The Deep Seas

""Now in due order, Muse, proceed to show
Why the deep seas no augmentation know,
In ocean that such numerous streams discharge
Their waters, yet that ocean ne'er enlarge,"

- Ecclesiastes

Disclaimer: I own nothing, not even my cat, Buddy. He is his own man.

AN: I haven't written fanfic in a long time and this is really only the beginning of a possible story (at this point I don't know if it fully makes sense), so if you like it or have ideas, please let me know. Thanks :-)

Before there was Max or Furiosa, Immortan Joe or the Citadel, there was Eames and Arthur. It wasn't the love story of the ages, nor without heartache (they were after all both 'miserable bastards' at times), but in all his long life, it was one of the few times Eames felt whole.

Eames, a name that appealed to him due to the mathematical complexity of the Eames chair, was even then quite old. He had gone by many names and many ways; had seen war, and strife and the many evils that men do, and in this witness had found within himself the ability to mimic, to lose himself in another's mind, to become another, and it was this skill that he had proven him a valuable asset in the field of dream inception. This was how he had met Arthur. He would later tell the man that the path of events made sense in their own way, it was after all "leading me to you, darling, always to you". To which Arthur, in his more honest moments, would simply reply, "That's actually somewhat terrifying" but he would smile and neither would mention the coming years and the other paths that awaited them both.

Dom had introduced them; Eames extending a hand, a smile writ large upon his face, almost licking his lips, and Arthur nodding, stepping back, saying "back to work then, yes?" A bloody tease you, but oh those eyes.

Their business had been dreams, the manipulation of and exploration of that state in which all of us drop our guard. Later when Eames and Arthur had gotten to know the details of each other, from likes and dislikes, to birthmarks and freckles to morning bed head and afterglow, they had spoken of age and all that that (at least for Eames) entailed. It had been a difficult topic but then Arthur had asked about his totem, his hand brushing the dice in his pocket and Eames had told him of the poker chip carried often but not always, and Arthur pale and suddenly so still, had asked why. Eames had said simply that in dreams "I get older" but here "I just go on", and after all one does not always need a guide home when one knows the way so well.

In the desert, the high sand dunes that stretched far into the horizon and the sun blinding, erasing memory and being, Eames (by then Max) had lost himself, lost speech, lost fear, lost love, lost Arthur. He'd simply kept going; there was no waking up to a different world, pity he couldn't sleep.