Author's Note: Good Lord. I am so shite at updating this baby of mine. I had this chapter lying around but I wasn't sure if I wanted to upload it. By doing so I feel like I'm lying to myself and all of you that I'll update in the future, and honestly I just don't know if I have the time or muse any more. HAVING SAID THAT, I am so, so attached to Clara and this story, and I feel that I owe you readers another insight into their future, as well as a big fat apology for making you wait so long. I can't make any promises, but I'll try to keep this up. In the meantime, please, please enjoy!

Disclaimer: Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros.

The Absolute Basic

Chapter Seventeen

They were to take the next couple of days off, courtesy of Clara. "Arthur needs time to recover," she had told them at the hospital. "And we could all use a short break. I sure as hell need it. We'll start once he signs out, hopefully that'll give us about two weeks till the deadline."

Eames was at the private gym near his apartment. He was one of a handful of people there. This was for two reasons: one, it was a weekday morning, so most of the gym's members were at work; and two, the gym had an unreasonably pricey membership fee that most would not be willing to pay.

He liked this particular gym, though, because of its size and view. Ceiling to floor mirrors covered one side of the facility, reflecting the array of machines and equipment. The large windows overlooked a row of treetops lining the street. He could see the local farmer's market down below, where tourists and stay-at-home parents were shopping for fresh produce. Perhaps he could get something for himself before they packed up; the stalls only appeared once a week.

With a grunt, he finished his last repetition and set his weights down carefully.

"Keep us safe."

Eames walked toward the mirrors, breathing deeply to release the strain in his arms. He was wearing a khaki-green vest, revealing the curl of tattoos along his arms and chest. The ink was as heavy and dark as ever. He had known from the start that his boys would always be with him, and that there were things that he would never allow himself to forget. But of course, the tattoos weren't just an homage to his time in service; there were other hidden reasons too.

Clara had run her fingers along those tattoos once, her eyes silent and questioning. And he hadn't bothered to tell her the significance of each stab of black ink through his skin. They had seemed to have plenty of unsaid words between them back then. And that was still true now. He wanted that to change, badly.

"You look tired."

He brought a hand to his jaw and ran it over his unkempt stubble, brooding slightly. They had told each other there wouldn't be any more secrets, but he knew it would take effort on both sides to stay true to their words. Even yesterday evening, he had questioned whether or not she was telling him everything. Her brown eyes had been so heavy and distant as she'd left the hospital with him.

Then again, maybe she'd just been shaken by recent events. He had hated to see her so distraught, the blood drained from her face. If only he had the ability to make her happy, but alas, he felt that he was struggling to even hold a conversation with her without wading into dangerous territory.

"I'm okay, really. Thanks for walking me back."

He was leaning against her doorframe, watching her drop her coat onto the couch. In some small recess of his mind, he imagined a world where he could comfort her, hold her, make her let go of that frown.

Instead, he just stood there and nodded. "Not a problem, darling. T'was the least I could do."

Clara looked over her shoulder. "You don't have to keep doing this. I think they've gotten their payback."

"Better safe than sorry. Arthur's famous words."

She rolled her eyes and sat on the arm of the couch. "Since when did you do everything Arthur told you to do?"

"Since your safety came into question."

His words were met with a rather stunned silence. Clara wrapped her arms around herself, clearly lost for words. Eventually, she chuckled and looked up at him. "I appreciate that, I do. But seriously, I don't need a bodyguard any more."

"Then at least meet me for dinner tomorrow."

Clara blinked, gaping slightly. The air seemed to draw tight around them for a second.

"Eames," she said slowly, "what are you trying?"

He stared back at her, unwavering. "Nothing. I just want to have a meal with a colleague. I'm not stepping out of line, am I?"

"Eames…"

"What, am I that unbearable?"

Clara sighed and shut her eyes briefly. In the end, she waved a hand at him. "Fine, fine. I'll humour you. Can you just go now?"

Eames' face split into a grin. He walked out into the hall. "I see I've overstayed my welcome."

"You're always overstaying your welcome."

She had meant it as a joke, he knew that, but nevertheless her words had stung.

He wasn't sure what time he was going to pick her up tonight. He wasn't even sure why he had asked her to dinner in the first place. But the words had left his stupid mouth before he could stop himself, and he supposed it would be rude (and cowardly) not to follow up.

Eames picked up the barbell by his feet. He might not be able to make her happy, but he was damned well going to keep her safe.

"Hi, I'm here to see my father."

The receptionist smiled up at her. "Sure, just sign your name and date." The woman tapped the clipboard lying on the desk.

"Thanks." Clara picked up the pen and scribbled her details down, trying to keep her beating heart still.

The care home was surprisingly lively in the afternoon. Clara could hear a piano playing faintly down the corridor to the right. She knew they had plenty of facilities here to keep the elderly occupied and entertained. The ground floor housed the music department, and a backdoor led to a well-groomed garden. The care home was on the outskirts of London, the air here surprisingly quiet and clean.

Clara headed toward the elevators on her left. She rode up to the fourth floor by herself, staring out at the suburbs through the glass bubble and then heading down the corridor. Several carers were guiding a frail old lady out of the common room area, where Clara glimpsed a large screen television, surrounded by an array of cosy sofas and coffee tables.

Then she arrived. Room 412. Matthew Etheridge.

The door was open. Clara stood outside, a little scared.

How old was he this year? A stab of guilt hit her as she quickly did the maths in her head. She was 27, so he had to be 62 years old. That was it; and yet, he looked so much older than his years, lying on the bed with its pale pink blanket and slightly threadbare pillow. The curtains were drawn shut. A solitary lamp on his bedside table cast her father's wrinkled face in an arc of yellow light, darkening his sunken cheeks. She saw that he was awake.

Swallowing, Clara knocked on the doorframe. "Hi dad," she said, "it's me."

The old man didn't stir. He simply laid there, his profile blurry against the lamplight. His hair was greying and thinning, and he had lost weight since she'd last seen him.

He said nothing.

A small television was playing in front of the bed, but the sound was off. Clara crossed the room slowly. "How're you doing? Have you had dinner? It's quarter to five, y'know."

Her questions were met by his resolute silence.

"Well, I'm back in London for a while," she went on, determined to fill the emptiness in the room. "I'm working on a project for a new client. It's taking a while, actually, I've already been here for a month. I should've come to see you earlier, but I was just so busy. I haven't seen mom yet either, maybe I should go see her, hm?"

Her dad simply continued to stare at the muted television.

"You should get some light in here." She pulled the curtains apart and the weak November sunlight spilled into the room.

"What're you doing?" her father snapped, suddenly alive with a wiry, agitated energy.

"You're all alone in the dark here, I thought-"

"I don't want to see you!" He was waving aggressively at her, like she was an insect he was desperate to get rid of.

"I'm Clara, your-"

"You're not my daughter!" he retorted, voice getting louder by the moment. "Get out! You're no daughter of mine!"

"Okay, okay, I'm not, but please, can we just talk for a while?" Clara was trying to keep her voice pleasant and calm, but it was just so hard. "Wh-what've you been up to?"

"Why can't you leave me alone?!" her dad cried. "What've I done to you?"

"Dad, please…"

"I just want to see my family! Why can't I see them?" And his eyes started to brim with furious, indignant tears; they were the same shade as Clara's, an innocent brown that caught the light and turned it to honeyed flecks.

A carer suddenly appeared at the door. "Clara," the man said, gesturing to her; he was wearing a pale blue uniform consisting of a t-shirt and trousers. "I think you should step out for a moment."

Clara turned to him with an angry expression whilst her dad continued to raise his voice. "But I just got here!"

"I know, but he's upset, and he's disturbing the other residents."

"Then close the door!"

"Oh why won't this nightmare stop-"

"Please, just so he can calm down." The carer gestured again. "Please."

"-I don't want to see you! I don't want to see you anymore-"

"Fine," Clara said finally, turning away from her father and heading out the door. She stood in the corridor, breathing heavily, whilst the carer murmured soothing words in a low voice. It took some time, but eventually her father stopped shouting, and a drowsy calmness settled over the building once more.

The carer stepped out and shut the door behind him. He was a man in his mid-thirties, with a head of ginger hair that seemed wilted.

"I'm sorry, but you'll have to come back another time."

Clara refused to listen. "Isn't he calmer now? I can wait a bit longer, I don't mind, I just want to talk."

The man shook his head. "He's not feeling agreeable today. This is typical behaviour, he's always been like this since the accident."

"But I've come a long way to see him," she pleaded.

"I'm sorry, but we don't want him to be upset right before mealtimes. He's already refusing to eat regularly, it's not helping his condition."

Clara ran her hands through her hair in helplessness. Why had she thought that her father would be any better after all these years? Her mother had told her that the damage was permanent and would only deteriorate with age. Keeping him comfortable and happy was the best they could do for him now.

A lump rose in her throat but she fought it down. There were some things she couldn't change, she told herself. If she didn't accept that, it would drive her insane.

"Okay, thank you for all your help, I…sorry I was angry."

"Don't be sorry. It's hard to be in this situation."

"It's okay," replied Clara with an admirable attempt at a smile. "I'll go then." And as she rode the elevator back down, she thought abruptly of Mal. She could imagine those kaleidoscopic blue eyes burning brightly, adamant with her version of the truth: that her reality was just a dream, and that she would stop at nothing to wake herself up.

Clara's father seemed to be gripped in a similar fever, and Clara desperately hoped that he would see reason one day, instead of plummeting into the welcoming pitfall of a dark, beautiful dream.

The train ride back to London was a long one, but when Clara finally reached the city she did not head straight for her apartment. Instead, she decided to wander aimlessly in the dying light, shouldering through crowds in the cold, not quite sure what she was doing or where she was going. She just knew that she had to move, and if she didn't, she felt like she might explode. She walked all the way from London Eye to Trafalgar Square, and then to the famous Piccadilly Circus; she went through Chinatown and onwards to Covent Garden, passing multiple theatres on the way, and eventually she took a slow bus home, the road congested and noisy.

Clara finally arrived at her serviced flat, tired and worn out. Jamming the key into the door, she turned it and then froze almost instantly.

The door was unlocked.

"I don't need a bodyguard any more."

Clara was suddenly wishing fervently that she had shut her stupid mouth.

The smart thing to do was to call Eames, but a reckless daring took hold of her, borne from her disheartening encounter with her father. So she turned the knob and went inside quietly.

Her flat looked fine. Nothing had been moved. Her laptop sat on the table, exactly where she had left it that day. And yet she was still on guard, her eyes sweeping the room, waiting, trembling.

A rustling from her bedroom.

Shit.

Clara whipped around, her heart pounding rabidly, and found herself staring at a burly, brutish man. The breath was whipped from her lungs.

"Oh my God."

"Jesus Christ, where were you?!"

Terrified speechless, Clara sank onto the couch, her face in her hands.

"I've been calling you for hours." Eames was striding towards her from the bedroom, his expression both bemused and annoyed. "A nd none of the others knew where the hell you were!"

"Please, just – Christ, don't ever do that again," Clara replied, her voice mumbled through her fingers, too tired to fight over the fact.

"You left me with no bloody choice! I suppose your phone was off?"

Clara nodded. "I put it on silent."

"And what on earth made you think that was a good idea, considering what just happened to our dear Arthur?!"

"I was taking the day off!"

"I thought we were having dinner!"

Clara finally looked up at him. "Oh."

Eames let out an exasperated sigh and ran a hand down his face. "You forgot."

"No! I – well, yeah," Clara said feebly.

"I knew it. Apologies for the break in, darling, I'll take my leave now." He headed for the door, evidently disappointed.

"W-wait!" Clara got up. "Don't be like that."

"Look, if you don't want to have dinner, just say so, there's no need to-"

"I went to see my dad today."

Eames went quiet, his mouth open wordlessly.

"I put my phone on silent before I got there and I forgot to check it. And yes, I really did forget about dinner. I didn't mean to. I was planning on going, really. I've just…had a long day. I'm sorry."

Eames was studying her, his eyes taking on a sympathetic, apologetic shine. Clara bit down on her tongue; she was feeling herself unravel slightly under his gaze and was hating it. "Don't be sorry," he replied after a while. "It's fine. How's he doing?"

Clara shrugged. "Same as always, maybe a little worse."

"I see." Eames smiled. "Then let's do this tomorrow."

"Hm?"

"Dinner. Tomorrow."

"Oh…why not now?"

"You're tired."

He was right; she could just order takeout and call it a night. Her feet were sore from walking for so long, and the afternoon's visit had left her exhausted and unresponsive. She wouldn't have been very pleasant company.

"Yeah, I am. Tomorrow at six?"

Eames gave her the thumbs up, making her cringe through the numbness. "Perfect. Well, have a good rest then, Clara."

Clara sighed. "Goodnight, Eames."

It was nine in the evening. Matthew Etheridge was asleep in bed.

His carer was outside his room, a phone in his hand. He pressed the call button and brought the phone to his ear, waiting.

The line clicked through. A woman's voice came on: "Yes?"

"She was here today."

"Clara?"

"Yes."

A scared pause. "Was everything okay?"

"I managed to make her leave, but she said she would be back soon."

"There's nothing we can do about that. How's Matthew?"

"Same as always."

"He didn't say anything?"

"Not that I heard."

The woman sighed. "Okay. Thank you for the call. Keep me informed."

"I will."

They hung up, and the carer returned to his duties.