Chapter 18: Password
Arthur didn't remember coming indoors.
He didn't remember sitting shirtless onto the sofa, he didn't remember Iris draping a woolen blanket around his shoulders, and he definitely didn't remember falling asleep with his head against his chest, nightmares crawling into his subconscious like spiders into a nest.
But he did.
And then he woke up. His head cracked back against the sofa with a start, the heavy blanket spilled off his shoulders, and he fell back into the cushions in a rush.
He flinched as the laptop crashed against the floor.
Arthur sprung up, disoriented, his hands clenching into fists. His blood rushed with adrenaline, and his head pounded, brain still caught up in the moment of his - dream? Arthur's panic stopped abruptly, and, fists unclenching, he sank back down into the cushions. Hands slightly shaking, Arthur anchored his fingers onto his thighs until they stopped.
This was the second time he had dreamt this week, and for him, unusual would be an understatement. The last time Arthur had vivid dreams like these was before Project Somnacin, before his emergence in the dreamsharing world. And that was a long time ago, he thought.
Belatedly, Arthur remembered to bend down, his abused stitches protesting as he fetched the laptop from the floor. Arthur ran his fingers over the screen, checking for cracks. From his flailing, the password-required login screen had flared to life, only further reminding Arthur of his bad day.
He ran a hand through his unruly hair, his short curls a stark change from his usual coiffed style. If only Eames could see me now. Arthur's clothes were damp, dirty, and the house was devastatingly quiet. Iris was nowhere in sight, presumably having gone to bed much earlier. All signs leaning towards the fact that I've been sleeping here for quite awhile, Arthur thought with a frown. I hate losing time. This isn't like me.
Coming to a decision, Arthur leaned forward, grabbing his gifted cell phone off the table. I need to get something accomplished.
Arthur opened his unfamiliar contacts screen, where the only entry was 'Your Guardian Angel3 '. Arthur frowned, a curl escaping to fall onto his forehead.
After changing the name to read 'Mr. Eames ', Arthur scrolled down to the accompanying number. His thumb hesitating over the digits for just a second.
Arthur pressed call.
Eames picked up on the third ring.
"Do you ever sleep, love?" Eames' voice was gravelly, tired, yet laced with his usual amative timbre. Do I even hear some reproach in his voice? Who knew Eames would be a mother hen, Arthur thought.
"It's not that late, Mr. Eames," Arthur said, squinting at a clock on the wall. The clock hand seemed to mock him, resting squarely between the one and the two.
"It's half past one in the bloody morning, Arthur."
"Why are you talking so quietly, Mr. Eames?" Arthur asked, smoothly changing the subject.
"Don't distract me, darling. But I'll have you know, David and Andrea found some wine lying about after we returned from the crime scene earlier, and…" Eames' accent lulled Arthur into a stupor, and he stared at the laptop screen in front of him. He typed in another password. Mombasa. Red warning letters flashed in front of him. Arthur rested his head on the illuminated keys, his phone still pressed against his ear.
" - then they began singing show tunes, really, darling, a little alcohol and apparently anyone can bond over - " Eames cut off at Arthur's sigh, audible through the phone's connection. "Are you listening?" Eames asked. "What's the matter now, Arthur?"
"Cahf brekh yurr pahthwor," Arthur mumbled into the laptop.
"Sorry, love, that's not one of the languages I know."
"I can't figure out your stupid password!" Arthur exclaimed, his voice louder than he intended. Arthur looked around guiltily, hoping the noise didn't rouse Iris.
A slight chuckle sounded from Eames' end of the line, and Arthur could feel his cheeks heating up. He was glad Eames wasn't there to witness it. "It's not funny," Arthur sulked. "I could've gotten work done today. This is serious. I'm wanted for murder, Mr. Eames, in case you forgot. This line better be encrypted, by the way."
"I know, love, don't get your knickers in a twist," Eames sounded mildly apologetic. "I've taken precautions. I'm just having a laugh because I forgot about that - the password," the man said. "It seems so long ago I put that in place.
"I know this is serious, Arthur, I was at the bloody crime scene all day - wait, did you get my message on the telly?"
"Yes," Arthur replied, shaking off the blanket. He rose from the sofa, joints cracking. Still holding the cellphone, Arthur strode over to retrieve Eames' sweatshirt, the one he had discarded earlier. "Mr. Johnson, very original Eames. I did appreciate the warning, but," Arthur lifted the article of clothing from the floor, his nose wrinkling at the mud-stained odorous fabric, "after seeing the rest of the broadcast, well, what I surmised was that London is out for my blood."
"Unfortunately, you would be correct, darling." Eames sighed through the phone, and loud bed springs creaked in the background. Arthur's professional mind rationalized the sound was from Eames sitting on his bed, but a part of Arthur flashed back upstairs, to the inviting interior of Eames' own bedroom. He thought about Iris' comment earlier, about what happens in bedrooms - I had enough of that walking in on my son. Briefly, Arthur thought about what it would be like to be upstairs, under the cover of Eames' maroon duvet, sunlight filtering in through the window, Eames beside me -
"Arthur? Arthur?" Eames called Arthur's name, startling him back to the present.
"Yes, Mr. Eames?" Arthur had paused with Eames' mud-splattered pullover in hand, but at Eames' voice he moved, his feet guiding him towards the stairway.
"I was talking about the crime scene, but you hadn't replied - "
"What did you find out?" Arthur questioned, keeping his feet light up the steps. I've bothered Iris enough today.
"Besides that the London bobbies are the most incompetent, inefficient blokes I've had the pleasure of working with in awhile?"
"Yes, Eames."
"I think someone is working against us," Eames said, his voice once again quiet.
"Of course they are," Arthur replied, entering Eames' dark room. He hurried over to the closet, picking out a shirt. Hesitating at the doorway, Arthur paced back to snatch a pair of boxers off the top drawer of Eames' dresser. Desperate times and all that. "We know Colin has an army of hired associates trying to track my every move," Arthur reminded the forger. "And you're an extension of me, now."
"No, I mean someone got to the bobbies before us," Eames said. "They were convinced you were the scum of earth before we arrived, up there with pedophiles and Jeremy Hunt, capable of killing everyone within a hundred kilometer radius. Not to mention evidence against Jansen's men was suspiciously absent."
"Well, to be fair, I probably am," Arthur said, fumbling his way into the dark washroom. He cradled the cell phone against his shoulder while shutting the door and flicking the light switch. Arthur grimaced at the sudden influx of light, blinking his eyes rapidly. "Capable of killing people, I mean, not a pedophile or Jeremy who-ever." Arthur laid the clean shirt and boxers on the counter in front of him, stripping off his dirty pants. He paused while taking off one of the legs, a thought occurring to him. "Do you believe David or Andrea could have arrived before you? They could be feeding information to the police." Arthur succeeded in removing his wet pants, and began unwinding the stained bandages that wrapped around his torso.
Arthur could hear a tapping through the phone, a rhythmic beat of Eames' fingers against the bed while he thought. "Clever, darling." Eames was quiet a moment. "But both Andrea and David were with me all day leading up to the investigation. I would've known if they had gone off. I trust David with my life."
"You know how much I hate to admit an error, Mr. Eames, but I'm pressed to remind you that I was just betrayed by my co-workers." Arthur finished undoing the last of his bandages. His hand felt around towards the stitches Iris had fixed on his back. His fingers brushed over the tight bristles - they were miraculously intact, even with his jaunts into the rain. I'll take them out soon.
"I'll look into Andrea, rest assured, darling," Eames said. "Now, tell me, why is it that you called me in the middle of the night?" Eames shifted once more, bed creaking. "Not that I mind, love. I'll talk to you anytime." Eames' voice was purposefully deeper, full of invitation.
Arthur rolled his eyes, and when he remembered Eames couldn't see the action, huffed out a breath. He fiddled with the tattered bandage encircling the burn on his arm, turning on the sink. "I still don't have the password for the laptop, Eames," Arthur wet a washcloth under the stream of water, peering at his face in the mirror. I still look pretty terrible, Arthur thought, running the wet material over his face. Water beaded in his eyelashes, highlighting the circles under his eyes.
"Oh yes, Arthur. I apologize again for that, love, although I'm surprised you didn't figure it out." Eames sounded a little wistful to Arthur, a little teasing. "You were the one who prompted me to memorize it in the first place."
"Memorize what?" Arthur asked, turning off the faucet. He slipped into Eames' clean boxers. He held the large shirt in front of him contemplatingly. How did he manage to pick such an ugly shade of yellow?
"Your silly Marines motto," Eames teased.
Arthur almost dropped the shirt, his mind flashing back to his earlier dreams. More like memories. "De Oppresso Liber," Arthur said, a little breathless. He wiggled the cotton material over his head before Eames could hear the catch in his voice.
" - that's the one, darling," Eames said, after a pause. "It lacks a punch if I do say so myself. But I knew it had to mean something to you, for the rumor that you have it tattooed on your arse - "
"That's untrue," Arthur quickly cut in.
" - so I made it your little password. A bit bloody ironic now, considering you're the one who needs liberating, darling."
"You could say that," Arthur said, his voice soft. "Liberation from this manhunt would be nice." Arthur paused a moment once back in the hallway, deliberating over his options. I could go to bed, but now that I can get into the laptop -
"Thank you, Mr. Eames for… the password. I hope you'll call again when you have more information?" Arthur's statement turned into a question, and for some irrational reason his heart tightened as he waited for Eames' response.
"Of course, darling," Eames' voice dipped low again. "I plan on following a lead I received at the crime scene tomorrow, surveying an old warehouse. No drastic action, yet, but I'll keep you informed. Although I would love some information on Jansen's motivations - " Eames stopped, a note of his usual flirtation evident in his tone. "I daresay this vengeance mission is in need of a point man, wouldn't you agree?"
Arthur let out a huff, his steps already taking him downstairs once more. "I'm already on it, Mr. Eames. Good night."
"Good night, Arthur."
Once downstairs, Arthur finally gained access to the computer. He didn't pause to celebrate. Eames was right, they needed a point man.
But if his mind was a little preoccupied with the fact that Eames' voice conveyed a significant amount of genuine affection - just through his last parting words - well, Arthur was running on a lack of sleep. Sleep deprivation can cause a wide variance in emotions, Arthur reasoned.