Disclaimer: I don't own anything!
Author's Note: Went to the Food and Wine Festival at Epcot for the first time. It was very fun, and very crowded. I have begun playing Dishonored and while the first person bothers me, it doesn't change the fact that I'm terrible at this game.
My brother and I's book, the first in an alternate history/fantasy series, is now up on authonomy. Link is on my profile and I'm putting it here with some spaces. It's not completely uploaded yet, but there are about two updates a week. I would very much appreciate it if some of you guys stopped by, took a look and offered thoughts. Yes, I'm going to keep this here.
www . authonomy books / 47917 / sanctum - files - the - dragon - scroll /
"If you can't love someone at their worst, you don't deserve them at their best."
-Anonymous
Eames is a coward.
They're both startled awake by a ringing phone. Arthur grumbled in annoyance, but shimmied to the edge of the bed and groped along the floor until he felt cloth, tugging it closer. He frowned at his shirt—he wasn't wearing his contacts and the room was pitch black at this hour save for the slits of light that made their way through the blinds—before he tossed it away and continued the search for pants.
After fumbling a bit more for the phones—frankly, he was surprised the other person hadn't hung up or left a voicemail—Arthur found the one ringing. It was Eames', but one glance back told Arthur that the forger was already halfway back to sleep.
He flipped the phone open. "Hello?" Arthur said quietly and perhaps a little groggily. A light sleeper he might be, but no one was happy being woken in the middle of the night for a phone call.
"Dad?"
Arthur froze and Eames blinked up at him. Three months of being almost back together (Not quite because forgiveness takes time and they're still trying to get used to trusting each other again) and more than five years of sleeping together and almost ten years since Arthur had gone to him with the idea to steal the PASIV and this had never happened to them.
(Arthur can picture the Interpol agent that is also Eames' daughter, was Eames' daughter to him first. She is smooth and confident and she has Arthur's grudging respect. Not just anyone could find him, after all)
Covering the mouthpiece, Arthur looked at Eames. "It's Amara."
Eames seemed genuinely shocked and Arthur couldn't blame him. He knew that Sheral had Eames' number—something that never failed to impress him—but he didn't think that Amara would have it.
"Hello?" Amara's voice was grainy and faint from the earpiece.
Eames still seemed to be in shock. Arthur put the phone back up to his ear. "He's…currently indisposed."
He heard the gears turning on the other end. "Is this Arthur?"
"I don't know an Arthur. My name is—"
There was a slow curl of a smirk in her voice. "Justin Peterson, right? My mistake. Why do you have this phone?"
Arthur wasn't in the mood for witty banter, though she had a talent for it. (Just like her father) "Why do you?"
"Touché. I'm using my mother's phone. Your turn, Mr. Peterson."
"The phone was on the counter. Do you know what time it is?"
A quiet moment, likely to do some mental math. "Sometime ungodly, I take it?"
"Precisely."
"Is my father able to talk now?"
Arthur glanced over at Eames, who looked like he was listening carefully, more to hear her voice than because he wanted to know what was going on. When he held out the phone as an offer, Eames automatically recoiled a little, muscles tensing and Arthur knew what it was to be afraid.
(He watches his nephew grow on a laptop screen. He sees his sister's second pregnancy through a series of photographs that her husband takes, sees her stomach swell and reads her name options)
"Sorry, no."
"…Oh." Arthur knew that tone. It was the same tone Phillipa and James used to have when Cobb would call them from abroad. "…Thanks anyway."
It hadn't been Amara, tough-as-nails Interpol agent calling. It had been Amara Evans, the pretty girl with purple ribbons in her hair and an odd liking for clashing patterns who couldn't even really remember her father.
At that moment, Arthur hated Eames for being afraid.
There are Eames-only slots in Arthur's world.
Arthur's mother died when Arthur was thirty-seven. Mira was the one who gave them the news and they both felt like absolute garbage for not knowing beforehand.
Eames went with Arthur to Vermont for the funeral and the burial and to help him settle her affairs. Mina helped too, but she had two kids to be worrying about too. Arthur Bishop watched his uncle during all the ceremonies, as though searching for something. His sister, Danielle, was five and some change and watched everything with large, green eyes, never letting go of her brother's hand.
(Eames notices how Arthur doesn't quite look at them, even though his niece's resemblance to Arthur James Reynolds is solely in the eyes. She has her father's sandy blonde hair and a unique smile. But his nephew has his spirit, the protectiveness, the mischief and perhaps that hurts more)
Emma's house—the house they'd grown up in after moving from across town—was being sold. Mina had looked at that house—the one she'd spent more time in—and seeing the look on her face, Arthur offered to pack it up for her. Eames was sure that Mina could do it herself, but it would take a different kind of strength that she didn't quite have today.
At first, being back in that house was strange, as it always was. Arthur knew it would be, but he hadn't known how much he'd thought of his mother as a staple in that house. He kept half-expecting her to come to the door, hair flyaway and giving him a look. "What're you doing, packing all that up?" she would ask.
Eames packed up the kitchen because it was the one place in the house where photographs and other personals weren't kept. Except for a small framed paper hung above the counter beside the window.
Wishing you always…
Walls for the wind,
A roof for the rain
And tea beside the fire.
Laughter to cheer you,
Those you love near you,
And all that your heart may desire
With it was a photo, old and grainy of a man and a woman smiling. Eames didn't recognize either one, but Danielle had the woman's smile and there was a familiarity in the shape of the man's face. The woman's curls were windswept and the man had a difference in his posture that said military. His nose was as crooked as his smile.
Arthur came in with another box. He followed Eames' eyes. "…My grandparents. I was always told that they gave that to my mom when she got her first apartment."
Arthur had never thought about this house without it. It was one of the first things he'd learned to read, propped on the counter while Mom cooked, his brother asking her questions about how and why. He remembered the way Mom would help him sound it out or give him a word that seemed too difficult.
Arthur held up the box. "Thought you might be running out of space."
Eames smiled at him. "Thank you, darling."
They worked through the afternoon and even a bit into the night. At some point, Eames walked into the living room that had become an obstacle course of boxes and piles to find Arthur sitting against the wall, elbows on his knees, just looking around at the room. (Arthur sees the ghosts here, more than anywhere else. He sees Mom teaching the three of them to dance to the music on the old record player. He sees Arthur James Reynolds and himself fighting over the remote on Saturday mornings. Sees Mina spinning in the center, a new dress for the school dance swirling around her)
Eames went to sit beside him. "How does sleep sound?"
Arthur looked over at him. "Like a good idea."
-/-/-
He didn't sleep well. He woke up at some terrible hour and stared around at the walls of the room he and his brother had shared. It wasn't the same. Emma had cleaned it out, turned it into a guest room. The bedspreads were plain, nondescript blue. The quilts folded at the foot of each bed were ordinary. Nothing to show real personality in this room.
(But Arthur remembers. Remembers his brother grinning at him from the darkness. "Come on, let's go somewhere."
"Where?" Cameron had asked groggily.
"Anywhere."
"'S the middle of the night."
"Exactly. C'mon. Just down to the park. I feel like a walk."
"And you have to take me with you?"
A gentle vibration of laughter. "Of course!")
After that, he couldn't stay asleep. Eames slept on in the other bed—they'd thought about sleeping in the same bed for a moment, but quickly dismissed the idea at the size of the beds—so Arthur slipped out, his body remembering which floorboards were creaky even if his mind didn't.
Eames would find him about an hour later in the living room, watching old home videos, volume hardly there.
"I was going to pack up more," Arthur offered as explanation. "I figured, since I was up, might as well get something done."
But his body had moved almost without conscious decision when he found those old video tapes and he'd popped them in. And here he was, watching old pranks and old moments. Eames took a seat beside him on the couch. The neighborhood effort someone had organized to plant one tree in everyone's yard. Cameron and Arthur James Reynolds looked up from their shovels, little more than fourteen and waved at the camera. The cameraman must have said something because they broke out in laughter and Arthur James Reynolds rolled his eyes and covered the lens with his hand.
Mina's first boyfriend. Emma must have been filming because Cameron was leaning on the arm of the couch and Arthur James Reynolds was waiting by the door, a suspicious look on his face. A doorbell rang in the past and Mina stopped her brother before he ever moved, pushing him back towards his twin so that she could open the door. A flash of Cameron grinning with a hand on his brother's shoulder before he said something quietly as Emma turned the camera to Mina. The boyfriend was scrawny and looked terrified at the sight of her two brothers.
Road trip to New York for a concert, Arthur James Reynolds in the driver's seat. Two friends in the back—three, with the filmer—his brother in the passenger's seat. They looked exhilaratingly young and at a red light, Arthur James Reynolds turned back to the camera and Arthur remembered him saying, "Mom never needs to know." and Cameron was pushing at his shoulder to get his attention because the light turned green and the radio had been blaring Blue Oyster Cult and Whitesnake.
Graduation when the camera was shoved into Mina's hands as Emma ran to her sons to hug them. The twins laughed as their caps fell from the force before returning the embrace fiercely.
Eames didn't say anything, something for which Arthur was grateful. He didn't say anything until the video ran its course and then the only things left was the black and white static and the silence curled into every corner of the house. Really, he didn't even say anything. Just started humming Carry On, My Wayward Son as he stood and continued the cleaning. It made Arthur smile a little as he went to turn off the TV.
Eames has a daughter who's stronger than him.
He saw her by accident and at first, he almost didn't recognize her, thinking she was just another face in the crowd. (He isn't sure if it's because she has her father's talent or because she has one of those faces) Her hair was entirely blonde again, tied back in a braid which left her face open in a different way. She was having lunch with a man—a bit on the thin side, glasses perched on his nose and flyaway dark brown hair. Likely a coworker judging from the similar badges they had clipped to their belt loops.
Three days ago, Arthur hadn't been surprised when he got a phone call from Eames. He'd toed a line, possibly crossed one, when he'd called Sheral, but it had needed to be done. If Eames was going to break his rules, Arthur thought it best that someone other than him would show him the consequences of whatever he was planning to do. Eames had hung up without saying more, though Arthur could guess what the forger wanted to do. (But the thing about cowards is that they don't always do what they want to do. They do what's easier to do)
Arthur wasn't entirely sure what possessed him to do it—Impulsive and Reckless have similar faces, but with different smiles. Reckless would be all wide grins and love of the challenge. Impulsive was a creature of wicked eyes and sly smirks that whispered dares in your ears—and he crossed the street to where they were sharing a bench.
"Amara? Amara Evans, as I live and breathe."
She whirled at the sound of her name. Her eyes narrowed at him, two hard pieces of flint and Arthur had the thought that she was made of sterner stuff than her father. "…Can I help you?"
"That hurts that you don't remember me." It was effortless to adopt and easy personality; perhaps Eames had rubbed off on him.
"Who is this?" The man asked.
Arthur saw the split second she made her decision. "…An old friend of the family. Do you mind, Tommy? I need to talk with him about something."
Tommy stood, brushing bread crumbs from his lap. "Of course not." He held out a hand to Arthur. "Thomas Taggart. And you are?"
Arthur shook his hand. "Justin Peterson. Nice to meet you."
"Likewise. You've got ten minutes until break's over," Tommy reminded her before he left.
"I'll be back before then." Amara waited until she heard Tommy's footsteps disappear. "So why are you here?"
"To talk to you."
"Obviously."
"…Why are you so determined to find him?"
Amara stared at him. "He's my father. I haven't seen him since that wedding. Wouldn't you want to talk to your father again if you could?"
Arthur shifted his weight, hands in his pockets. "Can't say I would, no."
"And why do you care, 'Justin'? You're way too invested in this for it to be casual."
"Ea—Allen is an old friend of mine. I don't want him messing up his life."
Amara sprang to her feet. She was shorter than Arthur, not quite petite, but there was an old, coiled fury in her stance that made her seem of a height with him. "You think I would do that?"
"I can't know that you won't."
She took a step back and looked him up and down. "He left us for you? What, were we not good enough?"
Arthur had forgotten how very young Amara had been then and he'd never known, exactly, why Eames left his beautiful wife and daughter, his life back in England for the military. He'd never asked—it wasn't his business—but he'd never thought that perhaps even Sherallyn didn't know. Perhaps Eames didn't even know.
"…I don't know why he left," he told her honestly. "I hadn't even met him then."
And perhaps that had been worse to say. Amara shook her head. "Forget it. I don't care anymore. I find you in the field, or him, and I'll arrest you."
(It's not that she doesn't care. It's that she's done with trying when all it leads to is dead ends and her father's…whatever Arthur is)
She was already walking away from him when Arthur called, "He wants to talk to you."
She turned. "What?"
"Your father. He wants to talk to you."
"So why doesn't he?"
"He thinks he's protecting you."
Amara snorted and tucked loose strands of hair behind her ear. "That's—that's so…argh." Arthur knew that frustration well. Eames was good at causing it. "The hell does he think I need protecting for? And from him of all people?"
Arthur shrugged and thought of Phillipa, of Mina. "Despite what you might think, he loves you. It tends to make men a little….fussy."
She laughed at that and it changed her face. But there were sharp edges to that laugh and he knew she wasn't okay. "Right. And do you think that too? That I can't take care of myself?"
Arthur took her in, took in the slightly jagged edges, the confidence. Saw the temper, saw the lean muscles of her arms and the calluses on her knuckles. Saw the hard set of her jaw and the darkness in the back of her eyes that people could get if they saw a few terrible things, which in her line of work, was entirely possible. Saw the bravery and the fear both, the intelligence.
"…No, I don't. I think you know what you're doing."
She looked surprised at that. "Think you can convince him of that?"
A wry smile twisted his lips. "I've told him that. But then, he's not one to listen to people. Likes to bend the rules."
The flash of slight guilt in her eyes let Arthur know that she had the same tendency. "Where can I find him?"
"Honestly? I'd say stay away from police stations and government buildings and he'll find you pretty soon."
"He will?"
"I wasn't lying when I told you he wanted to find you. I don't think it's the best idea for him, but," Arthur shrugged. "Not my decision." He glanced at his watch. "Looks like your ten minutes are up. Goodbye, Amara."
He'd only walked a few steps before she said, "I think I can tell. Why he likes you, I mean. My father."
Mal reminded Eames of home.
Their first Christmas together, Mal and Eames spend half the day arguing about how to cook the stew and whether the turkey has enough seasoning and don't put any more salt on the pork and Arthur would slip in between and around them and volunteer for taste tester.
Sometimes, Eames wouldn't even bother arguing. Would just grab Mal around the waist, scoop her up and put her elsewhere. The first time, Mal yelped and did a mixture of fighting and clinging to him for those few seconds she was off the ground.
She had glared at Arthur for smothering the laugh in his hand.
When she would turn the same look on Eames, he would kiss her cheek and say, "Smile, sweetheart, it's Christmas."
After they managed to get dinner sorted—which was entertainment all on its own and half the time, Arthur was satisfied with sitting on his stool by the counter, snatching pieces of whatever was closest before they could notice—they would toast and spread the food on the coffee table with their plates in their laps and watch old black and white movies and Mal, who often finished first—"Because I don't have your stomach. Eames, is that your third plate?" Eames held up four fingers, mouth full and she would roll her eyes. Arthur would just grin at her. "Don't even ask which number I'm on."—would pull out The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe and begin to read.
"It's the perfect Christmas book," she insisted, sitting with her back to the arm of the couch, her toes tucked underneath Arthur's thigh because he was warm.
Neither Arthur nor Eames could disagree, so once they were done, Arthur would sit back and draw a blanket over both his and Mal's legs and Eames would move the armchair closer so he could toy with Mal's hair while she read and Arthur wouldn't think of Vermont and his little sister and his mother watching Charlie Brown with their tree decorated.
(It's only the next day that any one of the three of them remember that they didn't have a tree. At that, Eames goes out and gets a tree and says to Arthur's expression, "Don't be so uptight, darling. We're only a day late.")
