Chapter 22: Permutation
Eames' voice reverberated late into the morning, a soothing, steady bass that calmed Arthur's thoughts, smoothed edges of his agitation, and suppressed the eddies of his rampant brooding.
It was quiet in the pool of Arthur's unconsciousness.
He floated in the eye of the storm.
Arthur awoke slowly, his head pillowed in Eames' lap. The forger's hand softly traced patterns in the thick of Arthur's dark hair, his palm brushing across Arthur's forehead.
And Eames' fingers, fingers that Arthur had witnessed strangle and clench and shove and hurt- they trailed a light pressure against Arthur's scalp, urging him gently out of unconsciousness.
It was surreal.
Arthur was encapsulated in the hypnotic stasis, swathed in the lull in time. His reluctance to move became less of a desire to ruin the moment than to ruin his life- he couldn't remember such a feeling of complete peace. This is right, Arthur's brain cried out. His limbs, in a satisfied paralysis, seemed to concur. They were warm in the cradle of Eames' body, in the center of his encompassing essence.
It was an epiphany.
It was respite, one that Arthur had only just discovered.
One that, of course, soon came to an end.
"Bloody hell!" Eames slammed through yet another pothole, one that jolted Arthur's head squarely into the sloping roof above them. A torrent of water sprayed up from the rain-soaked road, a wave of blindingly-dark sludge cresting over their beleaguered windshield.
Arthur's grip tightened on the Glock in his lap.
"Haven't you learned that part of losing a tail is staying inconspicuous?" Arthur glared at the forger beside him. "Why the fuck did I let you drive?"
The raised, irritated skin on Eames' arm caught the light as he jerked the wheel, narrowly avoiding a collision with the car in front of them. Laughing as he blew through yet another red light, Eames' teeth glinted white as he skid into an alley, his smile illuminated against the dark of the sky. "This is my city, darling. Of course I drove." Eames threw the car into reverse, one hand skimming the edge of Arthur's seat for stability. "Although I have to admit, I wasn't expecting a pursuit quite this early."
Arthur's scathing response was swallowed by the impact of his body against the seat as Eames slammed on the gas. Huffing, Arthur peeled himself off the leather just in time for Eames to whip into an impromptu U-turn, their hatchback's small tires spinning on the slick road. Eames wedged their vehicle back into traffic, sparks flying in Arthur's rearview mirror as their bumper glanced off the curb.
"That was unnecessarily illegal, even for you." Arthur adjusted in his seat to gain a better view of the cars behind them, squinting as droplets of rain coated his side mirror.
Eames glanced over, tracking Arthur's preoccupation. "Well?" Eames asked, haphazardly drifting around a corner.
"No sign of the black Audi, but the rain is making things difficult."
Hydroplaning, Eames flew down yet another street, scraping the side of a parked tour bus. "And what about the van?" Eames asked calmly, narrowly missing a fist-waving pedestrian. He stomped on the brakes as they hit a wall of traffic. "Fuck."
Their car was deadlocked against the swell of traffic.
Eames stared angrily.
"There." Suddenly, Arthur leaned forward, his seatbelt protesting as he pointed out a gap in the mass of vehicles.
"You've always had a penchant for tight squeezes, darling." Eames forcefully wedged their car in, ignoring the blaring of horns behind them.
"All clear," Arthur said, ignoring the noises of protest. "It seems, this time, your ridiculous driving tactics paid off."
"Brilliant."
"Maybe you should - " Eames swerved the car across two lanes of traffic, fishtailing into a bustling alley. Arthur's shoulder rammed into the car frame, his hand losing its grip on the handle. The car careened to an abrupt stop, tires scraping against the curb. " - park," Arthur finished, rubbing at his aching neck.
"I think we lost our tail," Eames said, patting Arthur's knee consoling. Arthur shot Eames a dirty look, throwing open his door. Shaking his head at the crunch of mangled fiberglass, Arthur stepped outside into the rain.
"There's an abandoned warehouse up the street," Eames said to Arthur, materializing beside him in a rush of rain-soaked clothing. "We can meet there - but I need to check on something first." Eames looked over at Arthur hesitantly, raindrops stealing bits of space from between their mingling breath. Water speckled Arthur's cheeks as he stared back. When did this… turn into this? Arthur thought. Why am I so… Wait -
"Why?" Arthur asked, shaking himself out of his thoughts. "Why would you want to separate, now that we know Jansen's men assumedly have both of our descriptions?"
"I - " Eames broke off as they walked, his hand running over his forehead. "Just…" Eames reached out, and Arthur recoiled. At the sight of paper jutting out from Eames' hand, Arthur brushed forward once more, taking the note from the forger's grip.
"There's the address, love. See you in thirty." Before Arthur could even process what had transpired, Eames was gone.
Arthur stood at the edge of the crossing a moment, nonplussed at Eames' actions. Slowly, surreptitiously glancing both ways, Arthur moved, unfolding the paper in his hand. What was that? Arthur quickly memorized the address on the note in front of him. Soon, the light dappling of rain completely consumed Eames' hastily penned script.
Shaking his head, Arthur tried to shove Eames' erratic behavior to the back of his mind. For a moment, Arthur contemplated the idea of Eames working for Colin Jansen - but no. There have been no other signs, no reason for Eames to get embroiled in that mess. I was the one who sought him out…
I think.
Arthur blended into the morning rush seamlessly.
He gave Eames time to do whatever the man had vanished to do by taking a newspaper from a nearby store, and let his thoughts rewind to the early morning, when they had first noticed the presence of Jansen's men. How were we followed? Arthur thought, swiping an elderly man's phone off a nearby restaurant table. Was it Andrea? Arthur let his mind turn over the multiple possibilities, his feet on autopilot. Andrea's disappearance means she could have been feeding information to Colin about David, Eames, and me the whole time. Andrea was an outsider from the moment she barged into Eddie's cafe. Arthur mulled over how the woman slowly gained his attention. First with the bottle, then with the dramatic entrance. And then we had that odd conversation while we were making the bed... Eames was right, the bastard. I shouldn't have been so quick to trust her. Even if she was Hans' wife.
Arthur headed down another street, wondering if Eames had finished his activity yet. He's had quite enough time, Arthur thought. If I were in any other situation, I would have deduced what the man was up to by now.
Arthur stopped a moment, digging out his recently acquired newspaper from the confines of his jacket. He skimmed the titles for a moment, posture relaxed - but then he felt his shoulders tense, just slightly, a crease in his composure - and Arthur snapped the pages shut, spurred back into motion. He walked fast, covering ground in efficient, cutting strides. Arthur tread up to a nondescript door confidently, knocking on its plain surface with the side of his fist. He leaned against the dark railing, his fingers inching toward his Glock.
The door opened with little resistance, swinging inward. The room seemed empty, dimly lit, and Arthur felt a phantom pain radiate from his nose. For a second, Arthur was transported to his introduction into Project Somnacin.
But then Eames appeared.
He sported wet, disheveled hair and a damp shirt, all the way unbuttoned. He cheeks were red, infused with color, as though he had rushed from wherever he had come from.
Arthur exhaled quickly, moving inside before he could analyze the forger any more. Once inside, the building's industrial lighting hit him full force. This place is much larger than it looks. Arthur turned back around, his nose wrinkling as he came face-to-face with Eames and his attire. "I think your shirt looks even worse when wet. I wasn't aware that was possible, Mr. Eames."
"Ta, Arthur," Eames shot back, closing the door tightly. He slid the bolt into place, his body turned halfway towards Arthur's discomfited one. "And those trousers look even more uncomfortable than they did yesterday." Arthur frowned, following Eames as they walked over to the only furniture in the room, an empty desk and a sad-looking chair. They crowded around them, water dripping from their clothes onto the concrete floor in rhythmic splashes.
"Alright," Eames said, breaking the hush. He fell back into the sole chair with a sigh, the springs creaking in protest under him. "What do we know about your lovely team?"
"We've gone over this, Eames." Arthur leaned against the bare wall, crossing his arms. The cold seeped through his borrowed jacket, Eames' jacket, chilling his leaden skin. "The chemist for Eva Jansen's job, Ray, died. Emilia, our forger, is gone, and both real and fake Hans are dead - which leaves me with one less architect and one more question mark in this whole situation."
"Oy, but what about your extractor, Arthur? Jack the Ripper?"
Arthur sighed, exhaling. "I told Sandy to leave the country or die." Unbidden, disjointed scenes of his first return to consciousness flit through Arthur's mind - Sandy's argumentative voice, Emilia's quick thinking, the impact of the gun as it slid across Arthur's cheekbone, Colin's bodyguard in the corner, slick slick blood and the remains of Ray's pulverized skull littering the -
"Fine," Eames said easily, twirling a disassembled pen he had unearthed from a grimy desk drawer. He flung the spring at Arthur, dragging him back to the present. "But what if she didn't?"
"Didn't what?"
Eames just looked at Arthur, his lips parted in expectance as he took in the point man's uncharacteristic disorientation. Arthur, blinking, waved his hand as though to dismiss his . "You're asking me if I think Sandy stayed in Britain? Eames, why would she stay - unless she has a death wish."
Arthur rapped his fingers against the wall behind him. The stone, like his fingers, was ice.
"It's obvious she has something to do with this mess," Arthur muttered.
Eames' eyes watched Arthur's extraneous movement. "If your wonderful extractor did stay in London, love, that opens a world of possibilities." Eames leaned in, dragging something out from the depths of his jacket. "Think about it," the forger said.
Something thunked onto the desk between them. Eames shoved the bag across the surface of the table towards Arthur. Grabbing the bag, Arthur inspected the label warily - 'Evidence'. Nice, Arthur thought. Add Eames stealing from a crime scene to my list of risk factors.
At Eames' nod, Arthur unsealed the bag, extracting its contents. He stared a moment. A radio.
"Why did you retrieve this?" Arthur asked, inspecting the device more thoroughly. "This is the radio Eddie radioed 'SOS' from - you stole it from the crime scene?"
"Of course."
"And how is this connected to Sandy?" Arthur asked. He stepped closer to Eames, setting the object back on the desk harder than strictly required. I don't see why we had to go through all of the separation and delay for this. "Obviously, I don't have all the facts, but I hardly doubt Sandy's arrest warrants in the U.S. are connected with a military radio. Unless you're suggesting that it was planted?" Arthur raised an eyebrow. "This is far-fetched, even for you, Eames."
"This whole thing is bloody 'far-fetched'!" Eames threw his hands up, his foot reaching out to poke Arthur's own. "For all the time I spent hanging about those useless bobbies at the crime scene, I felt like this might have been worth it. Ms. Serial Killer is a prime suspect. You told me she knew this Colin Jansen. And now that Andrea's gone on off her own - "
" - you think Sandy's implicated," Arthur finished. "Because for Andrea to be part of whatever Colin is trying to accomplish, someone who knew Hans would have to connect his wife to Jansen. Emilia or Sandy."
"Convoluted, but possible." Eames flicked another piece of his destroyed pen towards Arthur, and the point man dodged neatly, avoiding the capsule of ink. "What do you think of this forger you used - " Eames raised his eyebrow " - you know, darling, the one you used instead of me, even though I was leagues more qualified and right in bloody London, not to mention - "
" - Not to mention Emilia escaped on her own, and came up clean on all background checks," Arthur cut in. "And even during my escape - " What had Hans said? 'The other man was taken out by Emilia, but not for long!' "Emilia helped - even with bullets flying."
"So either this Emilia was a brilliant actress - " Here Eames pursed his lips, miffed, " - but from what you told me, I would think not - "
" - and the other suspect is a confirmed psychopath, Eames - "
" - so while lacking in forgery skills, I would conclude that - What's the American saying, Arthur?" Eames tilted back in the desk chair to meet Arthur's eyes, his expression still partly irritated, partly amused. "If it looks like a duck, swims like a duck…"
Arthur rolled his eyes, setting the radio back onto the desk. He had sat through Eames' explanation readily, wishing it was the truth. "Look at this," Arthur asserted. He unzipped his jacket, once more unfolding the newspaper. Shaking the pages to get rid the excess rainwater, Arthur plopped the pile into Eames' lap. "Look at this."
Eames looked skeptical, and proceeded to read various titles out loud in a caricature of a morning news reporter:
'Police Response to Increasing Pressure for Capture of Suspect at Large'
'Women Found Dead in Thames River, Suspected Homicide'
'Liam Payne - Next to Leave One Direction?'
"So?" Eames looked up. "Crime, death, and pop culture. The usual bollocks, love."
Arthur tapped his finger onto the second title. And then, at Eames' pout - "Take a look," Arthur commanded.
"Yeah, yeah, probably some gang." Eames' eyes flicked over the damp paper, his foot tapping an irregular beat on the cement floor. "River, cement shoes, police investigation…" Eames muttered. "Boring."
"Keep going."
"Victim is described as… younger woman, curly hair, dark skin…" Eames looked up. "Are you having a laugh, Arthur? Out of all the people in the city?"
"What was it you said about possibilities, Eames?" Arthur said. "It's Andrea." Arthur swiped his stolen phone off the desk, displaying a page he had researched earlier. "Here's the crime scene photos. The job looks professionally done."
Eames reached out for the phone, newspaper forgotten. He flicked through the pictures quickly, methodically. "You're right," he acquiesced, his voice hollow. It was obvious Eames had bonded to Andrea much closer than Arthur had originally thought, and now that this headline had just absolved her of any wrongdoing - well, it just meant Andrea had been an innocent woman caught in a deadly position.
Eames thrust the phone back at Arthur abruptly. "Andrea's dead, then. Murdered." Eames swore, his hand slapping his thigh. "And we're back to bloody square one."
"Not quite," Arthur said, dropping down to sit on the edge of the desk. He shifted, uncomfortable, and Eames patted his lap invitingly. Arthur just shook his head, remembering the events of the night. His eyes traced the scratches on Eames' arm, inflicted by Arthur himself - Don't get too close.
"What if - " Eames stopped himself. "In dreamshare. What is it the architects always harp on about?"
Arthur crossed his arms, turning to better face Eames. He kicked his feet into the forger's lap. "Detail," Arthur said. "Imagine even the smallest component of the dream. Use details from real life, but never entire areas."
"Right as always, darling."
"Your point?"
"Detail," Eames echoed. "Do you think Colin Jansen is an organized man?"
Most people did not fit Arthur's definition of organized. But he humored Eames, if only because he felt mildly guilty for waiting to tell Eames about Andrea. "No," Arthur stated slowly. "Unhinged, maybe. Desperate. But not organized. When this whole episode… began," Arthur said, conveniently glossing over his various problems, injuries, and subsequent treatment. "Jansen was desperate. He claimed he wanted in on dreamsharing for persuasion techniques, but also to find out if his mother knew specific stock codes."
"Stock codes?" Eames asked distractedly, his eyes firmly on Arthur's shoes, which rested centimeters away from the forger's chest. And… other parts, Arthur realized.
"Yes, Eames," Arthur said, quickly shimming his feet farther down Eames' thighs. Eames caught Arthur's legs before he could swing them off. "Stock codes to the medication - the one I told you about before. Eszopiclone. Pergamonium?" Arthur's refresher came out as a question - he was too busy trying to figure out why Eames was obsessed with Arthur's shoes.
Eames waved his hand, as though he couldn't care less about Jansen's motivations. "But was he organized? Did Jansen know his whole team, all of his bodyguards?"
"Some of them," Arthur said, flashing back to when Jansen had dug his pistol into Arthur's cheekbone. The bodyguard. Adam. "But the other men that dragged Colin away, the hired help that targeted us the day Eddie went missing - I don't think Jansen knew them all. Hell, if the fake Hans had been working for Jansen, that means there was friendly fire. That man was shot by a sniper while you got the car."
"Hmm," Eames hummed once more. He fingered the end of Arthur's shoes, quiet.
"What?" Arthur asked finally, annoyed at the seemingly irrelevant questioning.
"These are my shoes," Eames said finally, his fingers tightening minutely on Arthur's borrowed oxfords. Arthur just looked at Eames a moment, stunned.
"What the fuck is with you today, Eames?" Arthur jerked his feet out from the forger's hands, sliding off the desk with a thud. "I'm nationally wanted for fucking murder and not only do you not inform me of your plans, but you wander off to get a radio?" He shook his head violently, his back letting out a throb of complaint. "Are you insane, Eames? Are you trying to get us killed?"
"What are you doing?" Eames fired back, suddenly angry. He was up from the chair, disassembled pen forgotten, shirt still unbuttoned. He faced Arthur, his arms crossing over his chest. "You're distracted and angry and bloody fidgety, and you know you're not acting yourself, Arthur! You almost killed me last night. You're lucky you didn't."
Arthur felt the urge to blanch at Eames' words, to balk, but - if anything, the accusations made him even more heated. Out of control. He straightened up even more, hands clenched into loose fists at his sides. "Yeah, I fucking cracked, just because I was stuck at your goddamn house in your goddamn childhoodroom with your goddamn mother - who thinks you're some con artist, not a fucking dream world - "
"Stop," Eames said, his countenance stormy, his voice rough. "We're not talking about her."
"Oh, we're not?" Arthur snapped. "Even though I was with her this whole time, out of the picture, removed from this mess, unable to get information, just sitting and waiting and every hour thinking running into your mother was a fucking reckless and avoidable liability - "
"Fine then, just go die somewhere else next time," Eames spat, pushing the radio off the desk with a sweep of his hand. It fell with a loud crack, pieces flying over the cement. "Just go bloody bleed out on someone else's doorstep, call someone else, throw another crackpot team together that will inevitably go sideways, just because you can't fucking enjoy life for one minute - "
"Shut up," Arthur said, staring at the broken device on the floor.
"No, I will not fucking shut up, you mother - "
"No," Arthur interjected, his voice low and hard. "I have an idea."
"Oh, you have an idea," Eames said acerbically, his palm clenching the desk, fingernails digging into the wood. "Because all of your ideas have ended so well recently."
"It's not my idea," Arthur said impatiently. "It was yours. You said it yourself, Jansen isn't organized, he doesn't know all of his men, all of his bodyguards - "
"- Oh, and I suppose we just stroll in there, right as rain, mirroring their precise outfits, weapons, schedules, and floor plans, is that it?" Eames scoffed. "Of course, why didn't I think of that sooner?"
"Because we were thinking too small," Arthur said, stealing Eames' recently vacated seat. He tapped at a few buttons on his phone, staring at the screen impassively. "We just need sway."
"Sway." Eames looked tired. "And what kind of 'sway' would that be, Arthur?"
Arthur looked up from his phone, his fingers pausing over the lighted screen. "The kind that can buy out an airline company, Eames."
A/N: Sorry for the sporadic updates. Hoping to reach a regular schedule again soon. :)