Fic: When I was a Child [Inception]
Title: When I was a Child
Character/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, Cobb, Phillipa (mentions of Ariadne, Saito, Yusuf, James)
Rating: PG - 13
Disclaimer: Mr. Nolan owns it all
Warnings: Language, character death(?)
Summary: Phillipa Marjorie Cobb is only five minutes old the first time she sees her Uncle Arthur. She's eleven the first time she sees him shoot a man. But it doesn't scare her. Not one little bit.
Author's Notes: Written for the prompt on inception_kink : Phillipa is eleven years old the first time she sees her Uncle Arthur shoot a man."
Phillipa Marjorie Cobb is only five minutes old the first time she sees her Uncle Arthur.
It goes like this: Dom is standing by the hospital bed, suspiciously red-eyed and beaming, a first time father already enamored with this small, wrinkly, pink-faced creature that will one day throw temper tantrums and date boys that he'll have to beat off with a stick, but as of right now she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen and she'll forever be his little princess. Mal leans against the hospital's woefully thin pillows, cheeks flushed, hoarse, and exhausted but still as radiant ever and practically glowing as she cradles the small bundle of life close to her heart.
Arthur stands with his hands clasped politely behind his back, a respectful distance away from the bed so as to give the new parents the privacy required for the tears, the joy, and the inevitable mini freak out that mingles with the exhilaration, the silent mantras of What if I mess up? What if she hates me? What if I'm not a good parent? running on mental repeat. He looks tired, dark circles under-shadowing his eyes, having just come from a rush job, citing family emergency even though those he'd been working with know his true reason for running off. He's still as sharp as ever though, despite the hasty plane ride and difference in (several) time zones - not one wrinkle mars his suit, not one hair strays out of place. Dom has already caught several of the nurses giggling to each other and making dreamy eyes at his point man, and had been struck with the sudden, irrational fear of his own little girl one day looking at Arthur with the same starry-eyed expression.
Mal glances up from the small huddle with her husband and new daughter, and smiles at the room's other occupant. "Arthur." Her voice is raspy. It had been a rather lengthy and difficult labor. "Arthur, would you like to hold her?"
Dom doesn't think he's ever seen Arthur Davidson turn so white.
"W-what?" Arthur falters, both in speech and action. His hands now hang loosely by his sides, fingers drumming a nervous tempo into his thigh; he takes a half-step forward, hesitates. "Are you sure?"
The new mother nods, frowning just a bit, as if the question and the reassurance sought comes as ridiculous. "Of course." And Mal, beautiful, kind, generous Mal is holding out the small, pink-swathed bundle, placing it gently in Arthur's arms, letting go easily and leaning into her husband's embrace with a tired sigh. So trusting of putting her newborn child in the arms of another, so calm about letting a man who can dissemble and reassemble a gun while blindfolded and whose hands were bathed with crimson just mere hours ago, hold her sleeping baby.
Arthur gazes down into the pink, slightly squashed face of this tiny, fragile little spark of beauty and holds his breath as little Phillipa's eyes slowly blink open - a deep chocolate brown, just like her mother's; he smoothes a gentle hand over the tiny wisps of cornsilk hair, watches in undisguised fascination as the baby's little mouth opens in an enormous yawn, as she blows a tiny spit bubble, as she drifts back into sleep safely nestled in her Uncle Arthur's arms.
Dom watches his most trusted business associate and confidant cradling his daughter and smiles; Mal's already drifting off again, and Arthur has the biggest, goofiest smile stretching his face, revealing rarely-seen dimples. A nurse wandering around outside catches glimpse of the sight and nearly swoons on the spot.
No one sees the red embedded in the grooves of Arthur's knuckles and in the ridges around his fingernails, evidence of the blood he hadn't the time to scrub away - or if they do, they choose not to comment.
* - * - *
At age three, Phillipa is a bright young child with a big heart and even bigger eyes that she often uses to goad her father or her Uncle Arthur into a piggyback ride or just one cookie before dinner even though Mommy said no. She's always asking questions: Why does baby Jamie cry all the time? Why can't I fly far, far away like the birdies? Why did you yell 'fuck' when you smashed your finger with the hammer, Daddy?
Sometimes Daddy tells her (except for the time he turned very, very red, like the color of Mommy's pretty dress and told her that only grown ups could say what he just said, and only when they hurt very, very badly); sometimes Mommy laughs and kisses her hair, says we'll just have to ask God one day, sweetie or simply stares wordlessly at her, sending her to go play with her toys. Mommy doesn't like Phillipa asking very many questions as of late and so she saves them inside, like secrets or wishes, for when she looks out the window at night searching for shooting stars. Or for when Uncle Arthur comes.
Uncle Arthur doesn't come by very often but when he does, he always greets Phillipa with a hug, a kiss on the forehead, a present - and best of all, all the answers. Whether she asks him why the sky is blue or why the grouchy next door neighbor's kitty Mr. Snuggles doesn't like to be snuggled at all, Uncle Arthur always sits her on his knee or crouches down so he can look her in the eye - Phillipa likes that; likes looking into his dark, serious eyes because it makes her feel important - and explains so that she can understand, talking to her in his grown-up way and not all babyish, because she's too old for that.
Secretly, Phillipa thinks that her Uncle Arthur is the smartest man in the world, even smarter than Daddy maybe, because he always has all the answers. Always.
Except for that one morning Phillipa wakes up to find Mommy gone to Heaven, and never coming back, Daddy gone on vacation, and not coming back for a long time and Uncle Arthur sitting at the kitchen table, crisp, white shirt wrinkled, shoulders slumped, head in his hands. When she climbs into his lap and hugs her arms around his neck, she sees that his eyes are red and she wonders why, why, why, so many questions floating around like kite tails in her head, and so she asks them.
"Uncle Arthur?"
"Yes, Phillipa?" His voice sounds funny, like Phillipa's does whenever she gets a cold and has to cough and blow her nose like a honking goose.
"Why isn't Mommy coming back from Heaven? Why is Daddy on vacation, and why can't I go, too? We wouldn't have to take baby Jamie 'cause he cries too much. Can I have toast soldiers? Mommy makes them for me all the time. Nana is still in bed, and I think I heard crying. Is she sick? Can I..."
But then Uncle Arthur is hugging her tight, so tight that Phillipa stops talking because she never likes getting squeezed too much by Nana and Grandpa, but Uncle Arthur's shoulders are shaking like he's cold, so cold, so she pats his back like Mommy does for her. He doesn't say anything for a long, long time and Phillipa lets him hug her tight because she never squirms her way out of one of Uncle Arthur's hugs, never.
It's only after Uncle Arthur leaves to go help your Daddy, he says while looking her straight in the eyes, in that very serious and grown-up way of his as always, and Phillipa sits at the kitchen table munching on toast soldiers that Nana made (they're really not as good as Mommy's) that she suddenly remembers that Uncle Arthur didn't answer any of her questions.
Not a single one.
* - * - *
Phillipa meets Mr. Eames when she's six years old, right after Daddy finally comes back from his vacation - and it was a very long vacation, one that Daddy promises never to take ever again - and she immediately decides that she doesn't like him.
James likes Mr. Eames well enough, because the man makes funny faces and bounces him up and down on one knee - but he's little and not that smart, not as smart as Phillipa anyways, who sees the way Uncle Arthur looks at this loud, laughing stranger with his funny way of speaking and bright, colorful shirts, sees the way Uncle Arthur frowns and the way his dark, serious eyes turn angry or sometimes, so very sad.
She's seen Uncle Arthur angry before, stern toward her once, even (although she really was being naughty that time when she hit James on the head with her doll) but she's never ever seen him look like that, in a way that makes Phillipa's chest hurt, hurt in the way a band-aid can't fix. And so even though she finds a lot of Mr. Eames' jokes funny, and really likes the big coloring book he bought along as a present, Philipa still can't find it within herself to like him, especially when he makes Uncle Arthur so sad.
She's not rude, because Mommy taught her better than that; she's always very polite when Daddy's friends come over. This time, it's no different - a timid hello to Miss Ariadne and Mr. Yusuf, a shy little giggle when Mr. Saito calls her "little one" and kisses her hand like a real princess, and of course, a loud squeal and big hug when Uncle Arthur walks through the door, barely having time to set down his briefcase and her present before she barrels him over. When Mr. Eames comes in though, about an hour after everyone else, Phillipa clutches Daddy's leg tightly and sneaks a quick peek over at Uncle Arthur.
Surprisingly enough, there's a small smile on his face, and Phillipa relaxes ever so slightly because Uncle Arthur has such a nice smile, one that makes her want to smile too, and so she does. That is, until, Miss Ariadne sees something on Mr. Eames.
"Eames, is that - is that a lipstick stain?" The young woman stands on tiptoe and pulls at the forger's collar, flipping it over - and sure enough, there's the distinct evidence of a night of passion, whispered sweet nothings, of a parting call me, sugar in the red imprint of lips against blue shirt.
Mr. Eames laughs that loud, friendly laugh of his and slings an arm around Miss Ariadne's slim shoulders, saying something that sounds like wouldn't you like to know. While everyone else is busy laughing at the bright red flush spreading across the latter's cheeks, Phillipa turns her head to look at Uncle Arthur, and sees that he isn't laughing. He isn't even smiling anymore, and as he turns very quickly to walk out into the backyard, Phillipha catches sight of the expression on his face, and what she sees there makes her very angry, even angrier than the time Sally from down the street smugly told her that her Daddy would never go on an extra long vacation without her, because her Daddy loves her (Sally still has a big scar on her leg from where Phillipa pushed her down because of that).
When the others drift outside with drinks in hand or to go play with James, Phillipha refuses to let go of Daddy's leg and stands there, face half-hidden behind denim pant leg, glaring at Mr. Eames, who doesn't leave and instead walks closer, talking in a low voice.
"Bloody hell Cobb, could you have picked a more touchy-feely mark? I couldn't get the stupid cow's hands off of me." His tone is one of disgust, and he seems to have forgotten that Phillipa is standing there until Daddy tips his head downwards with a displeased clearing of his throat and a Look, with a capital 'L'. Then he looks down at her and smiles. "Ah, hello there, Phillipa."
In response, she draws her foot back and kicks him directly in the shin. Hard.
"Phillipa!" Daddy sounds aghast and Mr. Eames is now leaning heavily against the counter, face tight with pain. "Apologize to Mr. Eames, right now!"
"No!" Phillipa says stoutly, glaring at Mr. Eames, decidedly unapologetic. "Not until he says sorry for hurting Uncle Arthur first!"
Daddy stops trying to disentangle Phillipa's arms from around his leg and now he and Mr. Eames are looking at her very strangely. "What?"
Now Phillipa knows that the 's' word is a bad word, but why, oh why are grown-ups so...so stupid sometimes? She stamps her foot impatiently and her lower lip starts to tremble because all she wants to do is help Uncle Arthur stop being so sad, and Daddy can't even understand her! "He always hurts Uncle Arthur," she sniffs, lifting a finger and pointing accusingly at Mr. Eames, who looks horrified. "I've seen him!"
Daddy turns on Mr. Eames quickly, his face suddenly dark and terrible in that scary way that Phillipa has only seen once before, when Daddy got a phone call one night from Miss Ariadne, saying something about Uncle Arthur being hurt on a mountain (whose name Phillipa can't pronounce - Himmy? Himalalas?) and in trouble with some bad people called Cobol. "Have you?" he says as if he's talking to Phillipa, but he's looking at Mr. Eames.
Mr. Eames' eyes are wide and scared, and if Phillipa didn't know for sure that he was hurting Uncle Arthur, she might think she had made a mistake. "I..." he falters, and shakes his head. "I haven't the faintest idea what she's going on about, Cobb. I haven't done anything to hurt Arthur."
"You have too!" Phillipa insists, voice rising because if Mr. Eames doesn't stop lying, she's going to kick him again. "You make him sad and mad all the time and you don't say sorry, and even when Uncle Arthur smiles at you, you always do something to make him sad again! You- you- stupid meanie!" She clenches her fists. "So go say SORRY!"
Nobody says anything for a long time, and then when Daddy speaks, his voice is odd-sounding, like he's trying hard not to laugh, and Phillipa can't see why, because Uncle Arthur being sad isn't funny. "Yes, Eames," he says, "Phillipa is right." He points at the backyard. "Go say sorry."
Wordlessly, Mr. Eames turns and (supposedly) goes to apologize.
- - - - -
Later that night, after Daddy takes her aside and tells her very firmly not to kick others and although it's good to use her words, certain words like stupid meanie aren't kind, Phillipa walks into the kitchen for a glass of water and sees Uncle Arthur and Mr. Eames sitting at the table together. Mr. Eames looks almost like a different man; he's no longer loud or waving his hands around in big gestures. Instead, he's smiling at Uncle Arthur and holding one of his hands, talking softly in that funny-sounding way of his.
And Uncle Arthur's smiling right back.
Phillipa feels shy suddenly, and she doesn't quite know why. "Did he say sorry?" she asks in an uncertain voice from where she stands near the fridge, and the two men turn toward her.
Uncle Arthur pushes back from the table a bit, an obvious invitation, and when she crawls into his lap, he kisses her hair. From across the table, Mr. Eames smiles as he watches Phillipa snuggle in close. "Yes, Phillipa," Uncle Arthur murmurs over her head, looking back at Mr. Eames. "Yes, he did."
He looks so happy that Phillipa decides that maybe Mr. Eames isn't so bad after all.
- - - - -
It isn't until much later after some bad men take Mr. Eames away and hurt him (why, she doesn't know and Daddy won't explain) that Phillipa finally understands, understands that Uncle Arthur loves Mr. Eames like Daddy and Mommy loved each other, that sometimes people hurt each other even when they love each other very, very much, and that sometimes it's okay to be mad and sad at the people you love
This new understanding changes everything.
She makes a card out of construction paper and blue crayon, writing in her neatest print, just like Miss Richardson taught in school: "Get Well, Uncle Eames!"
* - * - *
"YOU TAKE IT BACK!!"
Phillipa is nine years old when she gets into her first fistfight - a real fistfight, not play wrestling with Jamie or tickle fights with Uncle Eames - and she's winning.
Her opponent is a stocky boy in a grade above hers, a good head taller than her, all thick stubby fingers and squinty beady eyes in his face. But it's his mouth, his nasty mouth and mean words that makes Phillipa forget all about using her own words and keeping her hands to herself.
"I SAID, 'TAKE IT BACK'!!!"
Her arms are skinny and she weighs but ninety pounds, but the strength she uses to pummel said stupid boy into the ground comes not from any physical prowess, but from an anger that stirs deep within her belly, from a dark swell in her chest that Phillipa thinks might be called hate.
"PHILLIPA MARJORIE COBB!"
Daddy's voice booms out from above her but for once Phillipa doesn't care, doesn't care that Daddy sounds so very angry and so very scary, she merely continues to hit, hit, hit with all her might and when a pair of big strong arms encircle her waist and literally pluck her up into the air, she's still kicking out with her feet, managing to catch the boy on the rump one last time before Daddy spins her around, blue eyes flashing dangerously, red in the face.
In the background, the boy howls pathetically, rolling around on the ground, but Phillipa hears her father's voice loud and clear, hears him say in a hiss like a snake: "Go and wait in the car, young lady."
Young lady.
Suddenly teaching the mean boy a lesson doesn't seem like such a good idea after all, and when they get back home (after a long, silent car ride), Phillipa dashes out of the car and into the house before Daddy can catch her. She rushes past where Uncle Arthur is making Jamie an afternoon snack in the kitchen, not even stopping for a hug or a hello before scampering up the stairs and into her room.
She hugs her teddy to her chest and sniffs angrily. It's not fair. Daddy doesn't know what happened; he didn't hear what the other boy said. It's not her fault, and besides, she didn't hurt him that badly. It's not like he was dying or anything. Daddy will punish her, but right now Phillipa doesn't really care because she's too angry. She hates the unfairness of everything, hates how Jamie can sit at the counter munching away on his celery sticks and peanut butter like nothing's wrong, hates how there are people who are mean and terrible and simply plain ugly.
From downstairs, she hears a low murmur of voices, words muffled, Daddy's rising and lowering followed by Uncle Arthur's quiet, serious one. A moment later, there's a gentle rap on her door and Phillipa knows that it's Uncle Arthur, because he's the only one who can come up the stairs without making them squeak. "Phillipa?" Another knock, not harsh and demanding, just a question of invitation. "May I come in?"
She wipes her nose with the back of her hand and sniffs, fiercely. "Okay."
The door opens to reveal Uncle Arthur standing there, with a plate of sliced apples and honey for dipping, Phillipa's favorite. He scans the room for a moment before he catches glimpse of Phillipa's feet sticking out from the small niche between the side of her bed and her dresser, a perfect hiding spot for any little girl. Picking his way across the room in those black, shiny shoes that never seem to get dirty, he's soon sitting down in front of her, laying the plate on the bedside table and looking at her. Not saying anything, just waiting, waiting for her to speak first. And sure enough, she does. Daddy's angry with her and that makes her angry too, but Phillipa can't stand the quiet disappoint she sees in Uncle Arthur's eyes.
She can't.
"I just wanted him to take it back."
"Take what back?" Uncle Arthur's voice is quiet, serious as ever, but kind. Always so kind. There's no anger, just a bid for understanding, and Phillipa feels tears welling up in her eyes.
"He...he said that..." She sucks in a deep breath, eyes fixed on Uncle Arthur's freshly pressed slacks. "He said my 'fag uncle' is wrong and should be locked up in jail." There's no response and Phillipa starts getting scared. Maybe she shouldn't have repeated, maybe she shouldn't have said anything at all, and just taken Daddy's punishment. "But he's the one who's wrong," she blurts out hurriedly, "he doesn't know anything. I told him to take it back but he wouldn't so I tried to tell him that you and Uncle Eames love each other, and that loving can't be wrong, and he just laughed-"
"Oh, Phillipa." Uncle Arthur holds out his arms and Phillipa goes to him without hesitation, hugging her arms around his neck and not caring that she's quickly getting too big for his lap, and as Uncle Arthur hugs her tight, Phillipa knows, she knows deep down in her heart that the stupid boy is just that, stupid and wrong, because Uncle Arthur could never be wrong. He's her smart, brave, strong Uncle Arthur, and he loves Uncle Eames, and there's nothing wrong with that.
Nothing.
- - - - -
She doesn't get in trouble for the fight. Uncle Arthur makes sure of it.
* - * - *
"Uncle Eames, wake up. Please. Please, wake up!"
She pats his stubbled cheeks, trying to hold back the tears, fingers coming away sticky with the blood that streaks down his swollen face. She wipes it away on her pink jacket, struggling not to scream and hit him because she doesn't know what else to do, and Uncle Eames has to wake up, he has to.
Uncle Arthur, why does the man keep telling the lady to stay awake?
Well, Phillipa, it's because the lady hit her head really hard, and the man is afraid that if the lady goes to sleep, she won't wake up.
...she might die?
Yes.
Phillipa doesn't know how long they've been sitting here in the dark, how many hours or days have passed by since she and Uncle Eames had been driving back home from school with the windows rolled down and the top flipped back, her laughing at some funny story (Uncle Eames always tells the best stories) when the car behind them - a big black sedan with tinted windows, just like in the movies - rammed into the back of Uncle Arthur's BMW, forcing them off the road and down the side of a steep ravine.
She doesn't know how long it's been since she woke up feeling like that one time she'd been riding Molly's scooter and lost control while rolling down that big hill behind school, letting out a startled cry at seeing the faceless shadows in black ski masks and jumpsuits looming over her menacingly before she heard Uncle Eames' voice (still that same accent, even though nowadays he and Uncle Arthur move back and forth between Chicago, New York, Paris, and of course, Los Angeles) shouting at the men, sounding more dangerous than she could ever remember.
Leave the girl alone, he had growled, literally growled like a bear, like the dragon he used to pretend to be so long ago, during the long summer days as he played with her and Jamie in the backyard. It's me you want so don't you wankers touch her!
That was the last time she heard or saw him for a long, long time, and when she saw him again, he was hurt and bleeding, bleeding from everywhere it seemed, and she cried, cried out of fear and shock until he pulled himself up with difficulty and wiped her tears away, told her hush, dove, hush. He said it would be alright, that everything would be okay. And she believed him.
But that was a long time ago, and Phillipa is starting to think that Uncle Eames is a liar.
"Uncle Eames." His head is heavy in her lap; blood turning her dirty jeans a dark brown, and she bends her head down, throat closing up with sobs, stroking her trembling fingers through his blood-caked hair. His skin is cold. "Uncle Eames, tell me a story. Please."
Uncle Arthur still gives her all the answers, like he always has (he's a godsend when it comes to homework), but it's Uncle Eames who tells her stories, tales of faraway lands with exotic names (like Mombassa, Gadzhiyevo, Milan), of how he and Uncle Arthur first met and how he hated him at first (now she laughs herself silly every time Uncle Arthur wears his black suit with the white pinstripes), of Miss Ariadne who's getting married soon, of exactly what Mr. Saito does with all of his money (something about buying a lot of carpet and airlines). Whenever she gets upset, Uncle Eames is always there by phone or email or in person, to tell her a story to distract her, to cheer her up, to make everything okay again in his own way.
"Wake up," Phillipa whispers, but Uncle Eames doesn't.
BANG.
The door slams open and Phillipa blinks at the sudden brightness, eyes adjusting just in time to see two of the men dressed in black storming in. One of them grabs Uncle Eames and she screams, winding her arms around the man she's come to love as a part of her own family, holding tight and refusing to let go. "NO!"
One of them grabs her hair and she screams again, this time because it hurts, reaching back to hit and kick, biting into the arm around her throat and she fights like a wild animal, screaming out: "Let me go, let me go! UNCLE EAMES!!"
At that moment, the man dragging Uncle Eames away stiffens oddly and then falls gracelessly, sprawling out across the cold concrete floor, a puddle of red unfolding under his form. Uncle Eames falls limply as well, and he doesn't move. The man holding Phillipa back curses and grips her even tighter, a difficult task indeed, very much like trying to hold onto a slippery wet fish wriggling in attempts to jump back into water. A screaming wet wriggling fish.
Uncle Arthur marches into the dark warehouse and from behind him spills an entire army of black-suited men with helmets and guns just like on TV, pointing guns and yelling demands. The man holding Phillipa jerks and waves a gun around, yelling something as he puts the cold metal to her face and Phillipa screams, choking on her tears - screams for Uncle Arthur to save her, screams for Uncle Eames who lies still and unmoving, screams because she knows nothing about dream sharing or extraction or how anyone in the world could ever want to hurt anyone else over an idea.
Phillipa is eleven years old the first time she sees her Uncle Arthur shoot a man. But it doesn't scare her, the rage on the face of the man she's known her whole life, the way he lifts his arm and the way the gun he holds spits fire that pierces the man holding her back straight between the eyes. Uncle Arthur's eyes are dark and terrible, but it doesn't scare her. Not one little bit. Because he does it for her.
What does terrify her though, more than anything else, is seeing her Uncle Arthur - her brave, strong, handsome Uncle Arthur - sinking to his knees and cradling Uncle Eames' still, still frame in his arms, watching him bow his head, and howl out in anguish.
- - - - -
Phillipa is eleven years old the first time she sees her Uncle Arthur break down and cry.
* - * - *
A/N: Hey there! *waves* Yes, I'm still alive. Been working hard on that Big Bang, but I simply had to write this prompt. Hope you all enjoyed!
Character/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, Cobb, Phillipa (mentions of Ariadne, Saito, Yusuf, James)
Rating: PG - 13
Disclaimer: Mr. Nolan owns it all
Warnings: Language, character death(?)
Summary: Phillipa Marjorie Cobb is only five minutes old the first time she sees her Uncle Arthur. She's eleven the first time she sees him shoot a man. But it doesn't scare her. Not one little bit.
Author's Notes: Written for the prompt on inception_kink : Phillipa is eleven years old the first time she sees her Uncle Arthur shoot a man."
Phillipa Marjorie Cobb is only five minutes old the first time she sees her Uncle Arthur.
It goes like this: Dom is standing by the hospital bed, suspiciously red-eyed and beaming, a first time father already enamored with this small, wrinkly, pink-faced creature that will one day throw temper tantrums and date boys that he'll have to beat off with a stick, but as of right now she's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen and she'll forever be his little princess. Mal leans against the hospital's woefully thin pillows, cheeks flushed, hoarse, and exhausted but still as radiant ever and practically glowing as she cradles the small bundle of life close to her heart.
Arthur stands with his hands clasped politely behind his back, a respectful distance away from the bed so as to give the new parents the privacy required for the tears, the joy, and the inevitable mini freak out that mingles with the exhilaration, the silent mantras of What if I mess up? What if she hates me? What if I'm not a good parent? running on mental repeat. He looks tired, dark circles under-shadowing his eyes, having just come from a rush job, citing family emergency even though those he'd been working with know his true reason for running off. He's still as sharp as ever though, despite the hasty plane ride and difference in (several) time zones - not one wrinkle mars his suit, not one hair strays out of place. Dom has already caught several of the nurses giggling to each other and making dreamy eyes at his point man, and had been struck with the sudden, irrational fear of his own little girl one day looking at Arthur with the same starry-eyed expression.
Mal glances up from the small huddle with her husband and new daughter, and smiles at the room's other occupant. "Arthur." Her voice is raspy. It had been a rather lengthy and difficult labor. "Arthur, would you like to hold her?"
Dom doesn't think he's ever seen Arthur Davidson turn so white.
"W-what?" Arthur falters, both in speech and action. His hands now hang loosely by his sides, fingers drumming a nervous tempo into his thigh; he takes a half-step forward, hesitates. "Are you sure?"
The new mother nods, frowning just a bit, as if the question and the reassurance sought comes as ridiculous. "Of course." And Mal, beautiful, kind, generous Mal is holding out the small, pink-swathed bundle, placing it gently in Arthur's arms, letting go easily and leaning into her husband's embrace with a tired sigh. So trusting of putting her newborn child in the arms of another, so calm about letting a man who can dissemble and reassemble a gun while blindfolded and whose hands were bathed with crimson just mere hours ago, hold her sleeping baby.
Arthur gazes down into the pink, slightly squashed face of this tiny, fragile little spark of beauty and holds his breath as little Phillipa's eyes slowly blink open - a deep chocolate brown, just like her mother's; he smoothes a gentle hand over the tiny wisps of cornsilk hair, watches in undisguised fascination as the baby's little mouth opens in an enormous yawn, as she blows a tiny spit bubble, as she drifts back into sleep safely nestled in her Uncle Arthur's arms.
Dom watches his most trusted business associate and confidant cradling his daughter and smiles; Mal's already drifting off again, and Arthur has the biggest, goofiest smile stretching his face, revealing rarely-seen dimples. A nurse wandering around outside catches glimpse of the sight and nearly swoons on the spot.
No one sees the red embedded in the grooves of Arthur's knuckles and in the ridges around his fingernails, evidence of the blood he hadn't the time to scrub away - or if they do, they choose not to comment.
* - * - *
At age three, Phillipa is a bright young child with a big heart and even bigger eyes that she often uses to goad her father or her Uncle Arthur into a piggyback ride or just one cookie before dinner even though Mommy said no. She's always asking questions: Why does baby Jamie cry all the time? Why can't I fly far, far away like the birdies? Why did you yell 'fuck' when you smashed your finger with the hammer, Daddy?
Sometimes Daddy tells her (except for the time he turned very, very red, like the color of Mommy's pretty dress and told her that only grown ups could say what he just said, and only when they hurt very, very badly); sometimes Mommy laughs and kisses her hair, says we'll just have to ask God one day, sweetie or simply stares wordlessly at her, sending her to go play with her toys. Mommy doesn't like Phillipa asking very many questions as of late and so she saves them inside, like secrets or wishes, for when she looks out the window at night searching for shooting stars. Or for when Uncle Arthur comes.
Uncle Arthur doesn't come by very often but when he does, he always greets Phillipa with a hug, a kiss on the forehead, a present - and best of all, all the answers. Whether she asks him why the sky is blue or why the grouchy next door neighbor's kitty Mr. Snuggles doesn't like to be snuggled at all, Uncle Arthur always sits her on his knee or crouches down so he can look her in the eye - Phillipa likes that; likes looking into his dark, serious eyes because it makes her feel important - and explains so that she can understand, talking to her in his grown-up way and not all babyish, because she's too old for that.
Secretly, Phillipa thinks that her Uncle Arthur is the smartest man in the world, even smarter than Daddy maybe, because he always has all the answers. Always.
Except for that one morning Phillipa wakes up to find Mommy gone to Heaven, and never coming back, Daddy gone on vacation, and not coming back for a long time and Uncle Arthur sitting at the kitchen table, crisp, white shirt wrinkled, shoulders slumped, head in his hands. When she climbs into his lap and hugs her arms around his neck, she sees that his eyes are red and she wonders why, why, why, so many questions floating around like kite tails in her head, and so she asks them.
"Uncle Arthur?"
"Yes, Phillipa?" His voice sounds funny, like Phillipa's does whenever she gets a cold and has to cough and blow her nose like a honking goose.
"Why isn't Mommy coming back from Heaven? Why is Daddy on vacation, and why can't I go, too? We wouldn't have to take baby Jamie 'cause he cries too much. Can I have toast soldiers? Mommy makes them for me all the time. Nana is still in bed, and I think I heard crying. Is she sick? Can I..."
But then Uncle Arthur is hugging her tight, so tight that Phillipa stops talking because she never likes getting squeezed too much by Nana and Grandpa, but Uncle Arthur's shoulders are shaking like he's cold, so cold, so she pats his back like Mommy does for her. He doesn't say anything for a long, long time and Phillipa lets him hug her tight because she never squirms her way out of one of Uncle Arthur's hugs, never.
It's only after Uncle Arthur leaves to go help your Daddy, he says while looking her straight in the eyes, in that very serious and grown-up way of his as always, and Phillipa sits at the kitchen table munching on toast soldiers that Nana made (they're really not as good as Mommy's) that she suddenly remembers that Uncle Arthur didn't answer any of her questions.
Not a single one.
* - * - *
Phillipa meets Mr. Eames when she's six years old, right after Daddy finally comes back from his vacation - and it was a very long vacation, one that Daddy promises never to take ever again - and she immediately decides that she doesn't like him.
James likes Mr. Eames well enough, because the man makes funny faces and bounces him up and down on one knee - but he's little and not that smart, not as smart as Phillipa anyways, who sees the way Uncle Arthur looks at this loud, laughing stranger with his funny way of speaking and bright, colorful shirts, sees the way Uncle Arthur frowns and the way his dark, serious eyes turn angry or sometimes, so very sad.
She's seen Uncle Arthur angry before, stern toward her once, even (although she really was being naughty that time when she hit James on the head with her doll) but she's never ever seen him look like that, in a way that makes Phillipa's chest hurt, hurt in the way a band-aid can't fix. And so even though she finds a lot of Mr. Eames' jokes funny, and really likes the big coloring book he bought along as a present, Philipa still can't find it within herself to like him, especially when he makes Uncle Arthur so sad.
She's not rude, because Mommy taught her better than that; she's always very polite when Daddy's friends come over. This time, it's no different - a timid hello to Miss Ariadne and Mr. Yusuf, a shy little giggle when Mr. Saito calls her "little one" and kisses her hand like a real princess, and of course, a loud squeal and big hug when Uncle Arthur walks through the door, barely having time to set down his briefcase and her present before she barrels him over. When Mr. Eames comes in though, about an hour after everyone else, Phillipa clutches Daddy's leg tightly and sneaks a quick peek over at Uncle Arthur.
Surprisingly enough, there's a small smile on his face, and Phillipa relaxes ever so slightly because Uncle Arthur has such a nice smile, one that makes her want to smile too, and so she does. That is, until, Miss Ariadne sees something on Mr. Eames.
"Eames, is that - is that a lipstick stain?" The young woman stands on tiptoe and pulls at the forger's collar, flipping it over - and sure enough, there's the distinct evidence of a night of passion, whispered sweet nothings, of a parting call me, sugar in the red imprint of lips against blue shirt.
Mr. Eames laughs that loud, friendly laugh of his and slings an arm around Miss Ariadne's slim shoulders, saying something that sounds like wouldn't you like to know. While everyone else is busy laughing at the bright red flush spreading across the latter's cheeks, Phillipa turns her head to look at Uncle Arthur, and sees that he isn't laughing. He isn't even smiling anymore, and as he turns very quickly to walk out into the backyard, Phillipha catches sight of the expression on his face, and what she sees there makes her very angry, even angrier than the time Sally from down the street smugly told her that her Daddy would never go on an extra long vacation without her, because her Daddy loves her (Sally still has a big scar on her leg from where Phillipa pushed her down because of that).
When the others drift outside with drinks in hand or to go play with James, Phillipha refuses to let go of Daddy's leg and stands there, face half-hidden behind denim pant leg, glaring at Mr. Eames, who doesn't leave and instead walks closer, talking in a low voice.
"Bloody hell Cobb, could you have picked a more touchy-feely mark? I couldn't get the stupid cow's hands off of me." His tone is one of disgust, and he seems to have forgotten that Phillipa is standing there until Daddy tips his head downwards with a displeased clearing of his throat and a Look, with a capital 'L'. Then he looks down at her and smiles. "Ah, hello there, Phillipa."
In response, she draws her foot back and kicks him directly in the shin. Hard.
"Phillipa!" Daddy sounds aghast and Mr. Eames is now leaning heavily against the counter, face tight with pain. "Apologize to Mr. Eames, right now!"
"No!" Phillipa says stoutly, glaring at Mr. Eames, decidedly unapologetic. "Not until he says sorry for hurting Uncle Arthur first!"
Daddy stops trying to disentangle Phillipa's arms from around his leg and now he and Mr. Eames are looking at her very strangely. "What?"
Now Phillipa knows that the 's' word is a bad word, but why, oh why are grown-ups so...so stupid sometimes? She stamps her foot impatiently and her lower lip starts to tremble because all she wants to do is help Uncle Arthur stop being so sad, and Daddy can't even understand her! "He always hurts Uncle Arthur," she sniffs, lifting a finger and pointing accusingly at Mr. Eames, who looks horrified. "I've seen him!"
Daddy turns on Mr. Eames quickly, his face suddenly dark and terrible in that scary way that Phillipa has only seen once before, when Daddy got a phone call one night from Miss Ariadne, saying something about Uncle Arthur being hurt on a mountain (whose name Phillipa can't pronounce - Himmy? Himalalas?) and in trouble with some bad people called Cobol. "Have you?" he says as if he's talking to Phillipa, but he's looking at Mr. Eames.
Mr. Eames' eyes are wide and scared, and if Phillipa didn't know for sure that he was hurting Uncle Arthur, she might think she had made a mistake. "I..." he falters, and shakes his head. "I haven't the faintest idea what she's going on about, Cobb. I haven't done anything to hurt Arthur."
"You have too!" Phillipa insists, voice rising because if Mr. Eames doesn't stop lying, she's going to kick him again. "You make him sad and mad all the time and you don't say sorry, and even when Uncle Arthur smiles at you, you always do something to make him sad again! You- you- stupid meanie!" She clenches her fists. "So go say SORRY!"
Nobody says anything for a long time, and then when Daddy speaks, his voice is odd-sounding, like he's trying hard not to laugh, and Phillipa can't see why, because Uncle Arthur being sad isn't funny. "Yes, Eames," he says, "Phillipa is right." He points at the backyard. "Go say sorry."
Wordlessly, Mr. Eames turns and (supposedly) goes to apologize.
- - - - -
Later that night, after Daddy takes her aside and tells her very firmly not to kick others and although it's good to use her words, certain words like stupid meanie aren't kind, Phillipa walks into the kitchen for a glass of water and sees Uncle Arthur and Mr. Eames sitting at the table together. Mr. Eames looks almost like a different man; he's no longer loud or waving his hands around in big gestures. Instead, he's smiling at Uncle Arthur and holding one of his hands, talking softly in that funny-sounding way of his.
And Uncle Arthur's smiling right back.
Phillipa feels shy suddenly, and she doesn't quite know why. "Did he say sorry?" she asks in an uncertain voice from where she stands near the fridge, and the two men turn toward her.
Uncle Arthur pushes back from the table a bit, an obvious invitation, and when she crawls into his lap, he kisses her hair. From across the table, Mr. Eames smiles as he watches Phillipa snuggle in close. "Yes, Phillipa," Uncle Arthur murmurs over her head, looking back at Mr. Eames. "Yes, he did."
He looks so happy that Phillipa decides that maybe Mr. Eames isn't so bad after all.
- - - - -
It isn't until much later after some bad men take Mr. Eames away and hurt him (why, she doesn't know and Daddy won't explain) that Phillipa finally understands, understands that Uncle Arthur loves Mr. Eames like Daddy and Mommy loved each other, that sometimes people hurt each other even when they love each other very, very much, and that sometimes it's okay to be mad and sad at the people you love
This new understanding changes everything.
She makes a card out of construction paper and blue crayon, writing in her neatest print, just like Miss Richardson taught in school: "Get Well, Uncle Eames!"
* - * - *
"YOU TAKE IT BACK!!"
Phillipa is nine years old when she gets into her first fistfight - a real fistfight, not play wrestling with Jamie or tickle fights with Uncle Eames - and she's winning.
Her opponent is a stocky boy in a grade above hers, a good head taller than her, all thick stubby fingers and squinty beady eyes in his face. But it's his mouth, his nasty mouth and mean words that makes Phillipa forget all about using her own words and keeping her hands to herself.
"I SAID, 'TAKE IT BACK'!!!"
Her arms are skinny and she weighs but ninety pounds, but the strength she uses to pummel said stupid boy into the ground comes not from any physical prowess, but from an anger that stirs deep within her belly, from a dark swell in her chest that Phillipa thinks might be called hate.
"PHILLIPA MARJORIE COBB!"
Daddy's voice booms out from above her but for once Phillipa doesn't care, doesn't care that Daddy sounds so very angry and so very scary, she merely continues to hit, hit, hit with all her might and when a pair of big strong arms encircle her waist and literally pluck her up into the air, she's still kicking out with her feet, managing to catch the boy on the rump one last time before Daddy spins her around, blue eyes flashing dangerously, red in the face.
In the background, the boy howls pathetically, rolling around on the ground, but Phillipa hears her father's voice loud and clear, hears him say in a hiss like a snake: "Go and wait in the car, young lady."
Young lady.
Suddenly teaching the mean boy a lesson doesn't seem like such a good idea after all, and when they get back home (after a long, silent car ride), Phillipa dashes out of the car and into the house before Daddy can catch her. She rushes past where Uncle Arthur is making Jamie an afternoon snack in the kitchen, not even stopping for a hug or a hello before scampering up the stairs and into her room.
She hugs her teddy to her chest and sniffs angrily. It's not fair. Daddy doesn't know what happened; he didn't hear what the other boy said. It's not her fault, and besides, she didn't hurt him that badly. It's not like he was dying or anything. Daddy will punish her, but right now Phillipa doesn't really care because she's too angry. She hates the unfairness of everything, hates how Jamie can sit at the counter munching away on his celery sticks and peanut butter like nothing's wrong, hates how there are people who are mean and terrible and simply plain ugly.
From downstairs, she hears a low murmur of voices, words muffled, Daddy's rising and lowering followed by Uncle Arthur's quiet, serious one. A moment later, there's a gentle rap on her door and Phillipa knows that it's Uncle Arthur, because he's the only one who can come up the stairs without making them squeak. "Phillipa?" Another knock, not harsh and demanding, just a question of invitation. "May I come in?"
She wipes her nose with the back of her hand and sniffs, fiercely. "Okay."
The door opens to reveal Uncle Arthur standing there, with a plate of sliced apples and honey for dipping, Phillipa's favorite. He scans the room for a moment before he catches glimpse of Phillipa's feet sticking out from the small niche between the side of her bed and her dresser, a perfect hiding spot for any little girl. Picking his way across the room in those black, shiny shoes that never seem to get dirty, he's soon sitting down in front of her, laying the plate on the bedside table and looking at her. Not saying anything, just waiting, waiting for her to speak first. And sure enough, she does. Daddy's angry with her and that makes her angry too, but Phillipa can't stand the quiet disappoint she sees in Uncle Arthur's eyes.
She can't.
"I just wanted him to take it back."
"Take what back?" Uncle Arthur's voice is quiet, serious as ever, but kind. Always so kind. There's no anger, just a bid for understanding, and Phillipa feels tears welling up in her eyes.
"He...he said that..." She sucks in a deep breath, eyes fixed on Uncle Arthur's freshly pressed slacks. "He said my 'fag uncle' is wrong and should be locked up in jail." There's no response and Phillipa starts getting scared. Maybe she shouldn't have repeated, maybe she shouldn't have said anything at all, and just taken Daddy's punishment. "But he's the one who's wrong," she blurts out hurriedly, "he doesn't know anything. I told him to take it back but he wouldn't so I tried to tell him that you and Uncle Eames love each other, and that loving can't be wrong, and he just laughed-"
"Oh, Phillipa." Uncle Arthur holds out his arms and Phillipa goes to him without hesitation, hugging her arms around his neck and not caring that she's quickly getting too big for his lap, and as Uncle Arthur hugs her tight, Phillipa knows, she knows deep down in her heart that the stupid boy is just that, stupid and wrong, because Uncle Arthur could never be wrong. He's her smart, brave, strong Uncle Arthur, and he loves Uncle Eames, and there's nothing wrong with that.
Nothing.
- - - - -
She doesn't get in trouble for the fight. Uncle Arthur makes sure of it.
* - * - *
"Uncle Eames, wake up. Please. Please, wake up!"
She pats his stubbled cheeks, trying to hold back the tears, fingers coming away sticky with the blood that streaks down his swollen face. She wipes it away on her pink jacket, struggling not to scream and hit him because she doesn't know what else to do, and Uncle Eames has to wake up, he has to.
Uncle Arthur, why does the man keep telling the lady to stay awake?
Well, Phillipa, it's because the lady hit her head really hard, and the man is afraid that if the lady goes to sleep, she won't wake up.
...she might die?
Yes.
Phillipa doesn't know how long they've been sitting here in the dark, how many hours or days have passed by since she and Uncle Eames had been driving back home from school with the windows rolled down and the top flipped back, her laughing at some funny story (Uncle Eames always tells the best stories) when the car behind them - a big black sedan with tinted windows, just like in the movies - rammed into the back of Uncle Arthur's BMW, forcing them off the road and down the side of a steep ravine.
She doesn't know how long it's been since she woke up feeling like that one time she'd been riding Molly's scooter and lost control while rolling down that big hill behind school, letting out a startled cry at seeing the faceless shadows in black ski masks and jumpsuits looming over her menacingly before she heard Uncle Eames' voice (still that same accent, even though nowadays he and Uncle Arthur move back and forth between Chicago, New York, Paris, and of course, Los Angeles) shouting at the men, sounding more dangerous than she could ever remember.
Leave the girl alone, he had growled, literally growled like a bear, like the dragon he used to pretend to be so long ago, during the long summer days as he played with her and Jamie in the backyard. It's me you want so don't you wankers touch her!
That was the last time she heard or saw him for a long, long time, and when she saw him again, he was hurt and bleeding, bleeding from everywhere it seemed, and she cried, cried out of fear and shock until he pulled himself up with difficulty and wiped her tears away, told her hush, dove, hush. He said it would be alright, that everything would be okay. And she believed him.
But that was a long time ago, and Phillipa is starting to think that Uncle Eames is a liar.
"Uncle Eames." His head is heavy in her lap; blood turning her dirty jeans a dark brown, and she bends her head down, throat closing up with sobs, stroking her trembling fingers through his blood-caked hair. His skin is cold. "Uncle Eames, tell me a story. Please."
Uncle Arthur still gives her all the answers, like he always has (he's a godsend when it comes to homework), but it's Uncle Eames who tells her stories, tales of faraway lands with exotic names (like Mombassa, Gadzhiyevo, Milan), of how he and Uncle Arthur first met and how he hated him at first (now she laughs herself silly every time Uncle Arthur wears his black suit with the white pinstripes), of Miss Ariadne who's getting married soon, of exactly what Mr. Saito does with all of his money (something about buying a lot of carpet and airlines). Whenever she gets upset, Uncle Eames is always there by phone or email or in person, to tell her a story to distract her, to cheer her up, to make everything okay again in his own way.
"Wake up," Phillipa whispers, but Uncle Eames doesn't.
BANG.
The door slams open and Phillipa blinks at the sudden brightness, eyes adjusting just in time to see two of the men dressed in black storming in. One of them grabs Uncle Eames and she screams, winding her arms around the man she's come to love as a part of her own family, holding tight and refusing to let go. "NO!"
One of them grabs her hair and she screams again, this time because it hurts, reaching back to hit and kick, biting into the arm around her throat and she fights like a wild animal, screaming out: "Let me go, let me go! UNCLE EAMES!!"
At that moment, the man dragging Uncle Eames away stiffens oddly and then falls gracelessly, sprawling out across the cold concrete floor, a puddle of red unfolding under his form. Uncle Eames falls limply as well, and he doesn't move. The man holding Phillipa back curses and grips her even tighter, a difficult task indeed, very much like trying to hold onto a slippery wet fish wriggling in attempts to jump back into water. A screaming wet wriggling fish.
Uncle Arthur marches into the dark warehouse and from behind him spills an entire army of black-suited men with helmets and guns just like on TV, pointing guns and yelling demands. The man holding Phillipa jerks and waves a gun around, yelling something as he puts the cold metal to her face and Phillipa screams, choking on her tears - screams for Uncle Arthur to save her, screams for Uncle Eames who lies still and unmoving, screams because she knows nothing about dream sharing or extraction or how anyone in the world could ever want to hurt anyone else over an idea.
Phillipa is eleven years old the first time she sees her Uncle Arthur shoot a man. But it doesn't scare her, the rage on the face of the man she's known her whole life, the way he lifts his arm and the way the gun he holds spits fire that pierces the man holding her back straight between the eyes. Uncle Arthur's eyes are dark and terrible, but it doesn't scare her. Not one little bit. Because he does it for her.
What does terrify her though, more than anything else, is seeing her Uncle Arthur - her brave, strong, handsome Uncle Arthur - sinking to his knees and cradling Uncle Eames' still, still frame in his arms, watching him bow his head, and howl out in anguish.
- - - - -
Phillipa is eleven years old the first time she sees her Uncle Arthur break down and cry.
* - * - *
A/N: Hey there! *waves* Yes, I'm still alive. Been working hard on that Big Bang, but I simply had to write this prompt. Hope you all enjoyed!