"You lied to me."
In the silence of the kitchen, Ariadne's voice sounded hollow, echoey, and when Eames looked up at her from the pamphlet he was folding smaller and smaller— "Miles Tobias Eames," it said, "27 September 2011 – 18 January 2017, the celebration of a life"-she, too, seemed hollow, like if he reached out to touch her she wouldn't be there at all. But he didn't touch her. Instead, he tilted his head to the side and said, "I beg your pardon?"
"You lied to me," she repeated, snatching the pamphlet from his hand and smoothing it out, her fingers lingering on the colour photograph of their son's face, smiling, lively. "I don't even know who the fuck you are."
Oh. Well. Now he understood. "Darling..." he began, running his fingers through his hair and sighing. "Darling, I-"
"No," she said firmly, barely resisting the temptation to smack him or throw the pamphlet at his stupid face. "Fuck that. You lied to me. You wouldn't tell me anything about you, and now he's dead. My baby is dead and it's your fault. It's your fault we can't have him back. If you could be fucking honest for once in your goddamn stupid useless fucking life then maybe we would still have a son." She was shaking, furious, her whole body trembling with anger and grief and disappointment. Wordlessly, Eames stood, tilting his head to beckon her to come with him, and when she stood to follow him, still shaking, he went to her, wrapped his arm around her and they walked to the sofa together, settling down there. She tolerated his arms around her, even snuggled a little closer, desperate for the comfort and contact and familiarity after her whole world and been changed, and Eames began to relax, too, stroking her hair. "Listen," he said, holding her close so that she couldn't take off. "If you'll give me the time, love, I want to tell you everything."
After the Fischer job, he had returned to Mombasa for awhile, then Amsterdam, and then he found a somewhat steady forging job for an established Dubai businessman and spent a year and a half there, working under the name "Tobias West" and trying to forget that the Fischer job—or at least, Ariadne—had never happened. It worked for awhile. He had never been very good at emotions, but he had always been very good at disguising them, at not letting people get close enough. But somehow, in a way that he didn't understand then and still didn't understand even after so long, she had worked her way into his heart so deeply that he couldn't seem to get rid of her, so he went to find her again instead.
He found her in Paris, finishing her degree, and he installed himself in a hotel and spent several weeks attempting to sweep her off her feet. She had been waiting for him, she'd said—she thought he had no idea what he meant to her, that he never would, because she couldn't ever find him again. "I do enjoy a good game of cat and mouse, darling," he'd told her, giving her that devastating grin of his.
They lived in Paris long enough for Ariadne to graduate and then, upon hearing from Dom again, spent two years working for him in LA. They were happy together, and for the first time, Eames thought that he had something that could last, something that he didn't have to worry about. For the first time, as terrifying as it was to him, he had someone he could trust.
Which was not to say that he was entirely forthcoming with information about himself. For much of their relationship, she knew that his name was actually William Eames, that he had been born to English parents in South Africa, that he had one sister and that his sister had died in an accident in childhood and that he had not seen his parents since he joined the military, but that he knew that if they were still alive they probably lived in Brighton. That was the closest to anyone knowing his true self that he had ever allowed, and although early on, Ariadne had pressed him for information, pressed him to know more, she soon learned to be happy with what she did know than wonder about what she didn't.
It was in LA that she had gotten pregnant with Miles. He was...not exactly a mistake, but certainly a surprise. They had never discussed marriage, let alone children, and yet, here they were. "I want to raise him with your parents," she had said—no, more pleaded. "I want him to know his father's family." So they had packed up again and moved to Brighton.
It didn't surprise Eames to find that his parents were nowhere to be found, but Brighton was enough of his history that he wanted to stay there, wanted to raise their child there.
Miles was born at the end of that September, and it was immediately obvious that there was something different—no, wrong—about him. He was small for term, and weak, and he barely cried, instead mewling like a little cat. As he grew, he seemed to always be behind the other children, delicate and fragile, sick often. Although no doctor they took him to—going as far as Boston to get a magical cure—could seem to figure out what was wrong with him, Eames knew. Maybe he had known all along, but certainly once Miles was old enough to walk, he knew he had seen this before, knew what would happen to his son. Maybe not for years, maybe not until he was well into adulthood, but Eames knew.
He had almost told Ariadne everything then, almost let her in completely—she deserved to know, of course, but when one lies for so long it's not easy to stop, not even for someone who was loved as much as Eames loved Ariadne. It wouldn't do her any good anyway. The truth would not save Miles, and, if Eames was perfectly honest with himself, he was almost certain it would make things worse for her. So instead, he waited.
And though he was perhaps a little slower than other children, Miles was bright and mischievous and handsome and sweet and he thrived in the sea air, in the love of his parents, for nearly six lovely years, until they got the phone call that Eames had been holding his breath for. Miles had collapsed in the schoolyard, they said, and an ambulance was on the way, so they were advised to come to the school and wait, be with him.
They got there in time to kiss him goodbye, but he was gone before the ambulance arrived. He had been playing football in the field with a group of other boys, the teachers said, when he suddenly collapsed. They had thought a ball hit him, but the other children said he simply fell down.
"We've seen this," the coroner informed them on the telephone a few days later, once the autopsy was finished. "Do either of you have any family history of heart defects?" And once again Eames had to take a deep breath and lie through his teeth.
"That's strange," the coroner had added, "since this particular condition is passed through families only."
And so now, here they were, Eames and Ariadne, in the warm living room where they had spent a happy several years, without the thing that had made them happiest, and in his place instead a thick, horrible tension. "Listen," he repeated. "I've wanted to tell you this since Miles was born, but I also knew that it wouldn't do you any good, that I couldn't save him by telling, and I wanted to keep you safe because I love you." Her only response to this was a soft sound, and he realized that she had begun to cry again, so he kissed her forehead. "I do love you, Ariadne, and I always will. I just hope that in coming out of this, you will still love me." And with that, it was time for him to explain.
"My sister was born when I was seven. Her name was Catherine. She was just like Miles when she was born—a little small, weak, didn't cry. As she grew she was fragile, weak, frequently tired. No one ever figured out what was wrong with her, but when she was four, she collapsed and never woke up. It was only then that we found out about her heart." He felt her bristle, but he didn't loosen his grasp on her—now, more than ever, he needed Ariadne as close as possible. "My parents couldn't handle it. They felt like it was their fault, but there's no treatment, only waiting. I came home from school one afternoon and found their bodies in their room." He tried to keep his voice even, as though he was telling her about what kind of weather they were having, and he felt Ariadne reach up, stroke his cheek, and it made him feel strong enough to continue. "So I was placed in a foster home with seven other children. It was...not exactly an ideal situation, and I don't feel that I need to expound on what, exactly, I mean." The petting continued, so he felt comfortable to continue. "One of the older boys at the foster home had taught himself how to forge and, in turn, taught me. So I spent a year and a half there and then, once I was confident enough, I took off. And that's the gist of it, I suppose, because not much happened there between the time I left and the time I met you. I faked my age at sixteen and joined the military in England, which is of course where I met Arthur, but I got caught and dishonorably discharged, and I've been living this rather lucrative life of crime ever since." Leave it to Eames to make a joke in the middle of a conversation like this. Now he loosened his grip on Ariadne, preparing to be smacked in the face. Instead, she let her hand drop, reaching for his. "Why didn't you at least tell me about your sister?" she asked quietly.
He paused. "I felt as though telling you about Catherine would lead into telling you about all of the other nastiness and I wanted...I wanted to protect you from that particular darkness. I do love you, you know." He didn't want to look at her, suddenly embarrassed by his own display of emotion.
There were several seconds of radio silence and finally, softly, she replied, "I love you too," squeezing his hand a little harder. Now he wanted to look into her eyes, wanted to see her expression when he spoke. "Ariadne," he asked. "...Do you think you can forgive me?"
She very nearly said no. Very nearly got up and walked out of that house and left behind the love of her life, the life they had made together, everything she'd known and held dear for so long. Instead she looked up at Eames, studied his expression, saw his vulnerability, his fear, his desperate longing to keep the one thing he'd had that was stable, and she said, "William. I love you. I forgive you. Do you think you can be honest with me from now on?"
It wasn't going to be easy. He had spent so long lying that it felt like the truth didn't quite exist anymore. But he had already lost everybody—his parents, his sister, his son—and he wasn't ready to lose her, not yet. He didn't think he ever would be. And they already had to start all over again, already were having to build their lives from square one in the absence of their boy. He'd come this far, what more did he have to lose? "...Yes. I believe I can do that."