Chapter 3: Darling
The room was suddenly quiet in the wake of Cobb's departure. Too quiet for Eames' taste, leaving both the doctor and Cobb's words swirling in his head.
True, he didn't really know the first thing about the point man, aside from his penchant for well tailored suits, details and unflinching professionalism. Was this finally a chance to see another side to the man?
Eames had instantly acknowledged Arthur's physical attractiveness from the moment they met but his cold, impenetrable demeanor had always been such a barrier. Eames glanced to his charge on the bed, letting go a sigh, hoping he wouldn't royally fuck everything up.
"Couldn't make things easy on me, could you?" Eames said softly, his voice foreign in the empty space, eyes falling to Arthur. "Don't look at me like that—she told me to talk to you. Though it's not near as much fun if you can't talk back, darling."
'Darling?' He hadn't once called Arthur by a term of endearment before. But he had to admit it had a nice ring. Somehow adding the 'darling' on the end didn't make him feel like a complete idiot talking to an unconscious man, and better yet, Arthur would never know. Though he suddenly wanted to see the inevitable sneer of disgust on Arthur's thin lips and the slight reddening of his ears as the pet name rolled off his tongue. Silence continued to fill the room as the forger surveyed his newly deemed darling, before shedding his suit jacket, glancing to the bedside clock. 1:21 am.
"You've never been so good at ignoring me," Eames continued, trying to keep his voice light, "you're so studious and serious, riling you up is half the fun." He stepped towards the bed, letting his eyes settle to really study the relaxed lines of the point man's usually fair face, unguarded peace reflected in the slack facial muscles. "And now you're in my bed, and never as I had imagined." He shook his head with a sigh, cursing his rotten luck and stepping towards the bathroom.
"I'm going to take a shower, so if you need anything, you know…just wake up…." He trailed off lamely, closing the door behind him quietly. He instantly chided himself for doing so—not like Arthur was asleep. He wanted the man to wake up—hell, he should belt out bar songs at Arthur's bedside, not tiptoe around like it was a morgue.
He cranked the shower tap to full hot, steam starting to fill the small room as he stripped. The hot water ran in welcome streams down his body as he drew a deep breath. He focused on the warmth of the water against his dry skin, letting his eyes fall lazily closed. This cold, Ukrainian winter was wrecking havoc on his skin, and he vowed to vacation someplace warm once this job ended. Kenya maybe…he'd heard fabulous stories about the looseness of the law in Mombasa. Or if not Africa, perhaps somewhere in South America—Buenos Aires, Rio de Janeiro…
"I'll check on Kimmy's availability."
His eyes flew open as he recalled Cobb's words. Oh shit. Ever since that last job in Rio, with Kimmy, Eames was in no hurry to welcome her back into his life. For Kimmy—despite the bubblegum name—was whip smart, deadly behind the wheel, leggy as hell and had remained a constant source of sexual frustration regarding the female of the species for Eames. He'd come so damn close on multiple occasions to pinning her with his body, moving deep within her the way he wanted, dying to hear his name on her breath. But she only gave Arthur that satisfaction and the woman remained constantly unattainable. Eames had known from their first meeting, Kimmy was going to be trouble.
"Alright Cobb, just left the terminal. Where are you?" Eames squinted in the bright sunlight, searching amongst the cars and people for the blonde extractor.
"Something came up. Kimmy's already waiting for you."
"Kimmy?" The name was awful in his mouth. "Who the hell is that? And how in the hell am I supposed to find her?" This was not a game Eames wanted to play after a nine hour international flight.
"You'll know her when you see her," the hint of amusement on Cobb's voice didn't go unnoticed, "Kimmy usually stands out." The car in front of Eames pulled from the curb, revealing a woman with straight, stylishly cut hair and small rectangular sunglasses, leaning against a sleek black car.
"Thanks for the help." Eames grumbled, hanging up, making his way through the crowd. The woman appeared to be within five years of him—younger though—but exuded a calm confidence that surpassed his own. Her clothes—a silky, capped-sleeve green blouse and black slacks that covered miles of leg, ending in sharp stilettos—screamed taste and money. Not to mention the BMW M3 coupe she leaned against. The slightly mischievous smirk on her pale face as he neared her made him wish she wasn't wearing sunglasses—he would love to see her eyes.
"Mr. Eames I presume." Her words, though a statement, ended with the barest hint of a question, free of any accent.
"And that would make you Kimmy?" Her smile filled out revealing a row of straight white teeth.
"Charmed." She held out a hand.
"Not as much as I am, my dear." Rather than shake her offered hand, he turned it, bringing it to brush a kiss across her knuckles.
"Ok Casanova, let's go," she pulled her hand back, standing up straight, rivaling his height with her heels, eyes drifting down his solid body, "how much do you weigh Mr. Eames?" His smile quirked in surprise.
"I always did like a forward, fast woman."
"Please," she scoffed, smile falling as she turned from him, rounding the car "as sexual as you may find my comment, I assure you it's purely practical. Cobb's small, Arthur's small, I naturally assumed you would be too."
"Your mistake." Eames opened the door, making moves to put his suitcase in the backseat.
"God help you if your suitcase scratches my leather Mr. Eames." Her tone sharpened on the warning before dropping into the driver's seat.
"Wouldn't dream of it." He set the bag gingerly on the seat, wondering if she really would notice whether the leather was scratched. Some part of him wanted to purposely scratch it if it meant more—and possibly one-on-one time—with this woman.
"You never did answer my question." Her voice, not demanding but amused, reached his ears as he slid into the passenger's seat.
"I don't see the need."
"Compliments of Arthur, we know you've had a tail since your last job," she said coolly, "boarded the same flight as you and is now waiting in a silver sedan down the line." Eames spun around in the seat, eyes glued to the silver car in question out the back window. "My job is to lose your tail, time is of the essence and my car has a very tight suspension. Weight—in pounds—please?"
"How did Arthur come to know all this?"
"No answers until you answer my question."
"150." His eyes were still fixed out the back window, reeling to understand how he could possibly have a tail. He barely even registered the faint beeping of a number keypad and the gentle start to a surprisingly soft engine.
"You might want to turn around and fasten your seatbelt." He turned around numbly, just getting the seatbelt clicked into the lock when she zoomed away from the curb. She didn't quite speed the whole time, and Eames still couldn't quite put his finger on it, but she handled that car unlike anyone he'd ever seen. She knew where the right holes in traffic were, accelerated and shifted with such fluid movements as if the car was just an extension of her body. His eyes had constantly moved between the passing scenery and the nimble movements of her long, slender fingers. God, he wanted to know what those hands would feel like handling him. Would they play him as smooth as the car? The thought sent a wave of heat straight to his groin.
She turned into a parking lot, gliding to a silent stop, calmly reaching for the seatbelt as all he could do was watch, fighting back images of her longs legs wrapped around his hips.
"150 pounds my ass," she shook her head, voice sharp but even, "try 170. If your lies cause me to lose my negative tire camber again Mr. Eames, you're buying me new tires." She turned to him, sliding off her small sunglasses, revealing the most delicious pair of midnight sapphire eyes. "Just so you know, first class Z-rated tires aren't cheap and I know who you owe gambling debts to."
'Negative tire camber.' That was a new one for Eames, and even still he couldn't say for sure what it meant. Then again, physics never was his strong suit. And he never did find out how she knew his weight had affected her car in such a way. Maybe that's why that first meeting stuck with him as it did. He couldn't even recall the details of his first meeting with Cobb or Arthur that well. God, Arthur just had to wake up. Eames wasn't sure he could survive working full time with Kimmy.
He turned off the water, toweling dry and stretching his mouth in a deep yawn. Quickly and mindlessly he moved through the rest of his tasks before bed, trying not to think about all that needed to be done tomorrow. Find Arthur's room and secure his belongings. Ensure the 'Do Not Disturb' sign was firmly in place. Visit the housekeeping rooms and procure extra sheets and towels. Contact his latest job offer and decline. The list seemed endless.
Eames crossed the room, throwing back the covers as best he could, carefully wrapping the comforter over Arthur's prone form, musing how the man looked akin to a taco. With little ceremony, the forger slid under the remaining sheet and blanket, turning off the light to descend the room into darkness.
What the hell had Eames gotten himself into?
xxx
Arthur Gordon. This, of course, was not the point man's name. It would be only too obvious. And Arthur wasn't that sloppy. Nevertheless, Eames didn't bat an eye as he worked his smooth charm on the receptionist to procure Arthur Gordon's room number and a key card.
The room looked as though the man hadn't even stayed a night, let alone two weeks. Nothing was just laying around, and the few unpacked items were in tightly clustered piles, all within arm's reach of the bag. In less than five minutes, Eames had Arthur's belongings in hand and moved down the hallway to his own room, summarily depositing them on the floor. He cast a glance to the bed, not surprised to find no change in Arthur's condition, and turned back to the newly acquired luggage before him with a mischievous little smirk.
Going through Arthur's things yielded few surprises. To the casual observer, they were simply the belongings of a traveling man. To Eames, whose curiosity to learn more about his patient was ever growing, they presented questions to which he wanted answers.
Arthur's suitcase held briefs and boxers, some silk, some cotton. Now Eames, being a gambling man, would lay his money on Arthur wearing briefs full time, given his love of order and control. Were the boxers for days Arthur felt free and loose? Did those words ever apply to the point man? Of course Eames wasn't surprised to find all items in question of equal quality and softness.
The rest of his clothes were rather unremarkable, except for one pair of dark wash jeans and a Kansas Jayhawk tshirt buried at the bottom of the bag. Eames couldn't hold back his outburst laugh at the discovery. What the fuck was Arthur doing with a Kansas Jayhawk shirt? Maybe it was a testament to Midwestern roots for the point man, which would explain the lack of any real accent.
But as Eames tried to picture sleek, tailored Arthur in the royal blue shirt bearing an image of the goofy bird, it was awkwardly cute and suddenly something he wanted to see. It was only while perusing the point man's notebook that he discovered notes regarding a fake student visa as a country exit strategy. Only Arthur. Eames' eyes wandered over to the unconscious man, making it his goal to see Arthur in the Jayhawk shirt before they left Kiev. Providing the point man woke up, of course.
The maybe-fake-Jayhawk's leather messenger bag held a wide variety of electronic gadgets of varying brands, none baring the one name Eames most expected to find. So Arthur was a Microsoft man. As posh and sophisticated as the point man presented himself, Eames assumed he'd find a slew of Apple products. The discovery of a Zune had been most exciting, and after fumbling with the buttons, he set it to 'shuffle all' and plugged it into the clock radio's aux jack.
Eames alone couldn't generate enough noise to help lure the point man back to consciousness, so maybe hours of his favorite music would do the trick. The tunes sounding over the speakers were of such varying taste, Eames wondered if he could claim he knew Arthur at all. The hotel room would be filled the soothing sounds of a classical piano and violin duet, before shaking with the rock music of Alice In Chains, followed by the jazzy tunes of Miles Davis, and rounded out with a swinging version of 'Sing Sing Sing.' Eames had actually laughed out loud, choking on toothpaste, when the opening verse of Smash Mouth's 'Allstar' reached his ears. But then he couldn't help but slow dance with an invisible partner in his low slung-after-shower bath towel to the seductive tune of 'The Girl from Ipanema.'
His eyes casually strayed to the bed during the one-sided dance, wondering if Arthur was a dancer. His lithe body certainly suggested an aptness for the activity, but could Arthur let himself go enough to dance? It was such a personal, revealing way to move with another person and Eames was dying to know if Arthur could ever open himself to such an experience.
Slowly Eames came to realize he'd stopped moving to the tune of the song, and stood just staring down at the unconscious man, lost in the idea of dancing with Arthur and where it might lead. The jarring guitar of Lacuna Coil effectively broke his train of thought before it developed into full fantasy.
Sadly, the point man's laptop was a complete disappointment. Of course it was password protected, and all of Eames' attempts to bypass it failed spectacularly. Arthur didn't have a wall charger for the Zune, and it wouldn't recognize a charge on the laptop in its startup mode, so it was only a matter of time until the Zune tunes died.
Arthur had two books amongst his belongings: a well worn, annotated even, copy of Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness and one popcorn fiction novel entitled Riptide. The former surprised the forger very little given the point man's boring nature, but the latter had made him downright confused given the premise. He would never have guessed Arthur to have any interest in something a banal as a treasure hunt, and off the coast of Maine no less. The point man appeared to be about halfway through the novel, and Eames wondered if he could beat the point man to the end. When he started off reading it (as a joke, of course), he never expected himself to get so engrossed in the story that four hours would pass unnoticed.
He was sure Arthur would notice the disturbances amongst his belongings. No matter how hard Eames tried, he knew the clothes wouldn't be folded near as perfectly or gadgets put back in the same order. But as Eames neared the book's heart racing conclusion on his second day of reading with the Zune's tunes in the background, he couldn't bring himself to care.
xxx
Christmas Day. It never was anything special. More often than not, Eames found himself in the exact same situation—lying low in a hotel between jobs, waiting until after the holiday frenzy for people to start hiring again. The only difference this time was his task of babysitting an unconscious, injured coworker.
Eames turned his heavy eyes to the bedside clock. 12:04 am. He sighed, almost glad another Christmas had come to an end. People always talked of miracles at Christmas, but he had long since decided Christmas miracles were a load of bollocks. He had wanted only one thing for the last two days, and if anything, things had only gotten worse.
He slowly turned back to the point man, who looked just as young and lifeless as ever, bathed in sweat as fever consumed him. Eames longed to fall asleep, fearing he wouldn't be able to stop himself if he let his eyes stay closed for too long. But Arthur needed him. The young man was burning up, and Eames constantly kept moving between the bed and bathroom, wetting down washcloths to apply to Arthur's forehead, neck, face. Six and a half hours he'd been at this, and so far, nothing.
Eames was getting so damn close to forgoing the bandages on Arthur's body and dunking him in a cold bath. He had no idea how long a fever should be allowed to run unchecked, or if he'd already done Arthur more damage by letting it go so long. Eames sighed quietly, releasing pent up frustration.
"Come on darling…," Eames whispered in the quiet room, voice heavy and slow with exhaustion, "you have to give me something…I don't know if I'm helping you or not." He shook his head, vowing to never volunteer for sick duty again. This was more stress than he bargained for.
He reached a hand over, touching the washcloth on Arthur's forehead, finding the cool of the water replaced with warmth from the man's skin. Gingerly Eames picked the cloth up, ambling off the bed towards the bathroom, turning the tap as cold as it would go. Hell, he should go outside, fill the ice bucket with snow and dump it over Arthur. Somehow he didn't think the receptionist would let him get past the front door with an ice bucket though.
Wringing out the excess water, he moved back to the bed, settling in the empty space next to Arthur, pressing the cool cloth to the man's fevered brow. Eames was struck by how much he wanted Arthur to just wake up. To hear the clipped, pointed words; see those inscrutable, mesmerizing chocolate eyes—Eames was willing to do almost anything at this point. He'd even done the unthinkable.
Eames hadn't bothered to offer up a prayer—genuine or otherwise—since Catholic school. To say that he didn't have a functioning relationship with the Good Lord was a bit of an understatement. Yet something about Arthur compelled him to offer up the first prayer that he could remember. He knew he had no right to ask for anything, but he was daring to hope—he always did prefer optimism.
He continued to watch the prone young man, fighting back his own drowsiness. Suddenly he froze, eyes locked to Arthur's face, not sure if he was seeing the flutter of eyelashes, the slits beneath. Oh shit, could he really be that lucky?
Arthur's eyes fully opened, devoid of any clarity in the low light, darting haphazardly around the room. He started moving before Eames could react, testing his range of motion, wiggling against the bandages and sling, nearing a panic as he found himself restrained. Eames reached a steadying hand over, doing his best to still the Arthur.
"Hey, hey, take it easy—you're alright." Eames soothed, watching Arthur's eyes lock to his face, confusion in his dark eyes as he struggled to process what he was seeing.
"E…Eames?" Arthur's voice came in raspy, scratchy shallow breaths, eyes sinking closed, trying to block out the mind numbing pain coursing through his body.
"One in the same...god, it's good to see you awake." Relief flooded Eames' words as he left his hand on Arthur's shoulder, rubbing it gently, hoping it offered some comfort.
"I don't…oh shit…" Arthur's breath came in quick shallow draws, the pain of his ribs murderous as his lungs expanded, slowly realizing how ungodly hot he was.
"Oh shit indeed," Eames said quietly, "you've been out for a little over two days. You're completely beat to fuck, and the doctor has fixed you up as best as she could." Eames forced himself to talk slow and soft, hoping Arthur was coherent enough to understand. "You're burning with a fever now, have been for well over six hours." Arthur's eyes sunk closed, mind reeling to keep up with Eames' words and not succumb back to darkness. "It seems a lot to ask, but if you feel up to eating—just a bite or two—you can have an antibiotic and pain pill." Arthur's eyes reopened, something of a panicked edge in their haze.
"Doctor? ….Pills? ….Hospital?" He choked out each word, laced with effort and delirium. Couldn't he tell he wasn't in a hospital?
"You're not in a hospital. The doctor came here. You're safe in the hotel." Eames' voice held a soothing edge as he moved his hand from Arthur's shoulder to stroke the sweat soaked, oily hair on the point man's forehead. "No one's coming to get you—I'm watching out for you." It almost felt like talking to a child. Never in a million years would Eames have guessed he'd compare Arthur to a child.
"Water." A hint of the controlled point man Eames knew sounded on the word, easing Eames' fears about Arthur's state of mind. The forger reached to the bedside table, picking up his glass.
"If you can, raise your head…," Eames started softly, sliding his hand from Arthur's forehead to the back of his neck, helping the younger man support his head as he leaned slightly forward. Eames pressed the glass to Arthur's split, chapped lip, tipping it to allow the cool liquid to flow. Arthur drank a small sip, breathing growing labored and quick before letting his head against Eames's hand slump back to the damp pillow, grimacing. "Careful darling, don't over exert yourself."
"Cracked ribs." Arthur croaked out.
"At least a few of them the doctor was sure. They hurt like a bitch and a half."
"I know." Arthur's eyes sunk closed as he fell still, working to control his breathing such that it didn't shoot pain through his abdomen. Eames couldn't imagine between the ribs, hand, shoulder, ankle, and other assorted injuries, the amount of pain Arthur was in. If it were him, he'd be begging for anything to make it ebb. Arthur's stoic, near silent display impressed him beyond words. Clearly there was more to this kid than met the eye—and apparently his captors had discovered that too.
"Fuck it…," Eames freed his hand from Arthur's neck, rising from the bed to fetch a bottle from the dresser, "on an empty stomach, a pain pill should have you feeling amazing in no time. And if it makes you sick, well I'll deal with that." Eames could only hope Arthur wouldn't vomit it up, but at least after a minimum of two days on an empty stomach, it'd be an easy clean up. "Come on, tilt your head for another minute."
"No," Arthur's face scrunched to a painful grimace at the anticipation, "no pill….sleep."
"Darling, you've been asleep," Eames near pleaded, "this will help…I promise." Eames did not want Arthur dozing back off with his fever so high. He still had no more a guarantee he'd wake back up again. He watched the point man give a weak shake of his head, eyes falling closed and his head settling deeper against the pillow. Eames could only listen in silence to Arthur's shallow, controlled breaths growing deeper and steadier.
Did this count? Was this the big waking up moment the doctor had said might not happen? Was this worth a call to Cobb? Eames pressed his hand to Arthur's face, finding it just as hot as ever, peeling the washcloth from his neck and forehead, heading for the bathroom. The cold water was murder against the dry skin of his hands as he rinsed and wrung each washcloth, moving back to the bed.
Washcloths in place, Eames pulled his cell from the bedside table, dialing. If anything, he could do with having a real conversation for the first time in near two days.
"Eames?" Cobb's voice on the other end was thick with sleep, yet alert with concern.
"He woke up, not five minutes ago," Eames started softly, "spoke just enough to ask for some water and refuse a pain pill before dozing off."
"Oh thank god," the relief on Cobb's voice was palpable through the phone, "Mal and I have been worried sick about him."
"He's burning with a fever, so he's far from out of the woods, but I thought you would like to know he's putting up a fight."
"That's our Arthur. And god, Eames—I cannot thank you enough. For staying with him—you are truly a saint."
"You know I'm going to hold you to a dedication of St. Eames day sometime." Cobb gave a low, sleepy laugh.
"Don't hold your breath buddy." Eames allowed himself a chuckle and a smile, the first in good long while. "Get some rest, ok? You sound like shit."
"Thank you Cobb, always a charmer. Apologize to Mal for me for waking you both up."
"No, she'll be glad to hear about Arthur. Keep us posted. Goodnight."
"Will do. Goodnight." Eames set his phone down, silence descending in the room yet again. God, if he never heard so much silence again in his life, it would be too soon. He glanced back to Arthur, watching the young man lay silently as he had for the last two days. If Eames hadn't been there, he would never have guessed the man had woken up and actually spoken.
With little else to do for Arthur's fever and exhaustion weighing heavily, Eames reached for the bedside table lamp, switching it off. Not caring about his clothes, his growing, rumbling hunger, or his unbrushed teeth, Eames' eyes dropped shut and didn't reopen.