Things Hidden: Part I
"Eames?" Ariadne knocked a little louder. "Eames, its Ariadne. Come on, we need to go, we said 9:30, remember?" She waited for a reply, a sound of any kind. Nothing. She tried the door and found it open. Hesitating, she poked her head through and glanced around. "Eames, are you in here?"
She stepped quietly into the room, closing the door. She couldn't help but enter: the room was an interior designer's nightmare. Sheer, dark purple curtains hanging from a broken rod were pulled haphazardly across the single window, so that everything was left in deep shadow: the small, moth-eaten couch, sitting off center; the standing lamp, providing very little light due to the thick coating of dust; the miniscule kitchen - an ice box, a sink, and a diminutive wood burning stove; a tall rack leaning against the far wall, holding several hundred books of varying size and shape; the coffee table, scratched beyond repair. On every surface was an article of clothing, some men's and some women's. Lying scattered across the table next to two bottles (Givenchy GENTLEMAN, and Britney Spears Fantasy) was what looked like playing cards. Ariadne stepped closer and examined one. It was a driver's license. DOMINIC BRENNAN, D.O.B: 1980 read the name. She frowned and picked up another. MARCUS DOLL, D.O.B: 1989. Another: JEREMIAH JACOBS, D.O.B: 1992. JOSEPH KONSTANTINE, D.O.B: 1942. Each card boasted a picture of Eames, or at least one of someone who very much resembled a younger – or older – version of him. There were a few passports as well, and some sort of birth certificate in an unfamiliar language. Ariadne wasn't sure whether to be angry or amused. She didn't have time to decide. Eames' voice came drifting out from behind a door beside the sink.
"Sorry, love, I won't be able to attend the meeting tonight. I have a real job." He walked out into the living room, greeting her with a small smile.
Ariadne stared at him…he was dressed in a spotless white tuxedo and leather shoes, perfectly tailored to his body, his bowtie and collar undone. He was clean-shaven, his skin clear and his hair free of product: it fell sideways across his forehead and down into his eyes. A small ruby set in gold glimmered on his left pinkie. He looked clean and healthy – everything Eames was not…
"You look…you look so young," Ariadne said incredulously, blinking as though she could correct what she saw. Eames shot his cuffs with a chuckle. "Well that is the point, love," he replied. "I'm twenty-four. Or at least, the girl I'm meeting thinks I am." He picked up the license that said JEREMIAH JACOBS and slipped it in a small leather wallet, which was placed in his inside pocket. He turned away from her, facing a full-length mirror propped up beside the front door.
"Please send my regrets to Cobb. And give Arthur a kiss from me," he said, smiling at her reflection. He let his shoulders fall forward ever so slightly, set his hands in his pockets, and cocked his head back gently. Ariadne laughed out loud. He wasn't thirty-six year old Jimmy Eames anymore. He was twenty-four year old…whatever his name was. "You look great, Eames."
"Thanks, babydoll," he answered in a perfect American accent. He winked and left the door open behind him.