Smanie implacabili: Part III
Ships: Arthur/Cobb, Arthur/Phillipa (one-sided), Eames/Phillipa
Rating: PG-13
Summary: There is a visitor.
A/N: This has returned to being unbeta'd. I may post a revised version later this week.
Part I| Part II| Part III| Part IV| Part V| Part VI
Christmas passes with no fanfare or presents. The people she hangs out with at the university are all home with their families or off in Italy, taking in the sights. They invited her along, but she excused her self. It would have been fun, but she wants to relax. Even in the quiet times, university life is hectic. Christmas break is a chance to do absolutely nothing for the first time in forever.
Phillipa haunts her empty apartment, taking advantage of the lack of roommates. She leaves dishes everywhere and stays in her pajamas all day. Some nights, she doesn’t even bother going back to her room and just falls asleep on the couch. No one is there to judge her.
Eames isn’t returning her texts. He is either out of the country or he took her rant about never texting her to heart. It was said in a fit of rage. Her phone chimes at least ten times a day to signal the arrival of adorably misspelled texts, (Eames can spell, he just can’t text, even with T9), but he never seems to call. One particularly text arrives at the end of a particularly bad day, and he becomes the target of her rage. She misses them now, but Eames either isn’t receiving or is ignoring her texts. Spending the holidays together was probably too much to ask anyhow.
It doesn’t matter. A second hand bookstore on her way to school has proved a good source for opera records that she blasts through the empty apartment. Long dead baritones keep her company for New Year’s.
She doesn’t even have a bra on when she answers the door three days after New Year’s. On the other side is Arthur, bundled up against the cold snap that has been making going outside even more distasteful to Phillipa for the past several days. He looks her up and down before pushing past her into the apartment.
“He’s rubbing off on you, I see.”
“If he was really rubbing off on me, I’d’ve answered the door naked.”
She closes the door, then stands with her back against it and her arms crossed.
“What are you doing here, Arthur?”
“I thought you’d be happy to see me,” he says, setting his briefcase on the table.
Slowly, he unwinds his scarf from around his neck, then removes his wool coat. Phillipa recognizes the scarf as one Arthur wore often on their “dates”. He’s still as fascinating as he ever was, and Phillipa catches herself memorizing the way he looks so she can replay it over in her mind just as she did so long ago. She once retied his tie for him just to demonstrate her mastery of the double Windsor. Arthur took off his tie in the middle of a four star restaurant and handed it to her simply so she could demonstrate.
“Where can I put these?” he asks and her heart sinks. He’s come to talk.
Phillipa takes his coat and scarf to the tiny kitchen. There is a rack with there with metal hooks that is probably intended to be used for hanging pots, but she and her roommates have always used it as a coat rack. She hangs his things up and watches them sway as they settle into place.
When she returns to the main room, Arthur is sitting on the sofa, having spread out the blanket she was laying beneath to cover the couch and presumably protect his suit. Phillipa was slightly insulted, but said nothing.
“Why’re you here?” she asks, leaning against the door frame.
“Did it ever occur to you that we might want to know you’re alive?”
“You knew I was fine.”
“Yes, but I didn’t want to hear it from him.”
Arthur almost spat out the last word.
“Well, if it wasn’t him, Dad would have found someone else.”
“You should have called.”
She held up her hands and splayed her fingers wide.
“I still have all ten fingers and toes. You can go home now.”
“You need to get over this pissy attitude of yours, Phillipa. It isn’t attractive.”
“I’ve been doing fine with it.”
“I wouldn’t call fucking Eames doing fine. I can only assume you were trying to piss one of us off.”
“That was the plan.”
“You’ve fucked up.”
“So have you and Dad.”
“Not as much as you have. You’ve dug yourself a hole, and you don’t even realize it, Phillipa.”
Phillipa shifted uncomfortably in the doorway. The bravado she had been enjoying was waning.
“What do you mean?”
“I feel bad for Eames. The man’s in love with you, y’know.”
It isn’t true. He hasn’t called or texted her in a week. She had to steal his apartment keys, and she is still too afraid to leave anything behind there. Each time she goes, she treats it as the last. Eames can’t seem to make up his mind about her, though the same can be said for Phillipa.
The last time they saw each other, they stayed in bed for two days. It strikes Phillipa as strange how gentle Eames is as he undresses her. He presses his lips to each new bit of skin he reveals. His hands skim her body when they aren’t busy unbuttoning or zipping. It is frustrating how slowly he takes it. Phillipa catches one of his hands and brings it down to show him how wet she is, hoping he’ll speed things up. Eames lets her guide him, but keeps his focus and lips on her breasts.
She can understand other people’s frustration with him better.
He pulls her close while they sleep on those two nights. Phillipa doesn’t mind the closeness. Being in his arms feels strangely right. She is as peace, yet her body feels electric. When she wakes up before him, she lies there in his arms and traces his tattoos with the tips of her fingers, memorizing them all.
“He isn’t.”
“He is.”
Phillipa turned to walk back into the kitchen. She had to get away from him. There is no way she can escape the apartment from the kitchen, but it is away from Arthur, which is what she needs. The room is closing in on her, and she can barely breathe. Phillipa forces the sole window in the kitchen open. A cold gust blows in through the open window, making Arthur’s coat and scarf sway on the pot rack.
The crisp air that fills the kitchen is easier to breathe. The cold distracts her from her thoughts, giving her time to calm down.
Eames doesn’t love her. He probably just told them that so they wouldn’t beat the crap out of him. She can respect self preservation.
She needs to talk to Eames.
He’s flipping through the stack of records on the coffee table when she emerges from the kitchen. Arthur seems wholly unconcerned, and she hates him for it.
“You need to leave.”
“You need to call your father.”
“I will... I just need you to leave.”
Arthur rises from the couch. Phillipa presses herself back against the door frame so that they don’t touch when he passes her to collect his hat and scarf from the kitchen.
“I’ll be back if you don’t,” he tells her as he emerges from the kitchen, knotting his scarf around his throat again.
“I know.”
“Take care, Phillipa,” Arthur says before exiting.
She wanders over to the couch and wraps the blanket around herself. Phillipa puts on another record and goes to lay down. Curled up on the couch in a ball, she doesn’t move for hours.
++ + ++
Phillipa calls her father that night. For the time being, she needs her father more than she needs to save face or get petty revenge. Dom listens patiently as she cries over the phone, the first time she has cried since she realized the true nature of the relationship between her father and Arthur.
He doesn’t give her any answers. She didn’t expect him to. When they hang up, she feels better. What she is going to do is still completely unclear, but when she gets off the phone with her father, Phillipa feels like she can face what is ahead.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: There is a visitor.
A/N: This has returned to being unbeta'd. I may post a revised version later this week.
Part I| Part II| Part III| Part IV| Part V| Part VI
Christmas passes with no fanfare or presents. The people she hangs out with at the university are all home with their families or off in Italy, taking in the sights. They invited her along, but she excused her self. It would have been fun, but she wants to relax. Even in the quiet times, university life is hectic. Christmas break is a chance to do absolutely nothing for the first time in forever.
Phillipa haunts her empty apartment, taking advantage of the lack of roommates. She leaves dishes everywhere and stays in her pajamas all day. Some nights, she doesn’t even bother going back to her room and just falls asleep on the couch. No one is there to judge her.
Eames isn’t returning her texts. He is either out of the country or he took her rant about never texting her to heart. It was said in a fit of rage. Her phone chimes at least ten times a day to signal the arrival of adorably misspelled texts, (Eames can spell, he just can’t text, even with T9), but he never seems to call. One particularly text arrives at the end of a particularly bad day, and he becomes the target of her rage. She misses them now, but Eames either isn’t receiving or is ignoring her texts. Spending the holidays together was probably too much to ask anyhow.
It doesn’t matter. A second hand bookstore on her way to school has proved a good source for opera records that she blasts through the empty apartment. Long dead baritones keep her company for New Year’s.
She doesn’t even have a bra on when she answers the door three days after New Year’s. On the other side is Arthur, bundled up against the cold snap that has been making going outside even more distasteful to Phillipa for the past several days. He looks her up and down before pushing past her into the apartment.
“He’s rubbing off on you, I see.”
“If he was really rubbing off on me, I’d’ve answered the door naked.”
She closes the door, then stands with her back against it and her arms crossed.
“What are you doing here, Arthur?”
“I thought you’d be happy to see me,” he says, setting his briefcase on the table.
Slowly, he unwinds his scarf from around his neck, then removes his wool coat. Phillipa recognizes the scarf as one Arthur wore often on their “dates”. He’s still as fascinating as he ever was, and Phillipa catches herself memorizing the way he looks so she can replay it over in her mind just as she did so long ago. She once retied his tie for him just to demonstrate her mastery of the double Windsor. Arthur took off his tie in the middle of a four star restaurant and handed it to her simply so she could demonstrate.
“Where can I put these?” he asks and her heart sinks. He’s come to talk.
Phillipa takes his coat and scarf to the tiny kitchen. There is a rack with there with metal hooks that is probably intended to be used for hanging pots, but she and her roommates have always used it as a coat rack. She hangs his things up and watches them sway as they settle into place.
When she returns to the main room, Arthur is sitting on the sofa, having spread out the blanket she was laying beneath to cover the couch and presumably protect his suit. Phillipa was slightly insulted, but said nothing.
“Why’re you here?” she asks, leaning against the door frame.
“Did it ever occur to you that we might want to know you’re alive?”
“You knew I was fine.”
“Yes, but I didn’t want to hear it from him.”
Arthur almost spat out the last word.
“Well, if it wasn’t him, Dad would have found someone else.”
“You should have called.”
She held up her hands and splayed her fingers wide.
“I still have all ten fingers and toes. You can go home now.”
“You need to get over this pissy attitude of yours, Phillipa. It isn’t attractive.”
“I’ve been doing fine with it.”
“I wouldn’t call fucking Eames doing fine. I can only assume you were trying to piss one of us off.”
“That was the plan.”
“You’ve fucked up.”
“So have you and Dad.”
“Not as much as you have. You’ve dug yourself a hole, and you don’t even realize it, Phillipa.”
Phillipa shifted uncomfortably in the doorway. The bravado she had been enjoying was waning.
“What do you mean?”
“I feel bad for Eames. The man’s in love with you, y’know.”
It isn’t true. He hasn’t called or texted her in a week. She had to steal his apartment keys, and she is still too afraid to leave anything behind there. Each time she goes, she treats it as the last. Eames can’t seem to make up his mind about her, though the same can be said for Phillipa.
The last time they saw each other, they stayed in bed for two days. It strikes Phillipa as strange how gentle Eames is as he undresses her. He presses his lips to each new bit of skin he reveals. His hands skim her body when they aren’t busy unbuttoning or zipping. It is frustrating how slowly he takes it. Phillipa catches one of his hands and brings it down to show him how wet she is, hoping he’ll speed things up. Eames lets her guide him, but keeps his focus and lips on her breasts.
She can understand other people’s frustration with him better.
He pulls her close while they sleep on those two nights. Phillipa doesn’t mind the closeness. Being in his arms feels strangely right. She is as peace, yet her body feels electric. When she wakes up before him, she lies there in his arms and traces his tattoos with the tips of her fingers, memorizing them all.
“He isn’t.”
“He is.”
Phillipa turned to walk back into the kitchen. She had to get away from him. There is no way she can escape the apartment from the kitchen, but it is away from Arthur, which is what she needs. The room is closing in on her, and she can barely breathe. Phillipa forces the sole window in the kitchen open. A cold gust blows in through the open window, making Arthur’s coat and scarf sway on the pot rack.
The crisp air that fills the kitchen is easier to breathe. The cold distracts her from her thoughts, giving her time to calm down.
Eames doesn’t love her. He probably just told them that so they wouldn’t beat the crap out of him. She can respect self preservation.
She needs to talk to Eames.
He’s flipping through the stack of records on the coffee table when she emerges from the kitchen. Arthur seems wholly unconcerned, and she hates him for it.
“You need to leave.”
“You need to call your father.”
“I will... I just need you to leave.”
Arthur rises from the couch. Phillipa presses herself back against the door frame so that they don’t touch when he passes her to collect his hat and scarf from the kitchen.
“I’ll be back if you don’t,” he tells her as he emerges from the kitchen, knotting his scarf around his throat again.
“I know.”
“Take care, Phillipa,” Arthur says before exiting.
She wanders over to the couch and wraps the blanket around herself. Phillipa puts on another record and goes to lay down. Curled up on the couch in a ball, she doesn’t move for hours.
++ + ++
Phillipa calls her father that night. For the time being, she needs her father more than she needs to save face or get petty revenge. Dom listens patiently as she cries over the phone, the first time she has cried since she realized the true nature of the relationship between her father and Arthur.
He doesn’t give her any answers. She didn’t expect him to. When they hang up, she feels better. What she is going to do is still completely unclear, but when she gets off the phone with her father, Phillipa feels like she can face what is ahead.