PART XI
ENSENADA, MEXICO
[Now – 1:36 AM]
"Don't look at me like that," Eames tries his best to pull himself up in the uncomfortable little bed, until he is resting on his elbows. It takes everything in him to do as much, but the look on her face is downright frightening. "Maria, what?"
"You have not spoken with Dom," she is uncertain, and hesitantly approaches the bed. Eames tenses, and pain flares in unused muscles. Maria takes her seat. "Jonathan… you have been in this hospital for some time. After you all parted ways on the Diehl job your companions tried to contact you. They found your hotel room and the body left behind… your clothes and totem were on it, and you'd burned it unrecognizable. You were assumed dead, until it came time to clean out your London home."
"Those bastards were in my flat?" Eames feels himself color slightly, bewildered, and images of every secret that may link him to Arthur in every way Arthur didn't want begin to roll through his mind. He runs a still-bandaged hand through his hair. "Can't a man die in peace?"
"Dom was able to trace me from there, and found you. I am so sorry—I did not consider all this time, while trying to protect you from your enemies, I was keeping you from those who love you," her hand comes to rest on his cheek. "Dom, when he saw you may not recover, did not wish to give the rest of your team the same grief they have lived with for months. You see… he is the only one who knows you are alive."
This is when Eames feels himself freeze, and his blood runs cold. "So what you are telling me," he is still hoarse in the throat, and his words come out almost a growl. "Is when I picked up the phone, and dialed Arthur's number for a very casual 'fuck you, where are my flowers', I possibly gave him a heart attack because I essentially called him from beyond the grave?"
Maria does not respond to the wry note in his voice, but she does pull back a little. "Dom left three days ago to tell them. He said he was going to see Arthur first… but he did not want to say it over the phone."
"This is ridiculous—utterly ridiculous that no one bothered to tell him. Who the hell came up with that idea?"
"Jonathan..." Maria's voice is thin. "You did."
The phone lingers in the air between them, and Eames, still clouded with the ghost of pain, and the wear of his recovery, cannot recall speaking the words. And yet they still chill him to the bone.
"…when?"
"When they told you that you may never walk again," hesitant pity hangs on her words. "You don't remember…"
What Eames remembers is the silence.
The silence that was broken by the squeak of the turning knob, and the click of the safety disengaging on his weapon. He waits in the stillness of this moment, and readies the revolver. His killer makes his way through the door, but does not immediately strike. In fact, he seems a little puzzled.
"So you knew."
"I knew," Eames cannot help the curl of his upper lip, the baring of imperfect teeth. "You're all very predictable. In the end."
"I suppose that is how you have stayed alive this long," the man is an uglier assassin, in the last fifteen years of assassins Eames has dealt with. He is somewhat full of himself, and his own imperfect teeth gnash as he inhales, and adjusts his belt with the hand not holding his own revolver. "But you've also got to imagine… I have stayed alive this long for the same reason. And the end result is, as you say, rather predictable."
"Really."
"You're first, you see," he waggles the gun level with Eames' face, leisurely shifting his weight to the other foot. "Your point man is next. Through him we find your architect, who will give us your extractor. The architect always breaks the easiest."
"And what if I'm the architect, and in my death I've given you nothing?"
"The architect betrays himself. The architect is logical, but not a killer. There is nothing of logic about you, Mr. Eames. And if indeed someone were to have taken over the role of the architect, that person would have to be as logical a designer—again, nothing you have to offer. I suppose the next place I would be looking for information would be the point man. Arthur, his name?"
"You leave that boy alone."
A smug little quirk of the corner of his mouth. "Ah. See? Not a logical bone in that body of yours."
"You're wasting your time."
"You've volunteered so much information in the last two minutes, I hardly agree." He leans in a little. "So tell me, Mr. Forger, your Point Man," a whisper this time. "Does he break easily?"
Eames is not logical by nature. Often, he reacts before thinking, and this causes him to falter. Sometimes he is the most human of his team, and so in error he draws a fraction of a second too slow, and when he shoots the other man, the other man shoots him back. He remembers seeing red in the instant the words were spoken, and then spinning onto the floor. His miscalculation has earned him a wound to his side. How bad, he doesn't know, but the other man is up again before he is. There is a moment where Eames is aware of the gun still resting in his fingers, and he is able to seize it before he is hauled haphazardly onto the rumpled bed. The assassin's face is torn open on one side, a graze that was too far off to do anything worse than lay open his cheek—an injury that has done more to enrage him than debilitate him. Eames knows he will not have another opportunity to save his own life.
And yet reality is only a buzzing in his head, a ringing in his ears. Part of him is still waiting for Arthur to burst through the door, and it is only when the pressure of the barrel lodges into his thigh that he realizes he is wholly on his own.
"You could've gotten out of this in one piece," comes the throaty hiss of the other's voice. "Now you've cost yourself a leg—"
Words rise in his throat just before his femur is shattered into some forty pieces, but all he can do is—
His memory of the night in Tijuana stops abruptly there, with the remnants of such mind numbing pain. He tries to move his leg beneath the blanket, but it is heavy, and does not seem to respond. Eames pulls back the spread to reveal sunken flesh tightly stretched over poorly stitched muscle. He tries to pull his knee up, and meets a flare of tight pain.
"There is a rod replacing your femur," Maria tells him, from somewhere, so far away. "Jonathan. Jonathan—we almost lost you. It could have been much, much worse. Do you not see that?"
"I do. I also see I will be of no more use to those in my field. Not unless they want to wheel me to the getaway. Now what do you suppose I do about all this?"
"Count your blessings, Mr. Eames," her tone begins to narrow into a sort of chide, and she sits a little further away from him. "Count your blessings and try not to feel so sorry for yourself. You were never the sort to do such a thing. And, no matter what the condition of your physical form, there are still those that would have preferred you died here. I suggest you be on your guard."
Eames hears her, but does not acknowledge her words. The selfish part of him cannot take his eyes off of the battered condition of his leg—how small, and battered, and ruined it looks amongst the rumpled sheets. The selfish part of him wonders what Arthur may think of him now, if suddenly saddled with an invalid as a lover. The selfish part of Eames is suddenly not so certain he wants to pick the phone back up.
VANCOUVER, BRITISH COLUMBIA
The Diehl Job
[2 Months ago]
Arthur remembers the foul metallic taste of blood gurgling up in his throat like vomit just before the wall behind him gave way, and the bliss of a free falling sensation pulled him back into reality. The reality he awakens to is not unlike the dream he has been liberated from—rushed, loud, bright, and full of urgency. Eames is over him, yanking the IV out of his arm just as Arthur bolts upright in his chair.
"Assholes!" he spins to begin packing up the device—Cobb is hovering over Anthony Diehl, probably administering a good dose of chloroform to the Mark. "What the fuck are you still doing here?"
"Don't mention it, you're very welcome Arthur," is all Eames says, just before removing and cocking his sidearm. His tone is cold, and his face his closed. "I wasn't going to leave you there. Not another minute."
Arthur feels the snap. He feels his chest and his guts and his muscles tighten and his control buckle under the weight of such blinding anger, still mingled with the waking pain of the dream. His arm shoots out before he can stop it and his fingers curl into Eames' rolled sleeve and jerks the other man so close so quickly he almost loses his balance.
"So you did it for me?" he snarls, hot in Eames' face. "You did all this for me, to save me? You're fucking complete lack of control has murdered us all!"
To Eames' credit, he has the control to not pull his gun in the heat of such a moment. But he does strike back, and deliver an iron grip to the Arthur's forearm. "Would you have preferred me to rescue you later? Mewling in your own blood and vomit—you'd go to the ends of the earth for him, Arthur, but for yourself, or the man you—"
"Fuck you-!" Arthur feels his arm wrench back to strike. He doesn't notice Cobb drop what he is doing to fly between them, barely feels himself react and does not see his fist shoot by Cobb and get blocked at the last minute—Eames does not seem to realize the blow will not land, and instead retaliates too fast for Cobb or Arthur to stop him. He busts Arthur's lip before Cobb can even attempt a block, and is violently shoved backward by the Extractor, who is practically using his entire body to restrain Arthur.
"Hey—HEY!" Cobb is furious, and it brings Arthur back into reality. "Save it, we have a chopper to catch—NOW! Arthur!"
The Point man's blood is boiling but he obeys, and effortlessly swipes up the briefcase just before removing his own weapon and holding it straight-armed in front of him. Cobb shoots Eames a brief sidelong glance to make sure the Forger is following, and though the sprint to the hallway and up the stairs is urgent, it is completely silent.
Arthur's hand pushes on the small of Cobb's back as they both file into the chopper, and he turns to make room for Eames. The Forger's arm is braced on the door; pale eyes hard on his own and usually full lips a tight, angry line.
"Last chance," he says, hoarsely, over the beating wind of the blades overheard. "You coming to Mexico?"
Arthur drags a sleeve across his chin, and the red blood darkens into the material. "If you go, you're a fucking idiot."
"That's a no then?"
"That's a no," Arthur snaps, and Eames nods curtly, and takes a step back. "What the fuck—where are you going?"
"Don't worry," Eames ducks out of the door's way, "You won't be hearing from me again." He slams the door, and Arthur watches out the window, distantly, as he is jerked upward, spiraling into the sky and away from the Forger, until he is a speck on the launch pad.
Cobb's hand is suddenly on his shoulder.
"The fuck was that? Where is he going, they'll be on him in minutes—"
"No," Arthur blots his lip again, and pulls it into his mouth to run his tongue over it. It actually hurts worse. "Just a job. Just another job. He'll be alright." Deep down Arthur is not to certain that is true, but he is more angry than concerned, and it twists in his gut and churns like magma within him. Eames can take care of himself, says the voice in the back of his head.
He has always been best at that.
SAN DIEGO
[Now]
Arthur stares at the phone, and does not feel the time pass around him. Every instinct he has tells him that this has not been a dream. That this is real, and everything he has believed for what has felt like forever is in fact, not real. The heat in his skin, the swimming in his head, the sweat beading on his forehead—these things would not be happening if his totem had not been rolled. And yet, the die has not failed him in ten years. If he cannot trust it, he cannot trust anything. Eames is alive, and there is only one thing left to do about it. Arthur scrapes the phone off of the floor, and with violently shaking hands checks his received calls. He dials the Mexican number, and when the Spanish recording streams into his hear he quickly ends the call.
He sits there for what feels hours, and watches the sunlight turn dark orange across his surroundings. Shadows begin to surround him as the evening closes around him. He does not know how long he has been sitting here, and when he his mind begins to travel to places unknown, places that frighten him to his very core, he rolls the die. He brings himself back to reality. It is something like five in the afternoon when he finally hears the scrape of a key, and the groan of an opening door. Without looking up he blankly reaches to his side to draw and cock his weapon, holding it level with his temple. He never intended to fire—Arthur has been waiting for this visit.
"So he got to you first," It is Dom, standing in his doorway. The only man ever to own the spare key to his apartment has apparently known for some time. Arthur, however, cannot look up from his position on the floor. His posture is one of a man defeated. "I didn't want you finding out this way."
Arthur squeezes his eyes shut, and his jaw hangs agape his mouth, as one might try to repress a gag. The steel of the gun is cool against his face.
"How long?"
"A few weeks." Considering the situation, Dom's tone is rather cool. "I'm sorry, Arthur."
"He's alive," in his other hand the die rocks slowly and deliberately between each long finger, calculating. Finally, he is able to look up. "When were you planning on telling me?"
Dom's visage is plain, honest—he is not proud of his actions, but he also refuses to hide from them. He remains by the door, his eyes locked on Arthur. "I made a mistake. I should have told you from the second I found out, but I didn't want to cause you anymore pain. I was afraid you would lose him twice. I wanted to protect you, can't you see?"
"To protect me…" Arthur's dark eyes fall to the floor again, and his weapon lowers. He lingers in an uneasy silence for a moment before a fake, short laugh rises in his throat. "To protect me. And if the situation were reversed, and I had kept Mal from you? You wouldn't have wanted one more moment with her, to say all the things you should've? To take back the things you shouldn't have? To hear her voice—"
"You know it is never that simple," Dom cuts him off. "Not with what we do. The life we've chosen."
"You're full of shit," it is a snarl, but it does not faze the Extractor. Instead he moves forward a step, and then another. Hands still in his pockets, he lowers himself to kneel before his Point Man.
"Arthur," softer, now. "You've heard his voice so often in your dreams you wouldn't know the difference now. You've been rolling that totem for the past three hours trying to convince yourself this is real." Dom reaches out and rests a hand on Arthur's shoulder, and feels the muscles tighten beneath his palm. "It's alright to admit it. It's alright to embrace it. No one knows what reality feels like more than you do. You know this is real." Arthur is still, and quiet. Dom takes this as permission to continue. "He hasn't said much. He is in pretty bad shape, but he called you, so obviously he is on the mend. I just want you to be prepared."
Arthur's eyes remain on the floor, but the slightest hint of a smile forms on the corner of his mouth. It vanishes like a ghost. "I'll never be prepared."
VENICE
July [7 Months ago ]
It is the end of something. It hangs stale in the air between the two bodies, and mingles with the smoke in the hotel room. This is the silent end of a war for Eames—one he has fought for so long he can barely remember what he has been holding onto all this time. It is the price he pays for having taken this leap of faith on another so conflicted with his own sense of identity, and reality, that he may never know what he truly wants. The hope that one day he would decide—that enough time alone, and time away would have him realize what he has had, and what he has lost will make him one day come round is gone. There are no more words to be said, no more fights to be had, or passionate rants to spark one last tiny ember to remind Arthur of what the years have given the two of them. The problem has always been the same: Arthur cannot be reminded, because he never knew. He does not want to know.
Arthur is on his side, and sleeps so lightly it is almost impossible to tell if he is actually out, or is faking it to avoid the strain between them. Arthur is weary of the strain, and Eames knows this—but Eames is tired, too. He is tired of giving, and fighting, and giving even more. In this, Eames feels the strain more than Arthur ever would.
He has changed, for all of his efforts to change Arthur, and it is something of a miracle. At a very young age, Eames realized he was beautiful, and this gave him power. First over women, then over men, and then over this very unique line of work. He has always accredited his almost perfect record to skill, but the truth is he has a gift. That gift brought him into the world of Forging and Extracting, and while it brought him success, it also brought him misery.
This misery would often come out of the shadows in the blackest hour of the night, after the last drink had been bitterly consumed to bring him down from the last line, robotically inhaled from a glass-top table. It would appear after the thought of living forever had long since faded from the smoky haze that clouded his mind—the reality that he was alone, having given yet another part of himself away, covered in cum, and shame, and guilt. That on the outside was something entirely separate from what he was on the inside—pitiful and cold. Ruined and used. It was a knowledge he kept sedated with drugs and drink.
To keep from changing, he summed it all up to the life of an exhibitionist, a libertarian. To say otherwise was to admit that he was unhappy, and Eames would not let that be his reality. The truth is that Arthur saved him from that. Arthur, without even knowing it, pulled him out of that prison, and brought him into the light. Arthur showed him something different, and it had been worth fighting all this while for. He may never realize, or come to appreciate that, and so their war will continue, but at least for now, Eames has his answer. That is why he has remained, and has always returned.
Arthur stirs beside him, and Eames rolls over to put the rest of his cigarette out. He feels the warm body brush against his, and an arm slide across his bare torso—but, in the half second it takes Arthur to remember he is next to another man, the arm slides back, and Arthur simply lays there. The strain dies a little in Eames, and dissolves into soft defeat. He can offer Arthur a smile.
