Chapter 8: Desperado
Eames' stomach had never been more upset. Usually he was ravenous every morning, but this morning to first pangs of loss were already starting to engrain themselves in his heart, lessening his appetite. Did Arthur know what he was doing to him?
If Arthur knew, he gave no indication. If Arthur noticed Eames' silence, he said nothing about it. Instead it was business as usual as he moved about the room, his limp pronounced but his balance stable, as he packed his bags and readied to leave. Eames' heart had clinched when Arthur emerged from the bathroom, looking very much his old self in a sleek suit, hair severely styled, contacts in.
"You're joining Cobb for the Melbourne job, yes?"
"If it's still on," Eames answered uninterestedly, "I don't know if Cobb got a hold of Kimmy."
"Hopefully he hasn't," Arthur quickly answered, masking the offense in his voice, "I'll be there."
"Some confidence you have in your Berlin friends."
"They've gotten friends out of worse." Arthur's voice was emotionally detached, as though deciding where to go for his healthcare was a flippant decision.
"Always something through 'friends' in this business…," Eames muttered almost dejectedly, "suppose I shouldn't complain though. Without Cobb's friend Reggie Vanden, you wouldn't be here today."
"Reg fixed me up?" Arthur looked to Eames, surprise in his chocolate eyes.
"You know her?" Eames' brows furrowed. "She didn't seem to know you."
"Mal talked about her. She was the maid of honor at Cobb's wedding. She had aspirations of joining Doctors Without Borders…it would seem she succeeded?"
"I don't know what she was doing in Kiev, Arthur." Eames answered, not finding the energy to offer a smartass remark. He couldn't believe how broken up he was over Arthur's leaving. It's not like they were a couple in a relationship or anything…
Though it had certainly felt that way at times. During the bath, the night of the storm, snuggling on the bed, sharing champagne. The only thing Eames hadn't done was kiss the man. God knows he was dying too. He had ample opportunities over their almost two weeks at the hotel, but Eames hadn't dared for fear of Arthur's reaction. But now that he was leaving, would it really matter what Eames did? He looked up to see the point man wheeling his suitcase towards the door, securing his coat and resting his shoulder bag atop the suitcase. He couldn't be so ready to leave already, could he?
"Come away with me." Eames' voice was quiet, surprisingly serious as he stared longingly at Arthur.
"What?" Arthur laughed with disbelief, scanning down his injured body. "Right now?"
"Meet me then." Eames rose from the loveseat, stunning Arthur with the serious look in his gray eyes.
"Where?"
"Aruba, St. Lucia, Turks & Caicos…do you have a preference?" Confusion crinkled Arthur's brow as he listened, unable to believe this was real. Did Eames really want to go away just the two of them? Hadn't they had enough alone time? Arthur gave his head a quick shake, searching for words.
"And why should I meet you somewhere? We have a job coming up…" Arthur quietly asked, voice devoid of its usual certainty. They had danced around this ever since Arthur woke up from his fevered sleep. And despite knowing what Eames wanted, a part of Arthur just wanted to hear the forger finally say it.
"Because I caught a glimpse of the Arthur beneath the coiled, impenetrable point man exterior—the Arthur who let me hold him in bed, the Arthur who fell asleep snuggled against my side, the Arthur whose eyes drift over my body when he thinks I'm not looking." Eames loved the red tinge overtaking Arthur's cheeks. "That Arthur wonders what there could be—I see it, and I just can't walk away from it…or you. I'm sure you've figured the rest out." Arthur nodded slowly, eyes distant, warring with himself. "I don't know what's holding you back, and I'm not going to pry—but I know you feel more for me than you'd like. It's written all over your face. So why not indulge in some days in the sun—swimming, naps on the beach, rum punch, lazy dinners, slow dancing, cool nights in soft sheets." Arthur shook his head with a soft laugh.
"And what makes you think I dance?" Arthur fought to keep his tone neutral, not wanting to let Eames break through again. He was back in his business mindset, and couldn't prove that Eames was actually getting to him.
"The command you have over your body's movement suggests you're a fabulous dancer."
"Yeah, when I lead." Arthur's eyes snapped to Eames, regretting his words as a surprised, pleased smirk crept to Eames' face. Dammit, Arthur had not wanted to reveal anything else personal to the forger. This was exactly why he had to leave immediately. Eames had a way of getting through to Arthur, appealing to feelings Arthur had never felt before. He couldn't give in to the forger's honeyed words of perfect days and tender nights. He needed mental clarity, time to sort through everything, decide if this was what he truly wanted.
"Arthur…" Eames couldn't stop the near pleading tone to his words, crossing the room to stand next to Arthur, close enough to breathe in the familiar, distinctive cinnamon and woodsy scent that always accompanied the sleek point man. "Just say the word. Live a little and let's see where this goes. Maybe you're what Kimmy always talked about—the cue for 'Desperado'. I want to take you dancing; see you dressed down in Hawaiian shirts and Bermuda shorts—I never did get you in the Jayhawk shirt; go sailing for the first time," the words grew softer, accent thickened as his voice grew huskier, "I want to know the feel of your lips; the taste of your skin."
Arthur's eyes had long dropped closed, fighting back images of all that Eames described. God, it was tempting, so tempting to just fall into those words, those lips, those arms. No one of either gender had ever tempted Arthur as such before. Was this the chance of a lifetime? Really his cue for 'Desperado'?
The breath caught sharply in Arthur's throat as soft lips fell to his neck, hot breath moving over his skin. Eames just couldn't stand it, drawn in by Arthur's ever intoxicating scent, and he had to taste a sample before it moved from his grasp. His lips lingered on the clean shaven skin of Arthur's neck in a longing kiss, imparting everything he felt to the younger man. Slowly, he worked his way up the smooth skin, lips sucking, teeth gently nibbling, tongue touching. Arthur's pulse raced beneath his touch, breaths passing in increasingly ragged pants over the forger's face as his lush, sinful lips continued the exploration.
The forger savored the taste and scent of Arthur's skin like a rare delicacy, his body humming with love and lust, desperate to press Arthur against the wall and finally feel the full length of that svelte body against him, lips tight together. Time stood still as Eames continued to touch and taste the point man's skin, more available now that Arthur's head had rolled back. God, Eames was fighting so hard—his hand rose of its own accord to wrap around Arthur's arm, whether to push himself away or pull Arthur closer, he wasn't sure. He nuzzled Arthur's earlobe, capturing it between his teeth, growing even harder, hips jerking against air at the soft moan in Arthur's throat. He had never wanted anyone more in his life. Breathing ragged to match Arthur's, Eames turned his head, nuzzling Arthur's cheek, inching steadily closer to the lips he longed to taste, the tongue he longed to feel.
"No." Arthur choked out, turning his head to create distance at the last second, Eames' lips so close yet so far.
"No?" Eames forced the word out, swallowing the hard choke in his throat, eyes sinking closed.
"No. Fuck…I just don't know," Arthur said softly, voice deep and husky, "I don't know what I want. It's not fair to give you hope if I don't even know."
"I don't care Arthur…I don't." Eames' hand on Arthur's arm tightened to a pleading hold, desperate to feel the young man again—another kiss, another touch.
"But I do."
"Having you close and not being able to touch you has been maddening, love. If there's even a chance, I can't let you go." Eames' other hand rose to brush his knuckles gently across Arthur's cheek, drowning in the point man's scent, his body doing nothing to come back down.
"I just can't do that to you or myself. It's too soon and I just don't know," Arthur's eyes fell closed, as though trying to convince himself of his words, before opening with the composed, resolved edge Eames knew so well, "…does that mean nothing to you?"
"Unfortunately." Eames sighed stepping back and drawing a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down in the sudden absence of Arthur's inviting body. He would never have guessed when he volunteered to stay with Arthur he would wind up so hopelessly in want of the man.
"I'm sorry Eames, I really am."
"Don't be," Eames quickly dismissed, forcing a smirk to his face, something of a predatory gleam to his stormy eyes, "if you don't know, then I'll just have to work extra hard to help you make up your mind." Arthur couldn't stop the small smile on his flushed face.
"Do your worst, Mr. Eames." Arthur met Eames' challenging, flirty tone head on, igniting a spark of hope within the forger.
"Oh I intend to, darling." Arthur shook his head with something of an amused, yet resigned sigh.
"Thank you Jonathon, for everything." Eames froze at Arthur's use of the name. Arthur had asked him and had never received an answer. How the hell did he find out?
"How do you know my first name?"
"I know more than that about you—I was just hoping you would tell me." The inscrutable smirk on Arthur's face was damn near maddening.
"Like what?" Arthur just continued smirking. "Like what, Arthur?"
"Maybe someday you'll find out," Arthur turned from the forger, moving for the door, reaching for the handle of his suitcase, "we'll be in touch."
"Always," Eames lips curved to a genuine smile with a small nod, "and you're entirely welcome Arthur." A quick nod from Arthur and the door closed with a quiet hiss of hinges and click of a lock.
Despite the empty room, Eames' heart was full of hope. Arthur may have walked away from him just then, but Eames knew it was only a matter of time before the slender, well dressed point man would be in his arms, hopefully to stay.
Arthur was the chance of a lifetime and Eames was determined to fight to the bitter end.
xxx
—Present—
Eames could barely make out Ariadne's question over the violin soloist. He turned his head slowly, eyes wet with tears, heart breaking further to see the complete look of genuine confusion in her doe eyes.
"Why are you so sad?" She asked again, eyes flitting to the casket and back to Eames as the hymn, 'Nearer My God, to Thee,' continued.
"The man up there…" Eames raised a slow hand to point at the casket as the pallbearers prepared to carry it out, eyes landing on the portrait of Arthur nestled amongst the bouquets, "that man was the love of my life…and yours. And you loved me too, at one point." Ariadne's brow furrowed, mulling over such a concept as tri-directional love. Eventually she pulled back with a scowl.
"That's just wrong," she said at last, "we're in a church for God's sakes." Eames forced himself to swallow the hard lump in his throat. Her judgmental attitude had increased as her Alzheimer's advanced. Arthur and Eames had learned to deal with it accordingly, but it still stung.
It always would now that Eames only had his memories left to haunt him.
Jonathon and James flanked her on either side now, firmly escorting her down the aisle, her confused questions echoing quietly in the space as she followed the casket out. Eames really didn't want to go to the gravesite. Hearing his love eulogized in such a manner and locked away in a box was hard enough, but seeing him laid to rest…Eames wasn't sure he could take it. Hadn't he cried in front of enough people already?
"You ready, Uncle Eames?" Eva's voice came over his shoulder, soft and nasal, revealing the tears she'd shed for her father. Eames didn't trust himself to answer, so he nodded briefly, numbly feeling Eva undo the brake on his wheelchair and turn him from the alter. His eyes roamed over the pews of children-in-laws and grandchildren, heaving a deep sigh. He hadn't expected it to be this hard.
"Why Jonathon Eames," he turned his head to meet a woman with curly, short silver hair, sapphire eyes covered with glasses, "I knew it was you, you old coot." Eames knew those eyes, staring back almost in shock, unable to believe it. Eva stopped, looking curiously between the woman and her uncle, almost offended the woman had dared speak to him during the procession out.
"How many years has it been….?" Eames eventually choked out, unable to believe the woman before him. The allure in her eyes, timeless as ever, stared back at him, evoking memories long forgotten.
"Don't you draw the queen of diamonds, boy. She'll beat you if she's able."
"…the queen of hearts was always your best bet." God, he hadn't heard that song in decades, but still remembered every word.
"Now it seems to me some fine things have been laid upon your table." A pleased smile came to her aged face, overjoyed he remembered after all.
"But you only want the ones that you can't get…haven't you, Kimmy." Her smile widened as he finally said her name.
"Life's like that sometimes, Eames," she turned her eyes from the forger to settle on Arthur's portrait amongst the flowers, "I knew what I wanted, and even if I didn't get it exactly, I came pretty close." She turned back to meet the forger's face. "Eames, I'd like you to meet my son, Alexei."
"Mr. Eames, I've heard my mother's stories for years and it's nice to finally put a face to the name." The younger—maybe 60 year old—man at her side stood, extending his hand and nearly giving Eames a heart attack. How had he missed him? The man could have passed as Arthur's twin, looking damn near as the point man had twenty years ago. But Arthur never mentioned another child or anything about Kimmy after meeting Ariadne. Surely he had known…didn't he?
"Oh my god…," Eva broke Eames' thoughts, "you look just like my dad."
"With good reason, young lady," Kimmy interjected, "Alex was born nine short months after the last time I really saw Arthur." Eames was floored, Eva's face falling as she struggled with the idea.
"He didn't know, did he?" Eames said quietly, watching Kimmy's smile fall, her eyes heavy.
"No, he never knew. It wasn't supposed to happen," she said quietly, "I was on pills, but the wonder of modern medicine didn't work for me. After the Rio job, Alex here became the joy of my life. With Caparia as our home and the bountiful vineyards, longing was minimal. I knew Arthur could never settle for such a life. Then Arthur Darren returned to Maine and I had to know if it was him," she paused to draw a deep breath, "and it was him…with a wife, daughter, second child on the way." A misty wistfulness overtook Kimmy's eyes as she sniffed quietly. "I'm glad he found the right woman and all, but I'm sad I wasn't her."
"You wouldn't have been happy with him, Kimmy," Eames started softly, "really, you—like myself at the time—knew nothing about him and that's how he wanted it."
"Yes, and the minister today clearly had no damn clue as to Arthur's real past. It was almost a dishonor to his memory to sit here listening.
"Mom, please…we're still in the church." Alex reminded her softly, not minding her annoyed glare.
"Yes, well…," no further words came to her as she just looked to Eames, something akin to understanding peace passing between them, "it's good to see you, Eames." Her aged face curled to a smile he remembered from his younger days and he still found himself drawn in her by sapphire eyes. "Clearly sitting in the front row, being wheeled out by Arthur's daughter….," Kimmy idly speculated, "clearly, you were quite important to Arthur."
"I loved him, Kimmy, plain and simple. He was it—my cue, my 'Desperado'—him and his wife. We…we went through a lot together." Eames heard Eva gasp over his shoulder. The poor girl, just now learning the truth about her parents….well with her father in the ground, and her mother's mind gone, Eames wasn't sure exactly what she could do about it.
"And to think you said I had the least to worry about for finding my cue, my someone…well I guess you could say I found him, but that's about all. He did give me a life though I never expected." She turned to Alex with a fond smile, indicative of how close mother and son were.
"It's really a shame we never kept in touch." Eames said at length, offering a smile in return, feeling Eva's arm come to rest of his shoulder, vying for his attention.
"If I had wanted to stay in touch, Eames, I would have contacted you. You know that." A clipped smirk came to Kimmy's worn face as Eva's voice reminded him they were needed outside for the funeral procession to the gravesite. With no more words between them, Eames nodded quietly in departure as Eva wheeled him down the aisle, chancing one glance back at the only woman he'd ever wanted and never had.
"How did Dad meet that woman, uncle?" Eva asked quietly as the cool autumn breeze greeted them both outside.
"Your dad met Kimmy on the same job as me, down in Rio de Janeiro. God, to look at her—she was the perfect woman—Arthur and I both desperately vied for her attention. Ultimately, she fell in love with your dad, Alex was born, Arthur met Ariadne, had you, little Jon, and never looked back."
"You left out the part where you came along…," Eva commented, biting her lip nervously, "you, Dad and Mom didn't….you guys weren't….," Eva could feel her cheeks turning a flushing red, but she had to know, "you three weren't….lovers, were you?"
"Honestly?" Eames simply answered, almost glad he couldn't see Eva's face, knowing the hurt and tears in his eyes would give him away.
"Yes, uncle. Honestly." Eva implored as they came to a stop next to the limo.
"Yes, we were."
xxx
—Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, 64 years ago—
It would be the perfectly crisp fall day back home. The kind best spent outdoors in a pumpkin patch or with the windows open—just a slight chill on the breeze, bringing a freshness to the air, the sound of leaves swirling along the street. But instead Eames found himself in a humid, sticky warehouse, with Kimmy's music obscuring the outside world.
"You know, if we didn't know you better, Kimmy," Eames started lazily, glancing up from his desk as she looked over innocently, "I'd swear you need help; listening to all these depressing songs about stupidity and cutting yourself."
"Not all of Garbage's songs are like that, and you would know if you had been listening." Kimmy fired back, uninterestedly, yet the sharp note of offense tinged her words.
"Well then maybe I'll go slit my wrists," Eames answered nonchalantly, "it certainly is dour enough around here." His eyes landed to the point man who was studiously working away at his laptop, seemingly unfazed by the conversation or heavy air around him.
"Fine." Kimmy rose with an air of finality, moving for the radio with her attached mp3 player.
"Your music has even managed to turn Arthur into even more of a workaholic." Eames jibbed, eyes never leaving Arthur's. He was rewarded with a sharp glare from those chocolate eyes. Had Eames ever noticed how captivating they were?
"Unlike you, I'm well aware of the benefits of Kimmy's music choices, so I don't mind them." A proud smirk ghosted across Arthur's impassive face, lingering as he took in Eames' momentary flash of surprise. Was Arthur really bragging about sleeping with Kimmy? Eames knew they were together, or had at least been together. Their facial expressions and body language were too indicative of an enjoyed, shared intimate session. And if Eames were being honest, he was jealous as hell. He'd been so sure of having Kimmy just where he wanted her…and then she wound up in Arthur's bed. Fate was Eames' ever-cruel mistress.
Solitary piano notes sounded in the lingering silence, followed by a voice, soft, meaningful.
Desperado, why don't you come to your senses?
You been out ridin' fences for so long now
Oh, you're a hard one
I know that you got your reasons
These things that are pleasin' you
Can hurt you somehow
"Well that's quite a mood switch," Eames didn't care if he was being annoying, and maybe an ass; these two were too uptight for him at the moment, "from depression and grunge, to something as American as apple pie and baseball."
"Well you are out-numbered." Arthur called out casually, eyes not moving from his laptop screen, as Eames' met Kimmy's cold stare across the room.
"Not sure Arthur really counts as American, given he resides in Paris and his general tight-assed snobbery." Eames retorted, hoping for some lighthearted banter in return.
"Eames, don't ruin this song by bickering." Kimmy preempted, looking up in mild annoyance.
"What's so special about this song?"
"If you possess any ounce of self-reflection, you could figure it out." Eames' brow furrowed on Kimmy's words as he listened to the lyrics.
Don't you draw the queen of diamonds, boy
She'll beat you if she's able
You know the queen of hearts is always your best bet
Now it seems to me, some fine things
Have been laid upon your table
But you only want the ones that you can't get
"Desperado isn't a term you can apply to me. I'm not a fan of westerns, and I really hate horses—"
"No you ass," Arthur spat lazily, voice surprisingly lacking its usual sharpness, "she means the song is about finding love, settling down before it's too late."
"I would imagine you know it better than any of us, Eames," Kimmy idly speculated, eyes glued to her paperwork, "you've run into more scrapes with the law and unsavory folks through your gambling. Don't you ever once stop and think you should get out while you still can? Or is it your wish to die alone at the hands of a thug? Or say you do get out of the game altogether, then what? Will you have someone to share your life with? To give it purpose?" An unsure sigh left her as she paused. "I know I worry about it…wondering after every job if I shouldn't just walk away, and focus on figuring out the rest of my life, living it as I want."
"Of all three of us, Kimmy," Eames started softly, "you have the least to worry about when it comes to all that."
"Who are you to say Eames, really?" She looked up with heavy sadness in her eyes before turning to Arthur, wistfully, almost longingly.
Desperado, oh, you ain't gettin' no younger
Your pain and your hunger, they're drivin' you home
And freedom, oh freedom well, that's just some people talkin'
Your prison is walking through this world all alone
Don't your feet get cold in the winter time?
The sky won't snow and the sun won't shine
It's hard to tell the night time from the day
You're losin' all your highs and lows
Ain't it funny how the feeling goes away?
"I like to think I'll know when that day comes," Arthur said quietly, voice surprisingly introspective, "when I find that someone, I'll just know. If I die before then, it won't really matter. Maybe that's just wishful thinking on my part."
"Wishful for all of us, Arthur." Eames added, watching the point man look up with a small, almost reluctant smile.
"That's just it…," Kimmy said, "sometimes we all just need to be reminded there's more to life than what we currently make of it."
"If I had a drink, I'd drink to that." Eames nodded his head in agreement, silence falling as the lyrics resonated with them all, each hoping to find such fulfillment in their lives.
Desperado, why don't you come to your senses?
Come down from your fences, open the gate
It may be rainin', but there's a rainbow above you
You better let somebody love you, before it's too late
Fin
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