Notes: I have poor hearing on one side, which causes my brain to "fill in the blanks" in strange, creative ways that make absolutely no sense to anyone else, but which drastically change my own understanding of dialogue. The following is the result of a misheard line that really captured my imagination. Fischer had been shot by Mal and Cobb proclaimed the mission a failure. He apologizes to Eames. What Eames says (according to the internet) is: "Well, it's not me that doesn't get back to my family, is it?" – WHAT I THOUGHT I HEARD was a jumbled bit about Eames being disappointed because, like Cobb, he was kind of hoping to get back to his family, too.
This kind of blew my mind and amused me to no end because it was borderline absurd and totally AGAINST CHARACTER, and for whatever reason, I couldn't get the image of his homecoming out of my brain. The existence of this story also amuses me for the very fact that Arthur is actually my favorite character, so it's hilarious that this fic makes no mention whatsoever of him.
(Also, if you are more well-versed in English/Irish/Scottish-isms than I, please share. I am a dumb American. I want to learn.)
Homecoming
By Leila Winters
Summary: Following the successful completion of the Fischer job, Eames' long overdue return home is not what he expected. He's back on native soil and must now confront the family he left behind.
As though the flight from Australia to California wasn't exhausting enough, LAX to Heathrow with two layovers (just in case) made him—the most easygoing rake of the team—want to jam the jagged edge of a plastic airline cup into his thigh. Dehydrated, restless, stir-crazy, sore all over, and suffering from nicotine, alcohol and caffeine withdrawal, John Eames thanked the greater powers of the universe for providing him with solid ground again.
Twenty-nine hours of total air time in thirty-six hours will do that to a man.
After checking his phone, the first stop was to get a goddamn drink. Something good and strong and local...something he hadn't been able to have for a long time. It burned all the way down and it was sweet agony, every second. He was finally home.
He pauses at the shops screaming DUTY FREE in obnoxious block letters and though he feels like a complete idiot, he buys a plush border collie and a box of truffles, annoyed that his triumphant return should be sullied by what feels suspiciously like a tail between his legs. For shame. Never has he begged for a thing in his life. He was not to start groveling now.
Waiting in line at customs causes a dampness to bloom over his palms. Saito's influence is far, but how many unfortunate dreamers with innumerable faceless enemies can he sneak into foreign countries halfway around the world?
THUNK. The stamp of approval is a symphony to his travel-weary ears. Saito was a good, honest chap, if you forgot his mistress on the side and his morally questionable instigation of corporate espionage. Truly, a man of his word, like a diamond in the rough, only valuable if you knew where to sell it.
He sauntered out into the embrace of the afternoon sun, luggage in tow, dog and truffles on top. He searched the checkerboard of cars and realized with a start he didn't even know what she had replaced the other piece of shite with with the money he'd wired to her.
He spotted her ass first. Firm with just the right amount of give, in a pair of jeans he'd never seen before. She was leaning through the passenger window of a compact two door (German, he could live with that) and he could just make out her muffled, "stay in the car, darling, no matter wot, okay?"
He had really missed that ass.
She came fully into view and leaned her back against the vehicle, searching the new arrivals for him. Her fiery Irish hair was pulled up in a clip and her flowy top gave her a stunningly regal look, despite the haggard expression on her pale face. She looked like she'd slept about as much as he had.
A memory penetrated the haze the long hours in flight had forced over his brain, slamming into his consciousness with alarming clarity. They were arguing in his flat. She'd been shaken down and delivered a threat concerning the shady dealings of her sketchy boyfriend. She was scared. He was furious.
"John. They knew who I was."
He continued pacing angrily. "Everything's going to be fine, love."
"It's not fine. Who were they?"
"You're just going to have to trust me."
She threw him a defiant look, that spark in her grey eyes flashing dangerously "Trust you! Why the fok should I? I thought you were going to stop messing around with criminals!"
He stopped wearing a hole in the carpet, pointing an accusing finger at her, knowing it was the wrong thing to do even as he did it. "I'm doing what I have to to survive!"
She stood from the couch and stomped over to him, looking up at his scruffy face. "FOK YOU! If that were true, I wouldn't have had those men come after me because of STUPID SHITE you think you can get away with! You can't even take care of yerself, how the fok am I supposed to trust you can keep me safe, too?"
His face grew hot. "Goddammit, I'm doing the best I bloody can! I'll fix this!"
"Yeah, well your best isn't good enough!"
Her goddamn Irish temper could really stick in your craw.
Wounded and raging at once, he headed straight for the door.
"Where the bloody hell do you think yer goin' at this time?"
"Anywhere but here!" he barked back.
"Oh yeah, and why dontcha go fok some floozy while yer at it, you fokkin'...RRRG!" she screamed in frustration at his retreating form. He knew if there'd been something in her hand, she would have flung it at his back.
"Maybe she'll be a tad more empathetic than you!" He had reached for the handle of the door when he felt her reach around him, grip the lapel of his shirt in her small, fierce fist, and slam him against the nearest wall, holding him in place, a Celtic goddess on the warpath.
"Goddammit, John. I'm the only floozy yer gonna be fokkin'. Not unless I help you pick her out first."
It was in that moment when their mouths crashed together that he knew he was going to marry that woman. She took his shite and threw it back at him and no matter how much of a cad he'd been, she always made him feel like he had a shot at redemption.
Her eyes had landed on his bedraggled figure now. Sure, he was in a suit, but he hadn't shaved for days and all those hours sitting hadn't done him any favors.
She makes her way to him, avoiding his eyes the entire distance.
"Darling," he says when she's stopped in front of him, staring at the ground mutely. When it's clear she isn't going to respond, he quips, "Don't overwhelm yourself with emotion or anything."
She won't look at him. It's enough to drive a man mad.
"You still fancy truffles, yeah? I nabbed you a box and didn't touch any for myself." He's holding out the peace offering, a man with nothing else to offer. "Pup's for Bunny."
With a huff and a persistent refusal to meet his gaze, she snatches the chocolates and the plush in one hand, grabbing a suitcase handle with the other and dragging it to the car. He marvels at the way she unceremoniously dumps his luggage in the boot. For a small woman, she is deceptively strong. He tosses his other case on top and shuts the lid.
She still won't face him. The Irishwoman's back is one of her greatest weapons, next to an explosive temper. It is also the thing that irritates him the most because he can't read the emotion in her face when she does it.
"I'm gone for eighteen months and now I get the silent treatment? For god's sake, love!"
He feels rather than sees the tiny tremor that shakes her shoulders just once before she clamps her ironclad control over it. Tenderly, he places a hand on the back of her neck, stroking the flesh in a soothing rhythm that has always calmed her.
"Did you think I didn't miss you, darling? Don't be silly."
He thinks she isn't going to respond, the cold shoulder the only thing keeping her from punching him in his big, English nose.
Instead, she lifts her hands to her face, shoulders scrunching up, the muscles in her neck trembling under his fingers. "Silly, am I?" her voice is dangerously low. "They watched us while you were away to make sure you didn't try to come back."
"I am sorry about that." He's about to go on when something catches his eye. His left hand darts out, capturing hers and pulling it gently from her cheek. "And where the bloody hell is your ring, fer chrissake!"
Her voice catches and he knows she's crying. "I didn't know if you'd ever come back. They were watching..."
He pulls her back into his chest, shushing her and kissing her temple. "Hey now, none of that, love. I'm here now."
She turns then, throwing her arms around him and burying her face in the crook of his neck. "I never knew when would be the last I'd hear from you. That somewhere, something terrible would happen and there'd be nobody to tell me you'd died."
He pulls back a little to throw her a lopsided smile. "Well, now you really are being silly. I've always made sure you're taken care of, yeah?"
She does not return his lighthearted attitude. He never really did know when to be serious.
She grips him tighter, eyes hard. "Goddammit, John, this isn't about the money. Do you have any idea wot it's like raising a child on yer own while gangsters watch yer every move, yer every phone call?"
He kisses her forehead. He doesn't dare try for her lips. She really might try ripping his face off if she suspects he's trying to placate her. "I'm so sorry. Everything I've done since has been for this moment: to get back home to you both."
She's pouting now, bottom lip full and tempting. Finally, she says, "Da warned me about boys like you. I should have listened."
He full-on smiled then. She was a good woman, but you could never expect anything resembling an apology from her. Not even when she'd thrown your favorite bottle of cologne out the window of your home to shatter on the concrete drive below.
He bent to pick up the truffles and plush pup she'd dropped to hold him. "There, that's better. Do I get a proper kiss before we go? That would really grind your father's nerves."
Taking the gifts from him, she tosses them through the open passenger window. His lips are already puckered and he's gathering her close, a proper homecoming is what he's been hoping for.
Instead, he's greeted with the palm of her hand over his mouth and a kiss that is exactly a hands-breadth away. She glares at him saucily but he can tell there's a smile in there somewhere. "Not until you've showered and brushed yer fokkin' teeth."
He laughs as he watches her move to the driver's side door. He supposes a little grooming would do him some good. He doesn't expect either of them will be sleeping for a week as a year and a half apart can make the heart grow VERY fond.
"Hang on a minute," he didn't actually mean to say that out loud but it was too late to take it back now. "Did you...meet anyone while I was away?"
She'd thrown her door open and met him with a level stare. "Kissing isn't cheating."
"Right."
"And dontchu dare act jealous. I'm no fool, John. I know you did wotever you had to when you were gone and I'm not mad. But I will not be lectured to."
He holds his hands up in surrender. Because she's right. And he knows he has no right to complain. But lord, he'd love to just hold her close and toss her on the hood of the car.
He moves to the passenger door but her voice stops him. It is in that quiet, soft tone she rarely uses. "You can sit in the back with her if you'd like. She's missed you, too."
He throws her a smile, feeling all that old love bubbling up in his chest. She's always known just what he needs, bless her angry, Irish soul.
And of course, when he pulls the front seat forward to squeeze into the back, the first thing he sees sitting on the seat next to his little Bunny is a bag of pistachios. That woman.
"DADDY BEAR!"
"My god, my little Bunny's gotten SO BIG! C'mere, girl!"
Trapped in a booster seat, all five years of the little hellion throws herself against her restraints, reaching for him. He hugs and kisses her and listens to her chatter as he gets himself settled and Mummy pulls out into Heathrow afternoon traffic.
She hugs the plush border collie to her chest, voice filled with excitement. "It's just like Katie's dog! Daddy, can we get one too? Can we?"
The woman in the front seat groans. "Fer fok's sake, John."
He cracks open a pistachio and chews thoughtfully. "Well, maybe that's not such a bad idea."
"JOHN!"
"YEAH!"
He smirks at his wife through the rearview mirror. He's in it now. "Of course, border collies take a lot of care and energy, but I'm thinking we might do well to get a proper guard dog. One that will tell us if someone's snooping around."
"Goddammit, John."
"Can we, Mum? Can we?"
He can see her knuckles grow white with the death grip she's got on the steering wheel. Just to annoy her, he adds, "Yes, can we, Mum?"
That spark in her eyes is deadly now. "I thought you were going to stop pissin' off the wrong folks, John. So why the fok would we need a guard dog now that yer back?"
He shrugs, all right with his world. "Just a precaution, darling. Can never be too careful. Besides, I might be looking for work in a few months' time."
"John." A warning.
"You knew the man you married. Don't worry, old duff. I'll have no trouble finding something. I've got the best references in town."
Remember that bit about the wife always knowing what he needs and making him feel like he can always redeem himself? Might be a bit of a squeeze this time.
~End? End.
Comment: I imagined Eames' homecoming as being similar to soldiers coming back after 15-month tours of duty overseas. The couples are a bit out of sync with each other, unsure of how to act, but desperately wanting reconciliation. (We all know they totally fucked the shit out of each other when they got home...) I also imagined that even a family wouldn't stop the rogue from living dangerously. Some men just can't be satisfied with the mundane.
...and now let us return to a world where my crazy misheard lines of dialogue don't include a family-man Eames.
Written: 9.28.11 – 9.29.11
Edited: 9.30.11
Posted: 9.30.11