A/N: This is a sequel to Alone (on my Profile Page), so I would recommend taking a peek at that before embarking on this one (don't worry, it's not very long). I was aiming to keep this entire fic in Limbo but the lure of a backstory was simply too strong. Hence, this.

Please don't forget to review!

Alive

000

Part I

000

[before]

Cobb has his hands folded over his stomach, eyes closed, feet up, but still awake, because Arthur has learnt from all these years all the tiny things that reveal themselves on Cobb's face whenever he starts to dream.

"What do we do," is what Arthur finally says.

"I don't know."

Cobb has a bruise right across his throat, angry and purple like the weather outside, a fresh spider-trail left behind by Mal and an expertly wielded hunting knife. Arthur sighs and closes his eyes as well. The air vent is croaking because of the wind and Arthur thinks of that time in Amsterdam, crawling through the vents on his elbows and knees, Cobb in front and saying it's alright, we got a head start, they won't find us, don't panic, and Arthur saying I never panic, Cobb, but imagining the swift tear of bullets through his back.

"We can run." Arthur says this on instinct, always on instinct. "Lay low for a while. They can't look everywhere."

"We'll have to sleep sometime, Arthur."

"We can take it in turns."

"Not forever."

This is Cobb, Arthur thinks, he's always right, and Arthur can see the hotel lamplight right through the skin of his closed eyelids. "There's not much else we can do, you know."

"I know."

"We can always – "

"No," Cobb says, and that's the final word on it.

000

[after]

Wet, is the first thing Arthur thinks, wet, and cold, and the taste of salt in his mouth like the time he fell over at the beach, aged four, spluttering under with sand whipping soundly against his legs.

This time he comes up with a gasp on the shore and his father's not there, nor his sister, in her small pink bathing costume inflating a beach ball there on the sand, and there's Eames instead, splayed out glorious and wrecked, arms spread wide like he's trying to make a sand angel. Arthur thinks Eames, tests the name gingerly in his mind, like he expects it to turn back on him and bite.

"Eames."

For a moment Arthur thinks that he's dead, he's not moving. And then Eames – is it Eames? – tips his head to the side and squints at him through the baking light.

"Hullo, love."

"Eames," Arthur says again, tongue forming the word. "Eames."

"Arthur."

And then the man Arthur believes is Eames blinks, like the word – the name – has surprised him. Arthur pauses, sun striking hot on his nape, the waves crashing like skyscrapers coming down and Eames, whoever Eames is meant to be, with the salt crusting over his suit lapels and the skin on his lips cracked red and burnt, sits up in one long, sinuous movement and folds his arms across his knees, says I'm sorry, for a moment I thought I recognised you, and Arthur says don't worry, spine stiff like it always is with strangers, and says for some reason, I thought the same thing about you.

000

[before]

It starts with a job gone wrong, but not wrong in the usual way, not the safe that failed to open or empty documents inside, too many gunshots wounds and not enough time.

It starts with a job that goes backward, a mark who knows exactly what's happening, a Brit with gray eyes but not always gray, sometimes blue, sometimes green in another face, always seeming to be right on top of the game that they're playing, shifting network of parallel worlds. Cobb says Eames on that humid afternoon in Brunei, and Arthur looks up from his laptop screen with his right eyebrow cocked and Cobb knows exactly what he's going to say, says it for him, no, they don't know his last name.

The air conditioner is broken and the fans don't work, and Arthur has sweat sliding down his back when he says not a problem, how much do they pay.

"Enough," Cobb says, smile crooked and tight. "Enough."

"Enough for you to go home?"

Cobb's smile stutters shut and that's all there is, and Arthur doesn't ask again.

000

Eames, and Arthur writes it down on the whiteboard, him in the cramped hotel room they share with holes in the curtains that let in the light.

Eames, and Arthur is careful about it, surgical, every scrap of information sutured together, date of birth, height, weight, birth place, medical records and Eames had his tonsils removed at age ten, and Arthur dutifully prints that out, pins it up. Perhaps it will be useful somewhere.

Cobb comes back at eleven o'clock that night with takeaway, and Arthur doesn't stop to look up.

Eames, and Arthur immerses himself in the way that he always does, that he has to, every tiny thing with its own time and place, putting the puzzle pieces together until he can build a man floor-up from the facts. Cobb leans against the ratty sofa, his mouth full of cashew chicken and rice.

"Not bad," Cobb says and Arthur nods, doesn't show the glad smile that nudges his lips.

"He hasn't had training. This shouldn't be too hard."

"Have you checked that?"

"Five times."

"Good. Come on, take a break. Eat something."

Arthur does, puts the marker down, pulls back as if viewing a mounted Monet. His writing is skewered and hollow, perfect, and Cobb nudges the takeout carton at him.

"Got you lamb. Take a bite, then run me through what you've got so far."

Eames, Arthur says, orphaned at barely eight, father taking a corner in Bristol too quickly and into the path of a Royal Mail truck, with a grandmother in London now two years dead, small marble cross in Putney Vale. Siblings, Cobb asks, and Arthur says no, Cobb's shirtsleeves pushed all the way up to his elbows and the usual rings around his eyes, and Arthur says you should probably sleep, and Cobb shrugs it off and says go on. Eames, Arthur says, thirty-one and unmarried, working a pedestrian government job, apartment on the fringe of London with his spare key under a mat by the door.

"What are we looking for?" Arthur asks at two, hips braced against the sofa next to Cobb.

"Don't know."

Arthur shifts despite himself. "You don't know?"

"It's supposed to be a straight-forward job. He's not supposed to even know what extraction is."

There's a photo of Eames on the corner of the whiteboard, dark two-day stubble and high-bridged nose, strong jaw, edges fuzzy from bad quality photocopying.

"Mhm," Arthur says, and "If you say so," and doesn't think about how he was never supposed to be shot in the meat of his shoulder in the days he'd worked for the Bureau, but it had happened, and here Arthur is, after all.

000

[after]

Eames sounds right, and Arthur does too. They don't try other names, because that seems to disturb the feel of the place, the wide space and the emptiness of the sky.

They are flawlessly polite, Eames in a slightly lilted way, gray eyes always clouded like he's trying to work out what's missing in all this. They walk up the beach and as the light changes the colour of Eames' eyes seems to change too, flicker blue, flicker green, and Arthur finds himself staring minutely, as if there's a key hidden in Eames' face, something that will offer up a clue.

"It's bloody strange," Eames says when they're standing on the rocky outcrop, foam roaring in the water below. "I almost think – I haven't met you before, have I?"

"I don't believe so, no."

"And yet, for some reason – "

Arthur smiles at him, brief drawing up of his lips, not real. "Almost like a dream, hmm?"

"Yes, I suppose."

Eames mirrors the smile, tensely, and then they're facing the water again and the breeze whispers through their jackets, through the hole in Arthur's shirt between his two collarbones that Arthur doesn't remember putting there, and the hole in Eames' jacket just above the small of his back. Eames sticks his hands in his trouser pockets and there's something familiar in that, Eames nudging a pebble down off the cliff, and they both watch it hit the shuddering water and disappear underneath it without a trace.

000

[before]

They catch Eames at a London club, a spiked drink and one of the locked back rooms, long-legged girl in ripped fishnets staring down with wide eyes at the five hundred pounds Cobb has spread out on the table.

"The other half's in a bank account in Dublin," Cobb says, naked light-bulb blinking overhead. "Do the job, and the full thousand's all yours."

The first level is easy, coffee shop somewhere in Berlin, Arthur with his cool-clipped German stepping his way past pedestrians and cars parked close to the street. Eames is sitting at an outside table with a paper, in French, spread out on his lap. There's late afternoon sun ruffling through his hair. He's relaxed, no cuff-links, top button of his shirt undone and Arthur sees the bob of his throat when he swallows, a cup of espresso in his left hand.

Arthur steps up to the side of the table and says, "I'm sorry, I made a reservation here."

"So did I."

This is unexpected, Eames with his face tilted up and smiling, just one side of his mouth quirked across and then up. Arthur blinks before he can stop himself.

"Excuse me?"

"I reserved this table yesterday."

"Are you certain?"

"Quite certain, yes," Eames says, and that's when Cobb appears by Arthur's side, a full half-hour too early, the lines around his eyes that says something's gone wrong and Arthur looks at him with his eyebrows raised.

Hans, Cobb says and Arthur knows what he means, says to Eames you're right, I'm sorry, I'm entirely mistaken, and they're in the next street underneath a concrete bridge with advertisements plastered over its sides when Cobb leans against the gunk and graffiti, sharp lines of his navy pinstriped suit, and Arthur stops right next to him and asks him what the matter is.

"Is it Mal?" is the first important thing, and for a moment, Cobb seems strangely surprised.

"No, it's – no. Not Mal."

Arthur looks over his shoulder on reflex. "Unexpected problems? You weren't supposed to come in until at least thirty minutes, Cobb, and – "

"He knows."

"Knows what? About us?"

"About this."

Arthur peeks over his shoulder again, old habit from the days before of running, before Cobb. "How can he? I thought you said he didn't even know what extraction was."

"He's a forger."

This stops things. Arthur feels his neck tense up, shoulder muscles going stiff, and a train rattles over the bridge and shakes the air like a cup of dice.

"Not possible," Arthur says, and for some reason, Cobb smirks. "I'm serious, Cobb. I triple-checked everything. Something as big as that wouldn't have escaped me."

"No?"

"No."

"You never make mistakes?"

That feels wrong, not something Cobb would say, and something deep in Arthur's chest is buzzing, that age-old soldier's sense. He takes a step back and hits the foot of the bridge, loses his balance for just the slightest of seconds, and then Cobb is right in front of him and pressing close, and Arthur thinks suddenly that Cobb's eyes aren't meant to be gray, they're blue, the blue of the Metro sign under which Arthur first met him, just out of the Bureau with his left shoulder lame.

"Everyone makes mistakes," Cobb says, and when Arthur next looks it's not Cobb, it's Eames, and before Arthur has processed this there's the sharp jab of a needle in his side and the world is spinning and turning gray, and the last thought Arthur remembers having is that the gray is the same shade as Eames' eyes.

000

"It's not there," is what Eames says.

Arthur's fingers stop at the waistband of his belt, behind his back where he keeps his Glock tucked close and Eames is right, it's not there, and his fingers meet air.

"I took the liberty of removing it," Eames says then, wicker chair tilted back on its hind legs, glass of scotch balanced in one hand. "Hope you don't mind."

Arthur thinks fuck, and the handcuff around his left wrist bites. "What have you done with him?"

"Nothing at all, sweetheart."

The endearment stings just in the way it's meant to, salt in a wound left gaping and raw and Arthur yanks at the handcuff again, pointlessly, the metal ring clamped around one leg of the four-poster bed Arthur had in his childhood, scuff on the headboard from where he dumped his school bag each day.

"What have you done."

"You don't believe me?" Eames says like it isn't obvious. "Why would I lie to you?"

"You're a forger."

"That is my profession, it makes no reflection on my character, love."

Arthur turns his head instead of being drawn into an aimless argument. "How do you know this place?"

"I know a lot of things."

"Like how to modify the appearance of your projections."

"Yes, certainly," and the amber of the scotch comes up to meet Eames' lips. "I am rather gifted in that capacity. A rather convenient defence against extraction, you see. Creating multiple versions of myself – makes it rather difficult to locate the actual me, doesn't it?"

"Leaving you free to forge yourself as whomever you wish."

"That's the idea, yes. How very perceptive of you."

There's the Glock on Arthur's writing desk, a ruler's length from where Eames is currently sitting, and Arthur thinks too far, the bed's too far away, need something closer but Eames is thorough at least.

"Oh, don't dream of trying to get out, darling," Eames puts in then, smiling, furtive grin like he knows what Arthur is thinking. "Nothing sharp or loaded within a three-metre range of you. I'm not so careless. Unless you're willing to die by bashing your head in on the edge of the bed?"

"What do you want from me," Arthur says and hates him thoroughly.

"Nothing."

"I don't play games with this. What do you want."

From outside comes a screech of tires and Eames puts his free hand on Arthur's Glock. "Oh, Arthur. No imagination at all. Not everyone is after the same things as you are, you know."

"So you are after something."

"Everyone is after something, my dear, even if they don't know what it is."

When the bullets come singing in through the windows and tear chasms along the pile of Arthur's carpet Eames doesn't move, stays right where he is, does not even show the slightest edge of a flinch. Arthur says they'll kill you, relishing the words when he says them though he usually doesn't let emotion take a-hold of him and Eames just stretches his smile still wider, Glock cocked now with the safety off, says I know, that's why I'm here, Arthur, you see, and Arthur wants to spit at him, hates the way Eames drawls the syllables of his name, like they're something curious Eames wants to take apart and study.

"They'll kill you," Arthur says again, and Eames drains the rest of his scotch leisurely.

"No, they won't. Enjoy your extra two days, my dear."

And then Eames puts the Glock underneath his throat, soft hollow just between his two collarbones, and the sound of his finger pulling the trigger is mocking even in his own death.

000

[after]

"Berlin," Arthur says without thinking, the lights of the restaurant dim and muted and Eames across the table, wine glass poised in one hand, orange flecks on the tips of his dark blonde hair.

Eames looks up at him, eyes careful. "I beg your pardon?"

"Berlin," Arthur says, second time, losing surety. "I think I – something about Berlin."

"Never been to Berlin," Eames says amiably but his eyes have not lost that cautious tint, the one that they've had ever since the beach and the waves that drowned out everything. "I hear the architecture there is ghastly."

"No, you've been to Berlin."

"I'm sorry?"

"I remember seeing you in Berlin."

"But we've never met," Eames points out. "Perhaps you're mistaken. I've never been fond of the German language. Horrendous way to treat your verbs, I think, always placing them at the end of every damn sentence."

Arthur smiles at that like he's supposed to, though he can still see the slant of sun across Eames' shirt, the fringes of a newspaper in his hands, little frames of pictures that feel far away and yet close for some reason, like they were once treasured somehow. Arthur's hand finds his fork and he traces the metal, wondering what it is about all of this that feels trapped, buried crucially underneath something.

"I found a die in my pocket earlier," he says instead, and the fork clinks. "I don't remember anything about how it got there."

"Well, show it, then."

It's an ordinary thing, the kind in every high-end casino from Las Vegas down to Monaco, and the light sticks to the dots on it as Arthur puts it down by his plate.

"You have to roll it."

"Why?"

Eames blinks. "I just remember that it was important to roll it. I can't quite remember the reason why."

Arthur rolls it, a six, and they both stare at it.

"It's not three," Arthur says, although the moment it comes out it feels like a rather dumb thing to say.

"At least you'd win at craps with that," Eames says, and Arthur points out that you need two dice for craps and Eames smiles and says, well, it was worth a try.

000

[before]

Eames is right, it's two days, and Arthur wakes up on a hotel bed in Berlin with the sign of a needle-prick on the inside of his wrist.

Eames has left a handgun on the side of the bed and Arthur swears, grabs at it, points it at his temple and thinks to wake Cobb up, they still have Eames in the club room at London and there's no point trying again down here, they need a plan, a new one, and the handgun clicks and no bullet comes out to meet Arthur's skull.

Arthur swears again, loudly, and the note on the bedside table says sorry, dear, can't make it that easy for you.

000

[after]

They take separate rooms but in the same hotel, doors right next to each other because the world feels void of everything and they feel that they need to stick together, stay rooted, like if they don't all they know or don't know will be lost.

Arthur goes through the motions of brushing his teeth, unbuttoning his shirt in front of the mirror and seeing the bruise just under his throat, leaning closer, running his fingers over it. It's tender and it feels important. Arthur stares at it for almost five minutes, begging some place deep inside him to think, to remember, and when he doesn't he turns the tap off and smooths a hand across his wet hair.

The face in the mirror is definitely his and Arthur says to it me, this is definitely me, and that feels right and wrong on two different levels.

Eames appears at his door sometime later when Arthur is trying to nod off on his bed, gray eyes troubled and hair just noticeably tousled, still in his suit and slanted across the doorway.

"Fancy a drink?" Eames says. "For some reason, I can't sleep."

"I can't either," Arthur says to that, and gets up.

They take a Vodka Brut out of the mini-bar in Arthur's room and Arthur squints when it happens, déjà vu, and then Eames is passing a glass to him and saying to this place, and Arthur accepts it, says yes, and wonders why on earth they're toasting to it when they're not even sure what exactly it is.

000

TBC

000

A/N: So. Part II is written, Part III is not. Not sure if this fic is to anyone's taste; let me know, bbs, so I know whether or not to bother with Part III.

I know I made a few assumptions with Limbo - but, hell, the thing is so elusive that assumptions are hard to avoid, aren't they?

Please don't forget to review! Hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I did writing it!