Words can't express how much fun I had with this chapter. Lots of experimentation, and just having fun with a painfully charismatic Eames. Any feedback on how I did with playing with characterizations could be appreciated!
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Time dragged. Classes bored him like no tomorrow. Half the school's population was young and obnoxious and intoxicated around the clock. Arthur could only console himself in a successful raiding of the financial office, which offered him a few files on recent hiring in the institution. Maybe it would provide a bit of information on one of the university's newest 'professors'.
This was what he took pride in; digging and prying. He didn't usually break into places to steal tangible copies of information, but when he did it was such a thrill. Nothing injected adrenaline into him like narrowly avoiding being caught somewhere he shouldn't be. Maybe it was an entire childhood of being well-behaved that gave him such a secret rebellion streak. Either way, the excursion made his Tuesday a little less aggravating, and put him in a good mood.
However, much to his annoyance, information on one Oliver Mackinnon was all airtight forgery. Contact numbers, when tested, rang through to legitimate answering machines. His PhD from Yale – fucking Yale – was actually in several databases. Driver's licenses, health cards, passports, and everything else were solid. All under Canadian citizenship. Arthur was beginning to wonder if Eames killed some poor bastard and stole his life. Despite the forger's admitted dislike for actually committing murder outside of a dream, it felt entirely plausible.
He never realized, or moreso admitted to himself, how much he looked forward to Wednesday. He dreaded and waited anxiously for it, not knowing what to expect and letting that fact infect him. Because Arthur liked being kept on his toes, and Eames never failed to make that happen. This anticipation was almost distracting, as his quest to download school budget files that morning had almost been a disastrous one. His odd, conflicted daydreaming almost got him caught, but hiding under a desk saved his skin when security had popped in, noticing the computer's light in the absent financial manager's dark office. In the end, he had a flash drive full of information to be looked over later. Again, he felt exhilarated. Not even that distracting, smug tramp could stop him.
When the massive lecture hall filled up, the point man deliberately found a spot in the middle. It was far back enough to hopefully avoid being recognized, but he was not lingering in the back with students who looked like they were severely hung over or reeked of questionable-smelling smoke.
There was no sign of the 'professor', with five minutes to go until class. The room was packed. Students who looked like they usually wouldn't be awake before 2pm were in attendance. Some were even wearing sleep pants, to Arthur's mild disgust. Christ, some still looked half asleep. People were paying thousands a semester for this? Well, they were paying a world-class criminal to teach them philosophy. Higher education was the most expensive form of robbery and self-destruction, it seemed.
By 12:10, the lecture hall was settled into something resembling order. Students were simply murmuring and waiting, which was a sight to behold. Not one rowdy kid, and hardly any laptops open to Facebook. They were actually waiting for the lecture to begin. For a first semester class, this was almost alarming. Arthur had seen nothing but immaturity until now. He couldn't help but feel that it was ironic. They probably had the most immature instructor to ever forge a teaching degree.
The doors at the stage of the lecture hall opened at 12:13 (late as usual), and there was a hush. Arthur bit his lip as he watched Eames, wearing that same offensive brown blazer from the other day, along with some half-wrinkled black shirt underneath. His briefcase was tossed onto the table haphazardly, and he didn't walk up to the podium. Rather, Eames stepped up beside it and leaned against the side, observing his class over round glasses that Arthur was sure he didn't even need. He seemed to look over his pupils, beaming with pride.
"I'm amazed to see half of you here, twelve hours after pub night." He said, tugging the microphone out of its stand on the podium. Arthur heard a few cheers from the back, but other than that there was minimal disturbance. "Who was it who shotgunned three beers in a row? Oh yes, I saw it. Was it you, Jackson?" There was a snigger in Eames' voice as he called out one of the students, a young man waving his arm weakly, yet with pride. "Bloody good job on that. Make it to four without hurling on the floor and I'll bump your mark up an extra percent."
A laugh moved through the lecture hall, but Arthur could only sit in astonishment. They loved him. They were already hooked on listening to him – a near-alcoholic 'professor' who rewarded their unhealthy habits. Arthur didn't even pay for this semester, and he felt cheated. He just silently watched, trying to hide how appalled he was. Eames, having freed the microphone, moved away from the podium and towards the massive blackboard. He talked as he did so.
"I've gotten a few emails about my lack of PowerPoint presentations, and how I don't offer much in terms of notes." It was almost alarming how he seemed so comfortable, like he had been teaching for years. His voice carried all the necessary tones; confidence, authority and genuine interest. He grabbed a piece of chalk and turned back to the rows of seats, but didn't write anything. "I want to repeat – and stress – that Human Nature isn't something you can put into bullet points and charts. The complexity of the mind, as explained by me, is beyond such borders. If you want the biochemical functions behind what makes humans tick, Dr. Woodall has his Intro to Psychology lecture in this same hall on Mondays. But here, we don't focus on the 'how'. We ask 'why', and, more importantly, 'what the hell is with us?'."
Another hushed round of laughter. Arthur felt sparks crackle under his skin, and shifted in his seat a little. Eames seemed to wait a beat before going on. "This isn't a lecture. I could rant and rave for an hour, pretending one man knows everything about the mind. But that would make me a damned crooked thief, to take your money for that."
Arthur had to bite the inside of his cheek.
"This is a conversation." Eames stressed the last word, leaning his head forward. God, they were captivated. Hundreds of young minds hooked by a lure gleaming with wit and charisma. "So, don't take notes on paper or Word documents. Let it ignite your minds, like education should." There was a wide smile on his face, then, and Arthur almost felt the girl sitting next to him almost melt into her seat. The 'professor' moved on, then, chalk still in hand as he crossed the stage to reach the front. Without warning, he hurled the chalk at an unsuspecting student in the front row, who yelped and barely managed to catch it.
"What just saved this man's face?" Eames then asked, pointing at the stunned youth and looking across the momentarily silent hall. A tentative hand was raised, which he acknowledged with a wave.
"Reflexes?" the young woman answered, sounding more inquisitive than anything.
"Close." Eames then turned on heel and migrated towards center stage. "I threw a stick of chalk at him with all the force a former cricket player could muster. Too fast for his conscious mind to register. Instinct kicked in, bringing his hand up before he even realized what was happening – you alright by the way?" He cut himself off to regard the boy he had just practically assaulted. When the student nodded, he relaxed and grinned. "Good. I'll buy you a pint if you don't tell the dean."
Arthur was trapped somewhere between alarm and being, well, impressed. Eames really was a man of theatrics, even in the most subtle of manners. At this point, he realized he had been just as hooked, his eyes and ears soaking in everything with utmost attention. It was like a spell. He wasn't sure if he liked it.
"Instinct," Eames continued, gesturing with his now empty hand as he spoke. He seemed to pacing the stage, the meandering so slow that one could fail to notice. "Is something we all possess. It is a fundamental part of the human mind, no matter how hard we've tried to repress it. And I'm not going into the Ego, the Id, and all that bollocks. Freud can go suck a cigar, for all I care. We're talking about the lowest, most subtle, yet strongest part of the human mind. It controls us. We can't control it. What is it?"
Eames raked the crowd with his eyes, bypassing all the raised hands. Arthur froze as he felt those prying eyes focused right on him. "You, in the dashing sweater vest." He called out, pointing right at Arthur. The point man, of course, knew the answer. But it was a second before his mouth caught up with his mind.
"The subconscious." he answered. Eames grinned again, looking rather pleased. For some reason, Arthur felt that he was being personally tested, and he wasn't sure how he felt about that. It was a far cry from the looks he was used to from Eames – the ones that just screamed that he was being mentally undressed. No, this tore right into his being, like Eames was trying to strip down his defenses rather than his clothing. Much to his chagrin, it was working.
"Exactly. The subconscious is, in essence, who we are." Eames said, pulling off his glasses and holding them folded in his hand. "No social expectations, no inhibitions, and certainly no distracting rubbish thoughts. It's just you, pure and raw. If you can delve into a person's subconscious, you will find things you never thought existed in that person's mind. Things the subject never knew about themselves."
The lesson went on for what felt like hours. Yet, it was not the sort of dragging, painful lecture that seemed uniform in this school. No, Eames talked, pulled people into conversation, and let ideas bounce around the room until they formed solid theories. He called on people who would otherwise never want to speak in class, and actually encouraged them to share their thoughts. Watching this, Arthur's curiosity was certainly peaked. What was Eames playing at? All of this talk about the subconscious was a little hard to miss. He was either messing with the point man, or simply lecturing on what little he actually knew. People like them knew the subconscious; they toyed with it on a regular basis. Several times, Eames' eyes fell on him, and it seemed that his increased attention was noticed.
"Emotion and behavior stem from the subconscious. A traumatic event can seep into a person's inner mind and stick there, leaving them with incurable fears and anxieties. The subconscious runs the show. The conscious mind is simply the actor." Eames paused his speaking for a moment, tapping his foot and twirling his glasses in his hand absently. "For next week, I want you to write a case study. Find me a person – someone you know, someone you stumble home with from the bar, or a stranger you talk to on the bus – and write a blurb on them. Find out some deeply ingrained part of their being, and reflect on the conscious and subconscious aspects of it. What caused it, how it affects them, and that. A couple hundred words will do. Yes-" he turned to acknowledge a student with a raised hand.
"Can you give us an example?" she asked in the midst of scribbling down the assignment.
"Of course." Eames turned and resumed his subtle pacing, lightly tapping the frame of his glasses against his chin in thought. "Alright. As a child, I was attacked by a couple of dogs. Ill-trained, big ol' brutes that shredded my leg and sent me to the surgery for countless stitches." Animated as always, Eames spun to face the rows of students with an arm outstretched. "And the natural mental consequence would be – tell me, Dashing Sweater Vest!" He pointed to Arthur again, who tried not to fume at the new nickname (it was worse than 'darling' and any of the other infuriating endearments).
"A fear of dogs." He answered, only barely hiding his annoyance. Eames gave a steep nod and an approving smile.
"A bloody strong fear of dogs, yes. On the conscious level, I'm perfectly aware that the yappy little Pomeranian at my feet couldn't do a lick of harm. Hell, I could probably send it a good twenty meters across the way with a good kick! But my subconscious, scarred like the skin and muscle tissues, might forever see a canine as a threat. I might come to terms with the incident, but never own a dog, because deep down I will always fear man's best friend." He gazed across the crowd for confusion, and when he saw none, he shrugged. "Simple. All I need to know is that you understand the distinction." He waved his hand in jesting dismissal. "That's all for today. Remember my office hours, and that they're complete bullshit. Email me to set up an appointment, or hunt me down in the pub." As students shuffled to their feet, going back to murmuring with a little extra excitement, their professor shut off the microphone and set it down before grabbing his briefcase.
Moving against the crowd, Arthur stood and headed down the stairs towards the stage. It was like swimming upstream. He only barely caught up to Eames as he was leaving, although probably perfectly aware that the point man was trying to catch him. He did, however, hold the door open for Arthur as he left to lecture hall.
"You think you're hilarious, don't you?" he hissed quietly as they moved side-by-side through the busy corridor. Eames grinned at him, pocketing his glasses.
"I meant what I said. It really is a dashing vest, darling."
"Do you know how easily someone in our field could have caught on to that?" Arthur pressed on, ignoring the comment. He was going to burn this vest the second he got back to the hotel. "It's reckless to go around telling people details about this sort of thing. Especially about the power of the subconscious." Much to his frustration, Eames was unfazed.
"The subconscious is the focus of many academic disciplines. We're not the only people to tinker with the human mind." He looked at Arthur, actually wearing a somewhat serious expression under that unyielding smile. "You're better off berating me for throwing chalk at my students."
"Or drinking with them." Arthur huffed.
"Or planning on shagging one of them." The forger's low, purred voice caught Arthur off guard, to the point where he forgot the placement of his own feet and stumbled. Eames laughed as Arthur regained his footing mid-stride and struggled to keep up.
"What makes you think that'll happen?" the point man demanded quietly as they walked, almost instantly flustered by the comment. No, he wasn't going to sleep with Eames. Not again. Not after last time. And certainly not now, if the other man was expecting it.
"Please, love, you were undressing me with your eyes the whole lecture."
"If by that you mean I think your blazer if hideous, then yes."
"And the shirt?" Eames was having an infuriatingly easy time having this conversation while walking through a crowded university. Arthur wanted to punch him, but all the blood in his body was currently in his face and his ears and he couldn't see straight.
"You need to iron it." He muttered this almost hatefully. It was like Eames had planned this all out. "But that doesn't mean a damn thing. It's not happening."
"Not unless you want it to, no." the other man laughed quietly, sounding far too confident in the possibility that Arthur did want it to happen. In a more open and less crowded area of the corridor, the forger stopped. Arthur sneered at him and decided to keep moving, but a playful tug on the strap of his tug pulled him back with an embarrassing lack of grace. He looked to Eames with an even darker look, but it faded quickly. That smugness had shifted into something a little more tolerable. A hand resting on Arthur's bag, as if afraid he might run off, he sighed.
"I'm glad you showed up." Eames' tone was actually sincere, and friendly rather than obnoxiously affectionate. "I was – I guess – afraid you would avoid me like the bloody plague." When Arthur looked stunned, the forger gave an almost sheepish smile. "Don't think too much about it. I just missed you, is all." He then released Arthur's bag to let him go. The younger man eyed him cautiously, wondering why his face still felt so damn hot and why the edges of his vision were blurred.
"You're toying with me." His accusation lacked sting, as his voice was quiet. "You're working against us. And you just want to fuck with me."
"Darling," Eames chuckled softly, affection in his eyes. "Even if I am, that doesn't change the fact that I'm happy to see you again. I don't want to 'fuck with you', as you so eloquently put it." A pause, and a smirk. "Though, take away one word, and you'll be a little more accurate."
Oh, how delightful it would be to see Eames sprawled out and bleeding on the freshly polished tile floor.
"You're impossible." Arthur hissed. "What are you doing here, Eames? Just be out with it."
Shaking his head with smile that was somewhere between sad and knowing, the forger turned and walked off. He did, however, spare a moment to ruffle Arthur's hair in passing. The point man fumed, sputtered some awful curse after him, and stalked off in the opposite direction. He was royally flustered, and frustrated beyond belief. By the time he reached the hotel, however, he managed to calm himself. No, there was no point in letting the others see him so hung up over nothing. It was just Eames. Insufferable should be his middle name.
As he sorted through his bag, Arthur hit a terrifying and gut-twisting realization. The flash drive with all of his hard-earned information was gone. The zipped-up outer pocket it had been kept in was completely empty. A wave of blind rage swept through Arthur, and he swore and threw his bag onto the floor. Son of a bitch.