A Closed Circle

Chapter 9

Synecdoche

He met Eames on the bank of the Thames. Arthur wasn't sure how he'd made the trip, but it wasn't in a car. Eames was on foot and let Arthur drive, giving the occasional order to send him in the correct direction.

He stopped three times to break down and toss the cop's phone. He might have tossed a drop phone whole, but the cop's phone was probably under contract and extremely traceable. Battery, sim card, and body ended up in different sewer drains across the city.

They eventually arrived at a small, decrepit, multi-story building. It might have been a group home or small-room apartments recently, but it had obviously started out as a large, single-family home. Not old, not when talking about buildings in England, but hardly new. Hardly well-kept.

Arthur parked the car, but left it idling.

"Get rid of it," he told Eames as he got out. "I don't know this place near enough to do a proper job of it. You do." Yeah. That stung a bit to say. Normally this was Arthur's specialty. His responsibility.

It bit at his pride to ask Eames this favor.

"You have prints on file here?"

Arthur opened his mouth to say 'no' before thinking better of it. "It's possible."

"Then go inside and get gloves. Top drawer on the left next to the sink. Windex in the cabinet under the sink. Napkins. Those are on the counter."

With a sharp nod Arthur walked to the door. Surprised that Eames would do something as foolish as keeping it unlocked while he came to meet him. He discovered why as soon as he stepped up to the landing. It was occupied. The door flew open, and she jumped out to meet him.

He had to resist the ingrained impulse to counter her jump with a fist and knee. It helped that he was still a little sore and stiff from his time in the chair. It also helped that he reacted to the sight of her in soot stained pajamas and tied back hair in a much different way than he reacted to her quick forward movement.

That part of him wanted to do something not even resembling a fist to the throat and a knee to the stomach.

"Shit," she breathed a broken whisper. "I'm so glad you're okay."

"Yeah. I'm fine." His hands were at his sides, lifted slightly as if they wanted to reach around and hold her, but too cautious to actually go through with it.

"I saw the open window when I came around, but you weren't there. Eames said I couldn't stay to deal with the cops. You weren't answering your phone."

"I didn't have my phone." He managed to put his palms on her hips. Curl his fingers. She turned her head, and he felt her nose against his throat. Her lips, light and almost nonexistent, brushing his skin before she stepped away and took a breath to steady herself.

"What happened?"

He licked his lips and prepared to answer, but he could almost feel Eames staring. "Let me help Eames with the car, then I'll tell you."

Her jaw clinched as if she'd argue, but then her eyes and chin cut downward. She stepped back again. Away from the door. Giving him room to pass.

He would have regretted his words, but for the small smile he saw peeking out from beneath the curtain of her hair.

Nodding at her, acknowledging her good humor, he entered the house and found his way to the kitchen. Retrieved the supplies they needed. And headed back out to the car.

With the two of them working it took less than half an hour to take care of what he touched. They both agreed that cleaning the backseat was unnecessary. After checking for hairs, they gave it a pass. Should be little if anything that could be traced back to him through prints or DNA tags.

Eames stood, stretching his back. "Well, Arthur, how's the boot?"

"I didn't touch it."

She'd come down the stairs and was standing between them. In front of the car.

"Where did you get it," she asked.

"Took it from Collin. Stole it." He knew she wouldn't recognize the name, but he needed to tell her what happened as soon as possible. She might blame him for … something … otherwise.

Eames, after a second's pause, reached into the driver's side of the car (still gloved) and pulled a small lever. The trunk popped open. Eames looked inside. Froze. His nostrils flared and his lips compressed. They curved into a bitter grin.

"This 'Collin'. How did you know the man?"

Arthur's gut clinched and he walked to stand next to Eames. Followed his gaze. And he froze too.

"Well," his tone was calm. Steady. Like this wasn't a problem of any kind. "That was certainly not part of the plan."

"How did you know him, Arthur."

"Old army buddy."

"Well then; Ariadne, come take a look."

Arthur was surprised Eames asked her over. He must have figured out she knew him, or knew Collin. He must have decided that she needed to see.

Her eyes on them, her steps were cautious. Almost frightened. She joined the two of them and looked where they looked. Saw what they saw.

He heard her draw in a sharp breath. Caught her hands fluttering in some impossible thought about doing something.

Probably the first time she saw a dead body outside of her dreams.

Her hands came to rest on her stomach. And she was alternating between taking deep breaths and trying not to breathe at all. The body looked fresh, possibly still in rigor, but with him lying there, he couldn't be sure about rigor. And it wasn't like any of them were going to reach out and touch the thing. They had little way to tell the exact age of the corpse.

Arthur's specialty, and Eames' too, was in making dead bodies. Not figuring out how they got that way.

But still. There was the smell. Arthur would say at least a day. Perhaps longer.

"Do you know him, Ariadne?" Eames was also watching her, and it seemed he saw something other than fear and revulsion in her. Something Arthur didn't notice himself.

Recognition.

"His name," she said, almost choking over the worlds, "his name is … was … no. Is. Miguel. He was our … for the job, that last job I did. He was our chemist."

"Never heard of him," Eames muttered as if he knew everyone in the business. Which he probably did.

But then, Arthur agreed, between the two of them they had to know everyone on both sides of the industry. "I haven't either. He could be straight. Or extremely new."

"Daniel brought him in. Recommended him to me. He was good enough. Not the best I've ever worked with, but I assumed … I assumed Daniel worked with him because he was loyal. That he could be trusted." Her hands pressed harder into her stomach. "Did the same people who took me kill him?"

Arthur put a hand on his shoulder. "Yeah. Yes. Collin did it. Daniel to you, but his real name was Collin. Ex-Ranger, ex-CID officer, ex-con, and possibly some sort of spy. He had friends in high places before he was put away. This was," he gestured to the body, realizing it would make him seem cold and callous, but there was no way to deny this wasn't his first body, "probably Collin cleaning house. Collin trusted no one enough to let them live as witnesses to his failure.

"With some backers, all it takes is one bad job to have you dangling from a short rope. I would guess Collin was working his exit strategy into an attempt at salvaging the job. If left incomplete or unsuccessful, he could take off, leaving no one behind to tell tales. If it succeeded … he wouldn't have to split the profits."

"Regardless," Eames brushed off all the conjecture, "this could help us. This man – Miguel – is attached to none of us. One job with someone else as the contact won't connect you," he nodded to her, "and we've certainly had nothing to do with him." Squinting at the corpse, Eames made a decision. "Right, we have a dead man in a wiped car. Obviously murder. But not one we can be connected to. It will distract the authorities and give us one more layer of protection.

"I'll dump it somewhere," Eames shut the trunk and readjusted his gloves. Picking up the windex and napkins, he worked his way to the driver's side of the car. "You two get some rest. Sleep, Ariadne."

She nodded absently. Arthur pressed down on her shoulder.

"She's in shock, Arthur."

"A man she knew – well or not – is dead. What do you expect?" His tone was too sharp to be a simple question.

"Temper, temper, Arthur. I didn't say it wasn't justified. Put her to bed. This will take some sleeping off. And," wry humor lit his eyes, "you aren't looking very fresh yourself, darling. Might consider falling in that bed too."

Arthur clinched his jaw. Bastard.

Not that he ever expected Eames to be blind. To not see Arthur's blatant desire. Or to ignore it completely. Eames was expert at studying people. He would see. But wouldn't give him away. At least not directly. Not when he could torment him instead.

Arthur couldn't do anything but glare as the engine started and the car drove away. Leaving her standing, shoulder slightly trembling, under his hand.

"We should go inside."

He led her up to the house, and she shook herself out of her shock. "You said you'd tell me what happened. Daniel did this? He … well, I can't say anything, can I? I didn't know him. Collin? You said his name was Collin?"

"Yeah. He's the one who took me tonight. I … dealt with him."

"And he was a friend of yours? Why didn't you … when you looked in my subconscious; why didn't you know who he was?"

"Ah, he wasn't a friend. We worked together. A long time ago. And all I had to go on then was the name 'Daniel' and your impressions of him. In hindsight, I see the similarities, but last I heard Collin was incarcerated back in the States. The possibility of it being him … well the thought never even occurred to me."

Assuming the rooms were upstairs, Arthur slipped his hand from her shoulder to the small of her back and nudged her in that direction. She was in soft, flannel pants and a loose-fitting shirt. She – her clothes, her hair, her skin – smelled faintly of smoke. Of fire.

He managed to keep his hand from coiling into a fist. Anger wouldn't help here. Wouldn't help him, and it wouldn't help her. Collin was dead. That debt was paid. But if anyone ever offered Arthur a chance to kill the bastard a second time, he wouldn't turn the offer down.

"Which room were you in?" he asked to deflect himself from the morbid path his thoughts were taking. "And Eames'? I'm going to need a change of clothes."

She chuckled a little at that. "You and Eames are not the same size."

"Well," he smiled, turning her into the first door she pointed out, "elastic will fit almost anyone, and so will a t-shirt."

"Point to you. Can I help you riffle through his underwear drawer?"

"Why not." It wasn't like Eames would fault her for it. "Though I doubt he has his underwear in a drawer. We tend to live out of suitcases."

"I would still be interested in violating his privacy." She was smiling that small smile. He was surprised how quickly she was bounding back. The first time he saw a man dead from non-natural causes …

He'd killed that man himself. Probably changes the reaction some.

She pulled away from him until she was kneeling in front of Eames' largest bag. Opening it revealed hard-case boxes of various sizes. Guns. Ammo. Not a stitch of clothing. Her breath caught. She swallowed. He watched as her chest and shoulders gave a small, almost unnoticeable, spasm.

Biting down hard on her lower lip, she turned to one of the other bags. Fingers pausing before closing over the tongue of the zipper.

This time it was full of clothes. Not suits, those were in the garment bag hanging on the hook beside the door, but a few shirts and more than enough boxers to pull a pair out without worrying about how Eames would manage.

Not that Arthur relished borrowing them. The man had disgustingly tacky taste in clothing.

But that flamboyance in Eames brought a smile to her lips now. So maybe it was worth it.

And maybe it wasn't. She held up a blue pair decorated with pineapples and coconuts for his approval. He did not approve. She stretched her hand out, unconcerned. He heard a dismayed sound leave his throat as he reached out to take them from her, and she laughed. To compound his embarrassment, she handed him a black shirt emblazoned with a sleeping turtle.

"Where does he get these?" Arthur's mutter was rhetorical, but she answered him regardless.

"Why? You want to restock your wardrobe with something similar, Arthur? All of yours did go up in the fire." She presented him with more of her soft laughter. Though her eyes were darkened by shadows. Her clothes were lost to that fire as well.

"Just wait," he told her with an answering smirk, ignoring the pain to bring the humor closer to the surface, "I'll pay you back for this some day. I have a long memory."

She dropped her chin without breaking eye contact, "I look forward to it."

She stood. Walked to the door. And he turned to watch her leave. Her hand touched the door frame, and she paused for a fraction of a fraction of a second. Almost, he didn't see it. Almost, he didn't recognize what it meant. What it could mean if he wanted.

She didn't look over her shoulder at him. Didn't speak. Only her fingers on wood trim and a pause infinitesimal enough to be overlooked. If that was what he preferred.

Okay. Fine. He was done. Maybe he should back off. Wait out the no doubt tumultuous emotions from the dead bodies of an old coworker and an old lover, but he didn't have it in him. After the inception job – after that kiss – he'd backed off. Unsure if her place in the world had room for selfish demands.

Here was his answer. If he had the courage to take it.

Two steps it took to meet her on the other side of the door jam.

Two steps to be close enough to stop her with hands tight around her forearms.

Two steps to lower his lips to the soft skin just below her ear.

He didn't ask permission. Didn't ask for acquiescence. Without words, she had given him both.

The hands restraining her slipped around to pull her closer. One arm under her breasts, the other under her throat. Fingers brushing her jaw. Tilting her head so he could kiss her again. Kiss her without the ruse. Kiss her without the job. Kiss her without the pressure of time.

She moved – twisted – to turn in his grasp. He didn't resist her. As long as her mouth never left his, he couldn't care less what she was up to. And it didn't.

She leaned in, standing on her toes. Her own arms wrapping around his hips. Her own hands slipping under the hem of his shirt – not that awful turtle thing … but almost as bad. It was Collin's shirt. Best not to think of that.

Her hands slipped under his shirt and opened over the bare skin of his back. Brushing up and down, nails nipping at his muscles in the brief moments she gasped for breath.

He found he did actually care what the rest of her was up to.

Her knee rose to press against his thigh. He pushed her until her back met the wall. So she could keep her balance. So he could lift her up and make it easier to taste her throat, the slight hint of her breasts above the collar of her shirt, and the bare curve of her shoulders.

Her hands found their way into his hair, and he brushed his lips over her left ear.

"Where were you sleeping?"

She turned her head to touch his mouth with her own. She did not kiss him, but spoke in a voice almost too quiet to hear, "You think I could sleep with you missing?" Her hands dropped to his shoulders. Wrapped around his neck. Pulled him until his face was tucked in the hollow of her throat. "No. Never. But Eames said I could have the room at the end of the hall." She brushed his hairline. Drew circles that dipped below his collar and sent heat through his veins. "If I needed it."

He was sure she was laughing. He could almost feel the twist of her slight smile brush the top of his head.

"I think you need it," was all he said.

She did not answer. But then she didn't need to.

Author's Note: You're welcome.

Also: Synecdoche means 'part of a whole' … basically.