Disclaimer: Inception and its characters do not belong to me nor do they make me any money.

Notes: For any of you who've read my previous Inception fics and only my Inception fics, it may be a surprise that this is not fluff or smut. Trust me, I can do angst, too. Written for an angsty kinkmeme prompt. This is my first foray in writing in present tense as well as aiming for a more imagetic style than I normally allow myself.
*For those who have read/followed this so far on the kinkmeme: yes, it was anonymously posted originally (the notes above contain the reasons). I intend to de-anon on the third chapter (fourth part, counting the prologue).

It's not raining on the day of Arthur's memorial service. There's no wind with teeth of ice. It isn't a fine beautiful day either. The sunlight isn't raying out golden from behind clouds. There's nothing of drama or symbolism or bitter irony in the weather. Nothing poetic. It's just overcast and slightly muggy - just hot enough that the people walking out of the mortuary are uncomfortable in their suits and dark, heavy dresses.

Eames, sitting in his car, watching them exit the stark concrete building, is not uncomfortable. He's not sure what he's feeling now, apart from the vague, heavy sickness in the pit of his stomach he's felt since Cobb called him.

"Arthur's dead," Cobb said flatly over the phone. "Killed in a car accident." There was no emotion in his voice - no sympathy. As if the news were meaningless to Eames. The thought was unfair, of course. The flatness was the former extractor's defense mechanism. "It was Cobol."

Eames' hand tightened around the phone and he grit his teeth against the words that were burning the back of his throat. He didn't check his totem - he knew better than most the futility of denying reality. "Was-" Was it fast? Was it painful? They were stupid questions, but not as stupid as the five words that kept buzzing around his head like a fly in a jar: there must be some mistake. "Was there any evidence?" he asked finally.

"Enough." Anger and grief vibrated past the forced evenness of Cobb's voice. "Enough that they won't dare come after my family."

Eames sees that same anger and grief etching lines in Cobb's face when he walks out of the mortuary, children in tow. The little girl is crying, but Eames thinks it's more out of empathy than genuine feeling. Those are her father's tears running down her cheeks.

And who's crying for me?

But that, of course, is the stupidest question yet. What has he to cry over? The death of a sometime colleague? The loss of a man who was not quite a friend?

Their whole relationship is like water-soaked fireworks: flash and heat, color and beauty that will never explode into life. Unrealized potential.

The weight in his stomach pushes up into his throat, gagging him. Fuck this. He's just making himself sick with his own maudlin thoughts. Time to go.

He turns his key in the ignition and leaves the gray and black of mortuary and mourners behind without ever having gone inside. He turns on the radio as he drives back to his hotel, though he doesn't really hear the music. He wishes there was more traffic on the road. It would at least be a distraction.

His uneventful drive ends in an uneventful arrival at his hotel's parking lot, followed by an uneventful trip up the elevator to his room. He slides his cardkey into the lock, pushes open the door, and freezes.

There are flowers on the desk - flowers that certainly were not there when Eames left.

He moves slowly into the room, the door shutting behind him, and approaches the desk. He blinks and runs the backs of his hands over his eyes, but the large vase full of brightly colored lilies doesn't disappear. Their strong, sweet perfume fills the room and the smell tugs at Eames' memory. He drops the room key and reaches an oddly trembling hand toward the flowers, all of which have had their stamens removed.

The memory downright assaults him then.

"Arthur, what are you doing?" Eames asked the dark-haired man as the scissors snicked again and another yellow pollen-covered stem dropped into a tissue.

"I hate these damn messy little things," Arthur replied, irritation evident in the small valley between his eyebrows.

"Then why not get other flowers?"

"Stargazers are my favorite," he replied with a shrug. But the lines smoothed out of his face as he closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath of the lilies' scent. The indentation moved from brow to cheek as Arthur lips curved up.

"Let me help," Eames said, surprising both of them.

There is no card amongst all the flowers. The trembling hand drops away from the lilies and goes to the phone. Eames' gaze drops too so that he can find the correct button on the phone.

"Front Desk, how can I help you?" An obscenely cheerful voice asks.

"This is Eames in room 517. Can you tell me when the flowers in my room were brought and who delivered them?"

"Just a moment, sir."

It's just a coincidence. A goddamn, bloody coincidence.

"I'm sorry sir, but we have no records of any deliveries or visitors to your room. Sir?"

Eames hangs up without responding and backs away from the desk. He can't get away from the smell, though. It's an almost tangible presence in the room.

"Arthur?"

The name hangs in the air like a ghost and the knot in Eames' stomach twists tighter and tighter until he finally admits to himself what it is.

It is grief for the man now haunting him.

Read chapter 1 before you start freaking out, 'kay?