrilled from the alley mouth. "I'm calling the fucking cops!"

The pressure at Arthur's back eased, only a fraction, but it was enough for him to throw his elbow back in a desperate attempt. The hit connected but not enough to do anything but make his captor angry. Growling, the man stepped away and heaved him back by the collar of his shirt. His heels dragged and then his back struck the opposite wall with another jarring impact.

A fist rushed toward him. Arthur saw it as if in slow motion, and he thought of Bone in the field across from the motel. He thought of Eames in the old gym with that God damned smirk. And then he thought, I can do anything.

Arthur threw his arm up, parrying the rushing fist. He wasn't fast enough and a rough knuckle scraped his temple, but hearing the man cry out when his hand struck brick made it worth it. He swung his other arm with all his strength and grimaced when the impact of fist-to-temple spread up to his shoulder. But it was enough that time, and the man stumbled back.

Another man rushed at him, all brown leather and bad hair, and Arthur took a knee to the gut that knocked the wind out of him. It didn't stop him. He thought of Eames again, and he wrapped both arms around his attacker's thigh, twisting him off his feet.

The alley smeared. Blood was in Arthur's mouth and the taste of it confused his senses. He thought there had been three men but when he looked again he counted four. His limbs moved without him. He pushed away from the wall and kicked at the man he had just felled, jabbing his heel into his ear, his throat, until a punch to the jaw threw him back. It didn't stop him. I'm faster than them, he thought, and he made it true; when the knife came at him he threw himself out of the way and then grabbed his attacker's wrist, turning and twisting, heaving him to the alley floor.

Arthur fought, and even when an arm wrapped around his neck he knew he wasn't in danger--if he lost all he'd have to do was wake up. That security gave him the strength he needed, and he lashed out, kicking off the wall with both feet. They scrambled and growled in the narrow space and then Arthur slipped free, attacked with his fists and elbows, until he was on the ground with a man beneath him.

I can do anything, Arthur thought as he pummeled the man unconscious. I am in control.

Olivia was screaming at him. She yanked at his jacket, and he realized suddenly that he was out of breath, his chest heaving with the effort of every intake. He was aching and bleeding and dizzy. With her help he stood, and caught only a glimpse of wary figures in the dark as they clamored out of the alley and ran.

They stopped in front of a brightly lit twenty-four hour drug store. "Fuck," Olivia hissed, over and over, as she helped Arthur lean back against the storefront window. "Fuck, Jesus, are you all right?" She touched his cheek and flinched back when he grimaced. "Sorry--sorry. I dropped my God damned phone before I could call the police."

Arthur groaned and scrubbed his sleeve over his face. "Don't bother. I didn't get a good look at any of them."

"What, are you serious?" She looked up and down the street in paranoia. "We were just mugged--we have to call the cops!"

"They weren't muggers," Arthur snapped. His head was pounding and breath was still hard to come by, keeping him from calming down. "Calling the cops is a waste of time. Just go inside and ask them to call us a cab."

Olivia shifted back and forth. "This is insane," she muttered.

"Just go already!"

"Fine! Fuck!"

She stormed into the drugstore. As soon as she was facing the counter Arthur pushed away from the window and ran. He was only a block away from the parking garage, and the few people left on the streets parted for him in his red, disheveled state. He may have been causing Olivia unnecessary panic but his mind was focused on only one goal.

His fist ached as he pounded on the door to Bone's motel room. His adrenaline was finally thinning out, and without it fueling him his hands began to shake. The realization of what had happened--what had almost happened--churned in his stomach until he thought he might be sick. But when the door opened, when it was Eames that stared back at him still half-asleep and shirtless, his control snapped back into place through pure necessity.

Eames woke up quickly enough. "Jesus, what happened to you?"

Arthur pushed past him. "Where's Bone? You have to change motels--I don't know if I've been followed."

"Hey--slow down." Eames leaned outside for a quick look and then closed the door. "What happened?"

"I was jumped by four assholes," Arthur said as he stripped out of his jacket. "They knew that I'm looking for the PASIV--I told you someone else would be after it. They weren't that tough but--"

"Hey." Eames took him by the shoulders and forced him to sit down on the edge of the bed. "Just calm down for a second. Are you all right?"

Arthur blinked up at him, and frowned at the intense look of concern Eames fixed him with. When he caught a glance of his own reflection in the motel's dusty mirror he started at his own gruesome appearance: his face was a raw mess and the blood from his nose had caked around his mouth and stained his shirt. He barely recognized himself.

"I'm all right," he said, because that was what he wanted Eames to hear. "It's not all mine."

"Let's get you cleaned up."

Eames headed into the bathroom. As he let the water warm up Arthur glanced down to his hands. They were just as ragged as his face, with scraped knuckles and blood drying under his fingernails. As he watched his fingers curl he thought, What did I do? He tried to remember the fight, but everything blurred together leaving him only with the sensations of bodies struggling together, of his arms and legs moving ahead of his conscious will. He had chased a man through the streets and then taken him to the ground and beat the teeth out of him. He had torn him apart and reveled in it.

No, that was the dream. He trembled, and his breath caught. That part didn't happen.

Eames returned with a dampened washcloth. "Hold still," he said, and Arthur did so; he even kept his hands from shaking so that Eames wouldn't notice. But when Eames touched the back of his neck with steady and tender fingers, his resolve wavered.

"I wish I could have seen it," Eames said. He smoothed Arthur's hair back and then moved the cloth over his face, carefully wiping the blood away. The pull of cheap terrycloth against Arthur's brick-grated skin was painful but he didn't flinch. "You said there were four of them? You got off easy."

You would have done better, Arthur thought, watching Eames's inked biceps. He closed his eyes as Eames rubbed the blood out of his eyebrows. "I'm fine," he mumbled, trying to force himself to believe it, but he knew the shudder was just beneath his skin. If Eames had been his usual, overbearing self, he would have been able keep up the front; but the hand on the back of his neck was gentle, and when Arthur winced Eames kneaded his thumb gently against him, soothing. He wasn't prepared for that. Everything was breaking down.

I'm not one of you, he wanted to say. The washcloth smoothed down his cheeks, warm and comforting. I'm not an extractor. This was my first fight in years and I shouldn't have been able to do that. Eames folded the cloth over and cleaned the slopes of his nose--it made his eyes sting. But I did. Could I have killed that man if Olivia hadn't pulled me away? Taken him apart just like in the dream?

Warm, wet pressure slid over his mouth, and he parted his lips, tasting the bloody cloth against the tip of his tongue. His pulse began to race again and his hands tensed against his thighs. Eames was leaning over him, so close that he could feel the heat coming off his half-naked body, and he thought, Could I take even you? He simmered with the thought of making that dream reality. I can do anything. Even though he was slouched beneath Eames's much stronger frame, his every joint strained as if on the verge of collapse, he wondered, and fantasized, and coveted.

Eames leaned back. Arthur flicked his eyes open and stared up at him, shaken but intense. Eames was watching him with heavy-lidded contemplation, and without thinking Arthur said, "Do it."

Eames stared at him. "What?"

Arthur lifted his hands. Eames leaned forward, thinking that he needed help in standing, but as soon as they were close he laced his fingers behind Eames's neck and pulled. Their mouths crashed together inelegantly, Arthur's kiss as clumsy as it was fierce. His lips stung but he only pressed them more fervently to Eames's mouth, coaxing it open, encouraging him with his tongue.

Eames grunted and tried to pull back. "Arthur--" His breath hissed between them but he couldn't retreat with Arthur's hands still tight behind his neck. He took Arthur by the shoulders. "The hell are you--"

Arthur threw his weight back, and with another grunt of surprise Eames came with him. The mattress against his back made him squirm but it was the heated pressure of Eames's body that drew a low moan out of his throat. When Arthur snapped his thighs around his waist, Eames finally seemed to get the picture, and though his eyelids fluttered with disbelief he ground down into Arthur's hips.

Yes. Arthur bucked against him. God, yes. He felt like a rabid animal, rubbing up against Eames's bare skin, unable to think. Their kisses tasted like blood. When Eames groaned the reverberation spread all the way down to his cock, and he growled in reply, writhing beneath him. You should have seen it, you son of a bitch. I was amazing.

The door opened. Arthur only barely noticed and didn't stop, until Bone was shouting at them, tearing them apart. Eames yelped as he was heaved onto the floor. As soon as he was gone Arthur started as if waking from a trance, and he blinked up at Bone with half-panicked confusion.

"Jesus!" Bone looked him over, and with a snarl of disgust he turned on Eames again. "You sick fuck, what did you do to him?"

"Wait," Eames said quickly, using the wall to pull himself up. "I didn't--"

The sound of a punch connecting jolted Arthur upright, and he was just in time to see Eames stumble into the television cabinet, holding his jaw. His throat constricted; when he couldn't get the words out fast enough he pounced on Bone's reeling arm. "Stop," he wheezed, and to his relief, Bone did. "Stop, it wasn't him."

Bone turned and tried to ease Arthur into a chair. "What the fuck is going on here?"

As soon as he was sitting Arthur became restless, and he stood up again. A few sharp breaths helped to clear his head, but his heart was still pounding and the feeling of nausea was quickly returning as well. "I came here to warn you," he forced out. "Someone's on to us--you have to switch motels. But I have a new lead and I think we're getting close."

Bone made a face, but he took Arthur seriously and immediately began to move around the room, throwing things into his duffle. "Who roughed you up? That Abida guy?"

"No." Arthur glanced to Eames, who was still leaning against the cabinet, working his sore jaw. He looked away again before their eyes could meet. "But he could have sold me out. Four men were waiting to jump me outside a club."

"Then it's not safe for you, either. You should come with us."

"No," Arthur said immediately. He heard Eames move away from the wall and begin to pack. "I'm fine."

His phone rang, and he had to retrieve his discarded jacket to dig it out and check the number. His stomach dropped. "Just call me when you find a new motel," he said as he moved toward the door. "I'll fill you in on my lead then."

"Will you be all right alone?" Bone asked after him.

"I'm fine," Arthur snapped. "I can handle myself--you two just worry about each other."

He reached the door, but as he opened it he couldn't help but glance back. Eames was watching him, baffled. It made Arthur sick again.

By the time Arthur was outside, his phone had stopped ringing. He stared at the screen, at the caller "Dad" flashing back at him, and then shoved the phone back in his pocket. "He can wait," he muttered as he yanked his keys out and let himself into his car.

His drive back into the city was a blur. He autopiloted into his complex's parking garage and moved swiftly through the lobby. It wasn't until he heard a gasp from the security attendant that he remembered what he looked like, even after Eames's bare cleanup.

"My God!"

Arthur froze. A man was hurrying toward him, in wire frames and a long overcoat. The sight of him put fresh panic in his already stress-weary arteries, and he couldn't move or speak, even as firm hands took his shoulders.

"Jesus, look at you. Are you all right? I'm taking you to the hospital."

Arthur shook himself, and felt a flash of relief that his earlier arousal had dissipated. "Dad..." When his father tried to turn him toward the exit he resisted, tugging the hands off him. "I don't need to go to the hospital," he said. "I'm fine." It sounded less convincing every time. "What are you doing here?"

"I got a call from Mrs. Platt," his father said. He prodded Arthur's head back and forth, checking his injuries. "She said Olivia called her in a panic, told her some story about you being mugged. Did you call the police yet?"

Damn Olivia. Arthur winced when his father touched his forehead and urged his hands off again. "It wasn't a mugging," he said.

His father leaned back, and he glanced sharply around the lobby. He sighed. "Let's talk upstairs."

"I'm sorry if I scared everyone," Arthur said as he let his father into his apartment on the fourth floor. He tossed his bloodied jacket immediately into a waste can and unbuttoned his cuffs. "But it was safer for Olivia that I go. I'll call her and apologize."

His father followed him further inside, shaking his head. "You've gotten yourself in trouble again."

"I'm fine." Arthur threw his shirt out in a different waste can and headed into his room. When he pulled a T-shirt out of his dresser he realized that his hands had started shaking again, and he grimaced. "It's nothing I need you for, don't worry."

His father leaned against the open doorway. "If it was, that would be a first, I suppose. But I've never seen you like this."

"It's not a big deal." Arthur grabbed a pair of shorts and ducked into the bathroom to change into them. He caught a glance of his face in the mirror and started all over again; Eames had cleaned off the worst of the blood but he was still scraped and bruised, and his knuckles were just as raw. He worked his fingers and found them sore. Bit by bit, the reality of the alley crept into him.

What did I do? He shuddered and turned on the sink. How was I able to do that? Why did I... He splashed his face with the cold water and hissed as it stung his red skin.

"Are you all right?"

Arthur toweled his face--carefully--and came out of the bathroom. "Yeah. Listen, it's really not as bad as it looks. The police won't find these guys, so there's no use calling in any favors with--"

"What is that?"

Arthur flinched, but wasn't sure what his father meant until steely fingers wrapped around his elbow and held his arm up to the bathroom light, making visible the healing bruise of a needle puncture.

"What the hell is this?" his father demanded.

Arthur's heart skipped, but he had practiced--he had recited the excuse so many times that it came out of him automatically, calm and perfectly believable. "I went to the clinic to get tested."

His father eyed him, but he had never caught Arthur in a lie, not in twenty-three years. He let go. "No reason to worry, I hope," he said.

"Of course not. I'm always careful."

Arthur led them out of the bedroom. "I'm sorry about this, really," he said. "But I'm all right. I'll just call in a sick day tomorrow, rest up, and deal with it."

"Son." His father followed, but when he caught on that Arthur was leading him out, he touched his shoulder. "Please tell me you're not mixed up in something dangerous."

When Arthur met his gaze, he almost caved--almost. Instead, he smiled. "You know me."

"That's what worries me," he replied, but he smiled, too. He shifted on his feet awkwardly and then gave Arthur a pat on the back. "Just promise that you'll tell me, if you find yourself in over your head. You know I hate that you--"

"Dad," Arthur interrupted. "It's fine." He nudged the hand off him and opened the door. "I'm going to get some sleep now."

"Right. Okay." With a deep breath his father headed out. "I'm glad you're all right. And I'm going to call tomorrow, to see how you're doing."

"Thanks, Dad. Good night."

"Good night."

Arthur closed the door, and everything went quiet. He stared at his apartment as if it were an alien landscape--suddenly, nothing was familiar. As he wandered into his bedroom his limbs became heavier and heavier, until his knees gave out just at the right time to deposit him onto the edge of the mattress.

His hands were raw and throbbing. He could still taste Eames mixed with the blood clinging to the corners of his mouth. His back, and his shoulders, and his stomach, and his jaw ached. The inside of his elbow was red and puckered.

He was a stranger in his own skin. Shame made his throat burn and he thought, What's happening to me? He pushed his thumb into the PASIV scar forming over his veins and felt his pulse stagger. This isn't who I was a month ago. He squeezed his eyes shut against the sting, but it didn't stop his breath from heaving out of him, nor his shoulders from quivering. What the fuck is happening to me?

Arthur huddled under his blankets, but he was too afraid of what dreams might be waiting for him to sleep.

***

After speaking to Olivia and his father and cancelling his stolen credit cards, Arthur threw himself into work. He dug up every bit of information he had on the Platts and their extensive connections, from businessmen to fashion designers to politicians, searched arrest records and party invitations and even hacked into the Facebooks of Olivia and her friends. After getting no sleep the glaring monitor was murder on his weary eyes, but coffee kept him going, and he appreciated the relative structure and cold simplicity of working on his computer. He knew all the tricks, how to get in and out clean, how to search and subsearch and anticipate where things were hidden. It was all easier than thinking about the night before.

His entire body was sore: his back, stomach, and jaw especially, from where he had taken the most serious blows. The pain in his hands and shoulders was of a different kind, deep and seething in a way that made his stomach lurch. A hot shower helped, but when the water seeped into the corners of his mouth, bringing with it the taste of blood, it reminded him of Eames.

Arthur tried not to remember. He tried not to dwell on the memory of Eames's broad weight pressing him into a lumpy mattress, smothering and satisfying. He tried not to lick his lips in hopes that the taste of a hot, full mouth was still there. He tried not to reach for his already half-hard cock, but his stinging fingers moved anyway, stroking it to fullness. With his forehead braced to the sweating tile he rocked into his fist, tentatively at first, unsure if he would even be able to properly get over his embarrassment enough to enjoy himself. It was a foolish worry--all he needed to do was think of taut muscle between his thighs and then he was panting, his hips pumping urgently against his shuddering grip.

Fucking Eames. Arthur moaned into the spray. I hate you so fucking much right now.

When he was dry and clothed he noticed that his phone was blinking with a received message: Wallace had sent him a photo of a baby walrus with only a link as the subject. Though he had his misgivings he followed it, and frowned when it led him to a protected blog requiring a password.

"What are you up to?" Arthur muttered as he typed the address into his PC. The protection was no challenge for him, and soon he was scrolling through academic ramblings and photographs of modern buildings. Arthur was about to text Wallace back demanding an explanation when he noticed "dreams" listed among the blog's tags. He clicked.

***

Arthur made a few stops on the way to the new motel, and arrived with a lunch order of deli sandwiches in one arm, and a bag of tubes and instruments in the other. As soon as Bone let him in he deposited lunch on the table and reached under the bed for the familiar denim sack.

Bone helped himself to a sandwich. "How are you?"

"I'm fine." Arthur pulled a chair over to the bed and used it as a table on which to set up the almost-PASIV. "The security at my place is pretty good. I really doubt they'll come after me there." He dumped out his second bag and went to work.

"What are you doing?" Bone asked, eying him.

"I'm adding another slot." He used a rubber band to secure a third bottle to the device's crude casing. "All I have to do is rig an extra plunger, and connect it to the timer. It won't be pretty but it should work just fine."

Eames came out of the bathroom and paused. "Arthur," he greeted, his voice struggling into something that resembled concerned curiosity. He pawed through the lunch bag.

"Eames." Arthur refused to look up from his work. "I want all three of us to be able to dream together," he said. "I think I have a name for you, at last."

"Brilliant." Eames sat down on the bed, his weight jostling the mattress. Though he was uncomfortably close Arthur still did not look. He did his best to ignore the warmth of Eames's shoulder against his as he worked. "So who'll be dreamer and subject?"

"I'll be both."

Bone leaned his elbows against the back of the chair Arthur was working over. "It doesn't work that way," he said.

"Sure it can." Arthur attached his makeshift plunger to the timing device. "I just need to program in a longer delay, so that my mind has enough time to populate the dream before you and Eames join. I was reading about it online earlier."

Bone hummed, unconvinced, and Eames chuckled, his breath too close to Arthur's ear, turning it red. "Sure we can trust your projections today?" he teased.

"My subconscious is just fine," Arthur replied tersely.

After they were finished eating Arthur pushed his back to the headboard. Bone pulled the second chair over, and because the tubes only reached so far, Eames draped himself sideways over the foot of the bed. Arthur slipped the needle under his skin and only briefly thought of his father's disapproving stare.

Arthur reached back into his memory. It took a great deal of concentration to call up the necessary landscape without forcing too many of his own details on it: he would need to trust his subconscious memory more than his conscious one if he was going to fill it accurately, or so he had read. Within moments he was standing in the lobby of a condominium, surrounded by dozens of people dressed in various designer labels. Just outside, paparazzi bulbs flashed incessantly for every approaching socialite, and inside, men and women crowded the elevators and stairwell. The air was thick with gossip and sickly sweet greetings. Arthur was almost embarrassed to see his projections bearing so many false pleasantries.

"Some party," Eames said next to him. He was dressed to match his surroundings, in a slick, casual suit, his hair and whiskers just unkempt enough to be charming. Bone had not fared quite so well: his black suit was overly formal, and though his clean jaw and gelled hair were a credit to his looks, he was already shifting uncomfortably in the attire and looked woefully out of place.

"We'll work on that," Arthur said under his breath. He led his two companions to the line for the elevator. "This is the Ambergeen Tower building," he explained. "Owned by Meredith Platt. Every year she hosts this 'block party,' in which the whole place is opened up for guests. It's even part of the contract for purchasing a condo here. This is what it looked like last year."

"What does this have to do with our PASIV?" Bone asked impatiently.

"I think it's here." They crowded into the elevator, and Arthur pressed the button for the ninth floor. "Meredith's daughter is Olivia--she and I went to high school together. She usually takes over the entire ninth floor for her personal guests, and this year she mentioned she has something special to show me. When I hunted down some of her friends I found out that she's been asking around, trying to gauge interest for some kind of private 'event' she's holding. There seem to be about half a dozen of us."

The elevator stopped, and they piled out. The crowd on the ninth floor was younger than the rest of the building, comprised mostly of men and women in their early twenties. As soon as they were in the hall Arthur could hear Olivia's cackling laughter from the furthest condo.

"I feel like I'm missing something," Eames said.

"One of the owners here is a vet named Wesley Roth," Arthur continued, and Bone gave him a startled look. "He's Meredith's distant cousin-in-law or something. He was discharged from the army almost a year ago, due to injury. When I looked into his history I noticed there was a period of time on his record between being recruited and his deployment that wasn't accounted for."

Bone scraped the back of his palm across his mouth. "He was part of the Somnacin project," he murmured.

Arthur watched him closely. "How would you know that?"

"Because he was in the Somnacin project," Eames answered for him. He grinned crookedly. "Go on, tell him. Was it Sargent Bone, or Private Bone, eh?"

"Sargent Bone," he said, and then he moved ahead of them, through the crowd.

Arthur frowned at his back uneasily. He looked to Eames. "Really?"

"You mean, you couldn't tell?" Eames shrugged. "Personally I never made it paste Private."

"You were a soldier?" Though it had never occurred to Arthur before, hearing it didn't surprise him. He looked again to Bone and back. "Then you two--"

Eames shook his head. "It's a longer story than that," he said. "And none too flattering. I'd rather let him tell it. So finish up--you think this Roth has our PASIV?"

Arthur burned with curiosity, but he shook himself and continued. "I think Olivia does," he said. "Or at least, she has access to it. From what I've been able to research, the original PASIVs were designed to connect six to eight participants at a time, and I was able to snare a message of hers to a friend where she said, 'there's room for two more.' Plus she's apparently a client of the same dealer that gave me Abida's name. Everything is pointing to this year's party."

And then there's Wallace herself, Arthur thought as he let Eames digest the information. She let slip that she'd be at Olivia's party on purpose. She's up to something for sure.

"So you're saying we've got to get ourselves on the guest list," said Eames. He smiled sideways. "Are you going to bring me as your date?"

Arthur's ears blushed, but he stared straight ahead. "I'll give you Roger's number. I'm sure he'd be happy to take you. Plus it'll be less conspicuous."

Eames laughed. "You know, Bone almost knocked my jaw off because of you. I think you owe me a little more than--"

"I'm sorry," Arthur interrupted. He moved down the hall, peering through the open doors. Only one was closed: Roth's condo. He tried to remember if it had been occupied at all at that point, but it was difficult to think with Eames still at his shoulder. "I got carried away."

"You're going to have to do better than that," said Eames.

He set his open palm against the nape of Arthur's neck, gentle but almost possessive, and it spread heat down Arthur's spine. Arthur took in a slow breath and turned toward him. "I was keyed up after the fight, and...you were there," he said carefully. "Nothing personal."

"Nothing personal," Eames repeated. "Then why are your projections looking at me as if I'm meat?"

Arthur glanced around, and made a face at the men and women that had stopped to stare at them. He pushed the hand off his neck but it didn't help. "Can we just forget it? I'm sorry about your jaw but--"

Eames lifted his hand to Arthur's face, stilling him. His fingertips were rough but their touch fleeting, concealing the strength Arthur knew was hiding behind them. When he scraped his thumb over Arthur's bottom lip it pulled at the brick-worn abrasions, stinging, and Arthur swallowed hard.

A man came at them. Arthur saw him pulling his fist back but he couldn't get the warning past his throat in time. He didn't need to--Eames twisted as if having sensed the incoming attack, and he had no trouble parrying it. Eames even grinned as he swung his arm and knocked the projection out cold.

"Oh Arthur," he said, cracking his knuckles as the other projections tensed in readiness. "At least your subconscious is predictable enough."

Arthur grimaced, and when another man charged he jumped past Eames and punched him square in the jaw. It wasn't enough to knock him unconscious so he struck again, throwing him into a group of women.

Bone leaned out of a far doorway. "What the hell is going on?"

The chatter and laughter from the other condos ceased, and more projections began to crowd into the hall. Their eyes were narrowed and anxious, but when Arthur really looked at them he realized it wasn't anger driving them.

I want to see him. Arthur watched as Eames shed his jacket and deftly handled another pair of advancing threats. His shirt clung to his muscled back and shoulders, and it made Arthur's mouth dry. I want him to see me. When a woman came at Arthur with a broken bottle he twisted his arm around hers and spun, tossing her into a short table and shattering the vases on it.

"We're practicing our escape!" Arthur called to Bone, who was still standing among the horde of projections, untouched. "Let's go!"

Bone looked unconvinced, but when a heavy-set man stormed past him with clenched fists, he kicked him in the back of his knee. As soon as the man dropped Bone took his head in both hands and twisted sharply, snapping his neck. Immediately the other projections turned their attention to him. "I'm starting to like this party better," he said, ripping his suit jacket off.

Arthur smirked, and when he looked to Eames, found him wearing the same expression. Fuck it, he thought, as the rest of the party-goers charged at once. I hate these people anyway.

The hallway erupted in an all-out brawl. Arthur had to remind himself that he was only dreaming, and that any soreness already in his limbs didn't apply; the pain faded and left his mind clear. There was something gleefully cathartic about punching the teeth out of his high class peers. His knuckles smeared their sycophantic smiles and patronizing glares into ugly red, his knees expelled the lies and gossip from their lungs. He scattered the users and the tools back into their boxes and felt his heart thud with every impact.

Swiftly, methodically, he tore his life of crafted masks apart from the inside. When there was no one left on the ninth floor he and his partners charged down the stairwell and burst into the eighth, and then the seventh, dispatching every socialite-turned-dream assassin. He could feel Eames at his back. Several times they crashed together in the cramped hallway space, and Arthur shivered with the press of Eames's chest to his back, or the rough caress of a fist when Eames targeted someone past him. Their eyes met and Arthur's tongue darted over his bottom lip--the taste of blood reminded him of their kiss. He even stood back for a while, content to watch Eames barrel through the projections with brutal authority. He was swift and powerful and Arthur envied him.

When they got to the fifth floor Bone suddenly tired of the brawling and dreamed up a gun. With the stock hard against his shoulder he fired into the crowd in a ghastly massacre. Arthur watched the bodies shred with a kind of sick fascination, wondering, If he was a soldier, has he done all these things before, for real? A gun appeared in his hand and he hefted its weight against his palm, thrilled and frightened. It's not just the dream he's addicted to.

They spilled out into the lobby, but the party there had ended; police were swarming the streets outside the building with guns drawn. Bone charged at them without hesitation, his rifle spewing, but a bullet tore into his shoulder before he even reached the doors. He twisted, firing with one hand and killing some, but then his chest burst open under iron hail and he collapsed.

Eames grabbed Arthur around the waist and pulled him behind the lobby's front desk. Despite the bullets exploding all around Arthur spared a moment to appreciate the strength of the arm around him. "Time's almost up," Eames said as they huddled close together. "Shall we go out in a blaze of glory?"

Arthur heard the front doors opening. He leaned over the top of the desk and leveled his Glock, pumping bullets into the cops that were trying to enter. Eames was next to him a moment later, their arms pressed as they worked together to drive the invaders back. Even as they succeeded Arthur didn't bother to duck; he could see huge, round headlights speeding toward them from the street outside, and he knew what would happen next.

He looked to the man beside him. Eames was sweating, and bloodied, and grinning like a fool, and Arthur thought, I want this. He snapped one hand around the back of Eames's neck and dragged him into a fierce, possessive kiss. They twisted together just as the cab of a semi ripped through the building entrance and raced toward them.

Arthur awoke with a sharp, shuddering intake. There was sweat on his forehead and his pulse fluttered. He wanted to be ashamed of his visceral fantasies, which had just the night before caused him so much confusion and doubt, but it was too hard to regret anything when he opened his eyes and saw Eames watching him. Their gazes locked as they panted, and even when Arthur clenched his jaw he couldn't help the faint murmur of arousal that seeped out of him.

Bone was already pulling the needle out of his arm. He glanced between the two of them, made a face, and then swiped his wallet off the dresser. "I'm going to...go buy some smokes," he declared, as if it were a mission of grave importance. He hastily showed himself out.

As soon as the door closed Arthur tugged the needle out of his arm and crawled down the bed. Eames only had enough time to remove his own IV before Arthur was leaning over him, sealing their mouths in a kiss. The sting was back--his face ached with the pressure--but all he could think as his shoulders hunched was, Do it, just fucking do it!

Eames growled as if he'd heard him. He twisted his fingers in Arthur's hair and pulled, yanking them apart. Arthur hissed, but then Eames rolled on top of him, shoving him into the mattress with the weight of his body. He smothered Arthur's already bruised lips and pressed his taste into the roof of Arthur's mouth with his tongue. Arthur fought just enough to make known that he could win, if he wanted to; to carry over the momentum that had chased them through the dream. Eames caught on faster than their first time. He jerked Arthur's head back by the hair, tipping it over the edge of the mattress, and as he smeared his open mouth down the smooth line of his throat Arthur moaned, "Yes, yes."

It felt so fucking good. Arthur shoved and then pulled at Eames's shoulders as if grappling with him, even if it accomplished nothing except to rub their bodies together. When Eames's hand crept to his thighs, trying to urge them apart, Arthur made him fight for it. They writhed in sensual warfare on the rumpled blankets until Eames tried a new strategy: he simply lowered his weight and pumped his hips, rubbing the bulge in his jeans against the taut muscle below Arthur's navel. Despite the thick material Arthur had no trouble feeling the heat. He groaned, despising the hunger that had already robbed him of shame. When Eames panted against his ear he imagined his voice rumbling taunts and obscenities, and he couldn't take it anymore.

Arthur parted his knees; as soon as he had surrendered even that much Eames wormed between them and ground against Arthur's hips. Every thrust felt like I told you so and Arthur made a sound embarrassingly like a whimper as his legs pawed up Eames's back. He arched and gasped, and when Eames's hard fly rubbed against his balls he was sure he could come right then if he wasn't careful.

Eames must have felt the same, because with a shudder he leaned back. He was flushed and breathless as he undid Arthur's fly and jerked his pants down. Before drawing them all the way off his hands became distracted, though--they slipped under Arthur's shirt to trace his ribs, then slid down, squeezing Arthur's waist, kneading their palms into the tender muscles at the crook of his thighs. Arthur lifted his hips, trying to remind Eames that it was his cock, wet and straining in his briefs, which deserved the attention. Eames's mouth quirked, and he looked as if he wanted to hold out, but his self-control wasn't faring any better than Arthur's, and he at last palmed Arthur through his underwear.

Arthur's head fell back, off the bed, as he let out a deep groan. He pressed up into Eames's calloused palm and murmured, "God, God yes, do it," wanting so badly to just surrender. "Don't stop."

"Shh, wait." Eames bent down and kissed him, and almost wasn't able to pull away with his lips intact. He groaned as he climbed off the bed.

Arthur heaved a sigh as his back flattened on the mattress. He kicked his pants all the way off and then stripped out of his underwear and tossed it at Eames's turned back. Deprived of a body to struggle against it was too easy to think of how ill-advised the indulgence was, and he gave his cock a few sharp jerks to remind himself that he didn't care if he was making a mistake, he wanted Eames on top of him again, inside him--

Eames returned, and before Arthur had time to curse two slick fingers slid into him. Arthur gasped and flinched, but when he tried to voice a complaint Eames pulled almost all the way out and then thrust back in. Though there was clearly some kind of lubricant involved it wasn't the good stuff Arthur was used to, and his body tensed and tightened against the intrusion. The burn traveled up his spine, but when his voice emptied out of him it was ragged with arousal. Do it, he demanded with his eyes.

Eames licked his lips as he climbed onto the bed. His pants were down only just far enough, and Arthur had barely enough presence of mind to confirm the condom stretched over his impressive girth. Then Eames was inside him. The first stretch was the hardest, and Arthur dug his nails into Eames's T-shirt as his mouth fell open in wordless agony. He shuddered and squirmed and adjusted, until he could feel Eames's thighs flush against his skin.

Eames hissed above him, and though Arthur didn't have the strength to hold his head up he could just imagine his creased brow and lip between his teeth. He began to move. He started slow, his breath huffing with each solid thrust, but the restraint didn't last long. When Arthur dug his heels into the small of Eames's back he grunted and sped up, pounding with growing fervor into the clamp of Arthur's hot muscle.

Yes, yes. Arthur drew his knees up as high as he could and pulled, until Eames was resting on his elbows over him. Their kisses were breathless, coppery bites. Arthur's back throbbed but only the deep, seething fullness mattered, and when Eames pulled on his hair again he lost whatever control he had left. His voice tore out of him in wordless pleas as he rode Eames's ever-quickening thrusts, and he clawed at him, sweating and throbbing, distantly wondering when he would wake up.

When Arthur came he shot so hard and trembled for so long that he thought his entire body were emptying against Eames's stomach. His hips jerked and his skin simmered--he could only just barely feel Eames's mouth against his throat over the sensation of release. For those thundering moments he felt the full impact of days of frustration, of confusion and disgust and shame, but more importantly, of freedom. The sob that choked his throat was so sincere it almost brought tears to his eyes, and he thought, This is what I want. I want all of this.

Eames kissed him. He was still fucking him, and Arthur surrendered. His entire body felt raw, tingling, and he couldn't stop touching Eames's strong shoulders, his taut abdomen, his slack lips. He wanted to crawl right up inside him and sleep until everything made sense again. By the time Eames spasmed against him in climax he was already half conscious, and then, as Eames licked the sweat off his upper lip, he fell under.

He didn't dream.

***

Arthur awoke half naked, tucked beneath the sheets of a cheap motel bed. He remained very still at first, trying to remember how he had gotten there and what had happened, but it wasn't until he tried to move and found his lower back in anguish that he remembered.

"Fuck," Arthur hissed. He reached behind him and dug his knuckles into the tight muscles, but after taking a knee from a thug and then getting fucked into an old mattress, he felt as if his entire spine needed realigning. He shoved his face into the pillow to catch his pained grimace and a low whimper. Fuck that hurts.

It wasn't about to go away. With a sigh Arthur forced himself to sit up and stared blearily into the room. He was alone. He stared fixedly at the bed, then the bathroom, then the other bed, expecting Eames to suddenly manifest in any of those places, but nothing stirred. Relief and disappointment churned over in his stomach, and when he thought he had enough strength to get up, he headed into the bathroom for a much-needed piss.

Once he was dressed and cleaned up as best he could be--a proper shower would have to wait for his apartment--he grabbed the last sandwich off the table and headed outside. His body still felt raw and new to him, as if he had shed layers of skin. What am I going to tell him, when I see him? he thought with slack shoulders as he closed the door behind him.

He took a bite of ham and cheese, but when he noticed a turned back just in front of him, he almost choked on it. The short crop of dark hair made it obvious that it wasn't Eames, but Arthur winced anyway as he circled. He would have liked to make a swift and anonymous getaway, but Bone was seated on the sidewalk right in front of his car, and he had little choice but to acknowledge him.

"Hey." Arthur stopped just in front of him. He smiled awkwardly. "Sorry about that."

Bone glanced up from his cigarette. His face was calm and unreadable. "It happens."

The answer threatened to put Arthur's imagination to work, spinning visions of Eames's other lovers that had chased Bone out of cheap motels. He shoved it to the back of his mind. "You weren't sitting there the whole time, were you?" he teased, seeking comfort in a different possible source of embarrassment.

"Nope."

He offered up his box of cigarettes, but Arthur shook his sandwich. As he took another bite of the ham he found himself sitting down on the hood of his car. Bone didn't seem to mind the company, so he took a chance. "Can I ask you something?"

Bone sucked languidly on the filter. "Was I really a soldier?"

"Yeah."

"Do you find it hard to believe?"

Arthur frowned around another bite. He looked over Bone's sculpted biceps, his unruly whiskers, and the tattoo just visible around the slope of his shoulders. "No," he said. "Not really. It just didn't occur to me before."

Bone flicked ash off the end of his cigarette, watching it fall with narrowed eyes. After a moment's contemplation he looked back to Arthur. "I was deployed in Afghanistan," he said. "My boys and I joined up with a German squad patrolling the area around Kunduz. We took fire. That's when I got this."

He lifted his shirt, displaying a knot of scar tissue in the center of his chest. Arthur leaned forward and winced. "How did that not kill you?" he couldn't help but ask.

"Luck." Bone smoothed his shirt back down. "Bullet lodged in my sternum. I've got a fake in there now." He rapped his chest with his knuckles. "Wasn't out of the hospital two weeks when they invited me into the project."

"The Somnacin project."

"Yeah." His lips twitched in a brief, bitter grin. "They thought that my experience in the field would make for a more 'vivid' dream setting. Scare the piss out of their new recruits, then build them back up, you know what I mean? Let them get a taste for it."

Arthur wrapped up his sandwich; his appetite was gone. "Essentially, desensitization training." Not unlike what he's been doing to me, he thought uneasily.

"'Course, they didn't know what they were doing," Bone went on. "Neither did we. The recruits started complaining to the doctors about nightmares, the kind you wake up screaming from. More than half dropped out. The rest didn't want to work with me anymore." He snorted. "Roth was one of those. They got someone to replace me but the project was already considered too costly, in more ways than one. So they shut us down and sent us packing."

It was all very easy to imagine. Arthur had no trouble picturing Bone's snarl as he curled his hands around his rifle, teenagers with freshly-shaved heads cowering beneath him. What does that make me, he wondered, that I've been coming back for more? He licked his lips. "But you were already addicted by then, weren't you," he said.

Bone stared blankly ahead. "Yeah."

So are you, a voice said at the back of Arthur's mind: Eames's voice. Days before he had looked on Bone's downcast eyes with pity and even hate, but at the moment he wasn't sure what emotion it was tightening his chest. He didn't ever want to look like Bone did then.

"I need it," Bone said abruptly. He paused to take a breath off his cigarette and Arthur waited, quiet and patient, for him to continue. "I don't want to dream without it again, ever. It's gotta be on my terms."

And then it made sense. Arthur leaned back as he thought of the first dream they had shared in the dusty wasteland, of the scar hiding beneath Bone's thin undershirt, of bullets and teeth and a look of shame. Of Bone's offer when they walked back from the field.

"When I was thirteen my mom and I were in a car accident," Arthur said, the words spilling out of him. "She was killed almost instantly. Months later I thought...I would have given anything to never have another nightmare about it. And then they stopped." He smiled grimly. "Until you showed up."

Bone stared up at him. He returned the smile, slowly, and Arthur could almost hear him say, Ahh, so you do know.

They were interrupted by a man's shoes scuffing on the pavement. Arthur glanced over and managed not to wince when he saw Eames watching them. He worried at first about how long he had been there, but then realized it didn't really matter. "Hey," he said.

Eames smiled, and had the decency to look awkward as he came closer and held up a plastic shopping bag. "I bought you something."

Arthur accepted the bag and investigated, turning up a six pack of beer and a box of Icy Hot back patches. He snorted with good humor. "That's actually...very sweet of you," he said. "Thanks."

"Do you want me to go?" he asked. "Looked like you two were having a moment."

"No, it's fine." Arthur tossed his half-eaten sandwich into the bag and slid off the hood. "I should be going; I have a job to plan."

Bone snuffed his cigarette out against the curb and stood. "That wasn't part of our arrangement."

Arthur shook his head. I have to see it through, now. "It doesn't count as going into the field if I was invited to the party anyway," he said. "I'll text you the building address so you can check it out yourself. I should be able to get some photographs of the inside or even a blueprint before the party, too."

Arthur glanced to Eames and hesitated; the look on Eames's face was so damn calm and easy that he didn't know how to interpret it. He sighed. "I kind of wish I could get a look at your projections right about now," he said.

Eames smiled faintly. "I don't open my mind--"

"--To extractors, I know," Arthur finished for him. Despite the compulsion to speak the truth he held back, and only offered a smile of his own as he opened the driver's side door. "I'll be in touch."

He drove off, sore as hell and full of questions, but oddly at ease.

To Part 4