A/N:
- Hey, remember me? :D Sorry if you don't. I disappeared! Life is insane. But, I'm back now. Woot!
- And, I'm back bearing gifts! I'm a bit rusty, but I missed writing Arthur and Eames incredibly badly. So, have this AU.
- Inspired by the Taylor Swift song "Long Live".
- As always, reviews are love.
"Will you take a moment, promise me this:
That you'll stand by me forever?
But if, God forbid, fate should step in
And force us into a goodbye,
If you have children some day,
When they point to the pictures,
Please tell them my name.
Tell them how the crowds went wild."
- Taylor Swift, "Long Live"
"Daddy?"
"Yes, darling?"
"Who is in this picture with you?" the small boy asks, grubby fingers pointing to the shelf above the fireplace.
"Which photo?" Eames asks, eyes still skimming his daily copy of the New York Times. Normally, newspapers are morning fare. However, when you've a four year-old son running amuck in your home, such niceties as morning reading time are lost in the fray. Sometimes, on days like today, reading time can reappear in the middle of the evening. Eames takes advantage of every minute he gets.
"This one here. Look, Daddy. This one!"
"Alright, alright. I'm coming."
Eames folds the newspaper and leaves it on the couch as he stands. He walks over to the dark fireplace and sweeps the little boy into his arms.
"Which one, poppet?"
The boy's fingers reach out and Eames takes a step closer to the mantle, obliging him. He has the feeling he already knows exactly which photograph the boy's hand will light upon.
"This one here, beside this medal. Who is that?"
Eames is correct. He sighs.
"Haven't I told you that story before?"
"I can't remember," the boy says, one stubby finger poking his chin.
Eames smiles. He must have told this story a thousand times in the last year. So, he figures, once more cannot hurt.
"Tell you what. It's almost bedtime. So, you go find some pajamas and gather your bath toys, and I shall tell you the story as we get ready for bed."
"But I don't want to go to bed yet. It's so early."
"Well, when you're as old as Daddy, you don't enjoy staying up so late."
"But I'm not as old as you!"
"Well, when you're as young as you are, you don't have a choice. Besides, do you want to hear the story or not?"
"Alright. I'll go," the boy sighs, sounding forty rather than four.
Eames sets the boy on his feet and pats his butt as he runs down the hall.
"Be careful running!" Eames calls, and the pitter-patter of little feet slows considerably, for the moment.
Minutes later, his son appears at the mouth of the hallway.
"All set?" Eames asks.
"All set, Daddy."
"Alright, good. Let's go. Shall we race?"
"Aw, but I'm tired, Daddy."
"Oh, fine."
"Just kidding!" the little boy shouts, and turns on his heel to run back down the hall. Eames follows, using his height to his advantage, and catches up with the boy just as he reaches the bathroom door. Before the boy can cross the threshold, Eames has him off the ground once more, holding him with one arm and using the other hand to tickle the boy.
"Oy, you little cheater! So mean to your old man!"
The boy giggles in reply, squirming crazily until Eames finally sets him down.
"Alright. Let's get this over with, shall we?"
"Can you start the story now?"
"I suppose so."
Eames walks over and kneels beside the bathtub, reaching to turn the water on and waiting for it to warm. When it finally does, he adds bubble bath to the running water and motions for the boy to come and get it.
"Did you put your dirty clothes in the hamper?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good boy. Now, get your toys and come get in."
He lifts the boy into the tub and then settles back onto his knees beside the bath, watching as the boy turns his toy dinosaur into a bubble-eating menace.
"So, story time, eh? Hmm."
The boy just looks at him with expectant eyes.
"Okay. Well, about eight or nine years ago-"
"Before you bought me?"
Eames laughs aloud at that statement. Kids say the darnedest things.
"Well, I didn't buy you, but yes. Before you were mine, before you were even born, Daddy worked with a very special group of people…"
"Sean Eames, at your service," Eames says as he outstretches his hand.
"Nice to finally meet you in person, Mr. Eames. I understand that you're something of an expert in the field?" the man asks, dropping Eames's hand as he drops his voice.
"Hardly. Just a man with lots of time on his hands. I hear you're the one that's looking to make this big, Mr. Cobb" Eames counters, gesturing to the table beside the men. At Cobb's nod, he unbuttons his jacket and takes a seat, Cobb following suit.
"You've heard correctly," the blonde man says as he motions for the waiter. "And call me Dom. Are you hungry? Thirsty?"
"A cup of tea would be lovely right about now, Dom."
"Yes, sir?" the waiter asks as he approaches.
"My friend here will have a hot cup of tea, and I'll have another of my usual."
"Of course."
"Thanks."
The waiter departs and Cobb speaks again.
"How'd you get into this business, Mr. Eames?"
"You meet all sorts of people here and there. I followed a lover to Mombassa many moons ago. Turned out to be a bust, romantically, but I met a fellow named Yusuf who knew someone who knew someone that had heard of these experiments going on with dreaming. Couldn't keep my nose out of trouble, and, well, here we are."
"Do you still do any work with this Mombassa crew?"
"Oh, no no no. Just Yusuf, but he's out of the dreamsharing bits. He just tinkers with the sleeping compounds these days. That group turned out to be nothing but bad news. But, once you've experienced something like shared dreaming, you can't just walk away from it and be satisfied with the world around you."
"Which is why you're here with me now, I'm guessing."
Eames nods as the waiter approaches with their drinks, says his "thank you" as his tea is sat on the table, and then frowns, eyebrows furrowed, as Cobb's drink is sat on the table.
"Thank you," Cobb says to the waiter, and then he catches the look on Eames's face. "What?" he asks, somewhat defensively.
"Nothing," Eames sputters. "Only… uh, is that a Bloody Mary?"
Cobb blushes slightly, but answers with aggravation in his voice.
"Yes, it is. Why do you ask?"
Eames is at a loss for words.
"No reason."
Cobb sighs.
"I know. It isn't the manliest drink. My wife, Mal, she made me try one once. Now I just can't stop. This one's virgin, though. Bad form to drink during a job interview."
Afraid he'll laugh if the conversation continues, Eames changes the subject, though he can't help the slight chuckle in his voice.
"I suppose it would be for a job like this. Speaking of which, what is it exactly you want me for?"
"Well, right now, dreamsharing is relatively underground. There are a few operational centers that are doing contracted work for certain corporations, but nobody's making headlines yet. The American military is looking to change that. They want turn dreamsharing into a viable training tool. They want widespread accessibility for the armed forces. That's where we would come in."
"We?"
"Myself, a military-appointed chemist, a couple of glorified test subjects from the Green Berets, and you, if you're interested. I'd need a partner of sorts, somebody with a lot of experience in the dream world. We're basically being asked to show them the ropes and pass on what we know." He pauses for a sip of his drink and then continues, leaning conspiratorially forward, "But, between you and me, I see this as a chance to see what we can do with dreamsharing when we've got a military-sized budget behind us. The possibilities…" Cobb trails off, gesturing vaguely to the world around them.
"They're endless," Eames finishes. Cobb nods and leans back into his seat. Eames is quiet for a moment, sipping his tea. Then, it's his turn to lean forward as he places his cup back on its saucer.
"Well, I don't mean to sound overeager, Mr. Cobb, but you can certainly count me in."
He smiles.
"So then you started working again."
"I did."
"But Uncle Cobb isn't the man in that photo with you."
"Not that particular photo, no," Eames answers as he scrubs the boy's hair.
"So who is, then?"
"I'm getting there. Patience is a virtue, you know."
"What's a vuh-choo?" the boy asks and Eames laughs quietly.
"Never mind. Close your eyes. Your mouth, too."
Eames pours water over the boy's head, rinsing the suds from his hair and face.
"Alright, all done."
The boy stands up, and Eames rinses the bubbles from the rest of his son's body before grabbing a towel and wrapping the boy up in it, careful to not let the edges fall into the water. He lifts the boy from the tub and places him on his lap on the closed toilet.
"Let's dry you off and get you dressed."
"Finish the story."
Eames says nothing, but shoots the boy a look.
Chagrined, he tries again, "Finish the story, please?"
"Robert Gates, gentlemen, but you can call me Bob," the smiling man says as he shakes the hand of each member of Cobb's team and salutes the four soldiers, including Robinson the chemist, standing alongside the back wall of the room.
"At ease, gentlemen. Take a seat," he gestures for everyone in the room to sit around the table in front of them.
Eames sits in the centermost chair he can find, Cobb to his immediate right and the chemist, Robinson, forced to take next seat over. The seat to Eames's left is empty at first, but then is quickly occupied by one of the soldiers. Sims, his uniform reads, and Eames can't help but give the man a lingering once-over. His garrison uniform is meticulous, from his neatly laced boots to the floppy green beret covering the short, black hair atop his head. He stares straight forward, apparently listening to Mr. Gates's rambling. It isn't until Sims turns to return Eames's gaze that Eames notices how quiet the room has become. Cobb nudges an elbow into Eames's bicep, and Eames turns, nearly in slow motion, to see the waiting look on Gates's face.
"I'm sorry. What was the question?"
From the corner of his eye, Eames sees Sims hiding a smile.
"Why weren't you paying attention, Daddy? You always tell me how paying attention is the most important thing you can do for someone."
"Are you going to be busting my bum all night long, little man?"
"Sorry."
"Sometimes I think you're too smart for your own good, and you are definitely too smart for my good."
Eames swings the now dressed boy to the floor.
"Alright, run along and hop in bed. I'll be there in a moment."
The boy runs, little feet pounding against the hardwood floor of the hallway. Eames rolls up a shirtsleeve and reaches into the tepid water of the tub, feeling for the stopper. He pulls it and places the piece of rubber on the tub's edge, beside a plastic dinosaur that is still vomiting fruity-smelling soap bubbles.
Eames then takes a seat back on the lid of the closed toilet. He pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger, and then lets out a long, low sigh. Some stories aren't so easy to tell, no matter how many times you've recanted them.
He stands, hangs the damp towel back on its rack, and then flips the light switch as he heads out the door and to the boy's room. When he gets there, he sees his son in bed, covers pulled up to his armpits, tiny hands folded together on top of his stomach.
"All set, Dad."
"I can see that. I think you've set a new world speed record," he says, and the boy beams.
Eames takes a seat on the edge of the bed, careful not to sit on the boy's legs.
"Where were we?" he asks.
"The part where you got in trouble for not paying attention."
"I didn't get in trouble," Eames says, slightly defensive.
"If you say so," the boy replies, cheeky as ever, something he learned from his Pop.
"Alright, alright. So, we finished our meeting, and then it was time to start doing the real work…."