[inception] till death do us part [5/9]
‘Till Death Do Us Part (And Somehow That Seems To Be Sooner Than Expected)
Part V: for better for worse
[masterpost]
<< [from this day forward] previous
The thing is, Eames does think that their marriage was a happy one. But that’s the problem, it’s ‘was’.
At first he didn’t know what it was that created the space between them. The first three years were probably the happiest times of their marriage. The last two years however, it’s like the passion they had for each other flickered, and died, just like that. He thought it was just because of the mundane and monotonous routines he had to endure for five long years. He blamed it on himself, on how he had to lead a tiring double life. And also there was the fact that Arthur became an even more condescending and anal bastard. But they were both trying to mend their relationship by giving Mal’s suggestion for them to consult her father a chance.
Eames thought they were making progress. Little to almost none progress, but progress nonetheless.
Now, though, Eames doesn’t know what to think. Maybe he just needs to stop thinking altogether because it was making his head ache. It is like there is a ticking time-bomb inside his head and the more time he spends thinking of Arthur, the closer the countdown gets to zero and to blowing his brain to bits.
It is not only his head that’s suffering of course. There is the matter of that persistent painful tug in his chest that refuses to go away. He just needs to make sure that Arthur has nothing to do with the Fischer job. That it’s just a horrible coincidence. That maybe it’s just some undercover hitman working in the firm. It’s not possible that Arthur is the same person who had shot at Eames.
But Eames can’t keep on lying to himself. That’s why when he hears the familiar screeching of Arthur’s car entering the garage, he grits his teeth, taking the two tumblers of whiskey and gets ready to welcome Arthur.
“Perfect timing!” he says as a greeting when Arthur opens the kitchen door. Eames notices how Arthur stands rigid and looks a little bit more alert than usual. After resting his suitcase on the wall behind the back door, Arthur gives Eames a once over-an eyebrow rises at the black shirt Eames is wearing-and then looks at the small mess on the kitchen counter.
“As always,” Arthur says, walking closer and leans in to give Eames a small peck on the corner of his lips.
Eames tries not to clench his jaw at the all too loving, too perfect to be true gesture. Instead he smiles widely at Arthur and gives another peck in return, right on the spot where a dimple would’ve appeared if Arthur smiled.
“You got back early,” Arthur says.
“I missed you, darling,” he whispers to Arthur’s ear.
“Missed you too.”
Eames’ hold on the tumblers tighten and in a split second, he thinks he almost cracks the glass with his bare hand. He closes his eyes and pushes himself away from Arthur’s personal space.
“Welcome home,” he says flourishly, handing one of the tumblers to Arthur who takes it and looks at it as if something will jump out of the liquid. “Dinner is almost ready.”
Eames puts a hand on the small of Arthur’s back and guides him towards the dining room. Arthur doesn’t flinch or step away like usual, but his body is rigid and there is an air around him that screams ‘don’t touch me’. Eames’ eyes slide up Arthur’s lithe body, covered in his bespoke suit-Dunhill, and Eames now starts to wonder if Arthur’s earning as an architect is enough to cover for all the expenses on the bespoke suits he has in their closet-and looking sharp as usual. He is looking for clues, for anything hidden beneath the layers of clothing, noting every sharp edge and for the first time in years really looking at the man he has been sharing his bed with, .
The first clue appears when Eames insists on helping Arthur out of his suit jacket. He notices how Arthur’s jaw clenches tightly when he pulls his right arm out of the sleeve. Eames is not really sure but he can make out a patch on Arthur’s left shoulder beneath the white with light blue pinstripe shirt.
“What’s the occasion?” Arthur asks as he scans the dining table, all the foods on the table are his favourite.
Eames just gives him a slightly strained smile and ushers him to take a seat while he goes to the kitchen again to take the melanzane alla parmagiana and the four ramekins of chocolate pot de crème out of the oven. He puts the pot de crème inside the freezer to be chilled. If nothing goes wrong-if he can make sure Arthur had nothing to do with the earlier incident at all, he tells himself-then in thirty minutes, Arthur will get to taste the special lactose free pot de crème.
Sometimes, Eames thinks he is too considerate, too compromising. Arthur has a lot of dislikes. He doesn’t like onions. He has sensitive teeth; hence, he doesn’t like sweet and cold desserts. He is lactose intolerant. He has a penchant to dislike some of the British cuisine Eames likes, claiming they taste too bland and ‘Mal’s cooking tastes better than that’.
It’s a tough feat, trying to sate Arthur’s every whim on the dining table, but at least, back when they were still a happy loving couple, he always showed how much he appreciated Eames’ efforts at making sure he could eat everything he wants. Now though, it’s always a small frown here, a displeased grunt there, and sometimes, a disapproving glare. It’s like anything that Eames cooks is not to his liking.
When he re-enters the dining room again, Arthur is standing by the table and is sharpening the carving knife Eames put by the large plate of beef pot roast. Eames quickly puts the melanzane alla parmagiana in the middle of the table and rushes over behind Arthur’s back and clutches his right arm, stopping him from making the knife even sharper than it already is.
“Please, darling, just have a seat and let me do it,” he says smoothly to Arthur’s ear, their bodies almost touching, almost, with just a couple inches between his chest and Arthur’s back and Eames can feel Arthur’s body heat. The grip he puts on Arthur’s right wrist somehow causes Arthur to wince slightly. It comes and goes in just a blink but Eames has seen how Arthur seems to favour his right arm when he takes his seat on the other end of the dining table, dragging the chair and flicks the napkin with only his left hand. And Eames remembers how the shrimpy guy had looked as he ran down the emergency stairs cradling his rifle from his binocular after the top floor exploded. The guy’s right sleeve was stained in red.
“How was work?” he asks as he carves the beef, cutting thin slices and putting a couple on a plate.
Arthur has both his hands on the table, he is looking at Eames as if he is studying him, noting his every movement. What he’s doing is exactly the same thing Eames is doing, even as he puts the plate in front of Arthur. Their eyes meet, and there are hidden words, unspoken questions, and many flicks of uncertainty. Eames breaks off their gaze, goes to the other side of the table, his side, and opens the lid of a large soup bowl.
“Oh same old,” Arthur answers shortly. “Though… there are some problems.”
“Really?” Eames tries to sound disinterested as he ladles bouillabaisse to a soup cup. “What kind of problems?”
“Double booking. We found out there’s another firm involved in the same project.”
Eames pauses for just a millisecond. Then he continues to spoon another cup for himself before putting the other soup cup near Arthur’s water goblet. “I bet you’ve solved the problem then?” He notices how Arthur’s right hand is trembling slightly as he takes the knife.
“Not yet.” Arthur cuts a small piece of the meat and puts it in his mouth, slowly savouring the taste. “But don’t worry. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
Eames hums, eyes never leaving Arthur’s, then he takes a seat and starts eating.
“How about you? I see you came back early. Did you get the paintings?” Arthur asks, wiping his mouth with the napkin. Once again his right hand shakes slightly as he takes a sip of water.
“Had a problem too. There’s another curator going after the collection. Had an explosive argument. Still working on getting the collection.”
Eames sees Arthur’s eyebrow rises. He uses the term ‘explosive’ deliberately. He’s baiting for any reaction from Arthur and that single movement speaks so many words to Eames. If Arthur didn’t have anything to do with the Fischer job, Eames’ words would mean nothing to him, and he’d just brush it off. He wouldn’t even give any reaction. But Arthur is reacting, it’s only a small reaction, but it’s there.
“Is it that much of a valuable collection?” Arthur asks, calm and calculated.
“I’d kill to get the collection, Arthur,” Eames says. “But we’ll get there. It’s just a matter of time.”
The clinking of their cutlery stops. Eames looks up from his plate and once again his eyes and Arthur’s locked. The stiff and cold air around them is not an unusual thing. Their dinners together have been like this for the past months. But the silence enveloping them tonight feels different somehow. Eames feels even more distant from Arthur with all the suspicion he’s got.
After a few moments, Eames breaks the silence with a request for Arthur to open the wine he’s just bought.
Eames eyes Arthur’s every movement, right from the way he sits up, how he uses his left hand to take the bottle of Pinot Noir, to the way he’s having difficulties unscrewing the cork because his right hand is shaking so hard. Arthur’s face doesn’t give anything out, there’s a slight frown, but it’s clear to Eames that Arthur is trying to mask the pain.
Eames stands up and walks closer to Arthur. He grabs Arthur’s right arm, “Let me do it, Ar-”
But before Eames can finish his sentence, Arthur has let out a small gasp and he lets go of the wine bottle. The bottle falls to the floor, rolling under the dining table. Eames doesn’t care where the bottle rolls off to. He has his eyes fixed on Arthur, who is clutching his right hand in front of his chest, protecting it. And he sees the red spot on Arthur’s sleeve.
The look Arthur is giving him is the turning point. Eames knows that look. Arthur is panicking, the stoic mask finally breaks and his brown eyes are telling Eames everything he needs to know.
Arthur is the other hitman.
--
Arthur takes off his shoes the moment he’s in the kitchen so he can bolt out of the kitchen door without making any noise. He doesn’t go straight to the garage, even though he knows he should get away from Eames immediately. He doesn’t have weapons with him and he can’t go back in, runs up to get any of his guns from his study, not without knowing where Eames is. There is a pair of Para Ordnance under the seat of his car but Arthur just wants to know first, just needs to make sure this is really not just a horrible nightmare. He has to know that this is real, that his Eames, his own husband, is the very same assassin who made him fail at completing the Fischer job.
He presses his back to the wall, bending down when he passes the kitchen windows and tries to make out any noise from inside the house. When he hears Eames’ voice calls out, “Arthur? Darling?”, he carefully takes a look inside from the sitting room’s window. The ugly curtains that Eames still stubbornly keeps is obstructing his view, but Arthur can see him-Eames in the black shirt Arthur likes; Eames who is holding a gun-a suppressed SIG Sauer-and his finger is hovering just so near the trigger.
“Fuck!” Arthur curses and runs straight to the garage.
He slams the side door open, uses the remote control to open the garage door and dunks in to his car. His hands are shaking and he’s breathing heavily like he has just run a marathon. He doesn’t wait until the door fully opens, he just needs it to open high enough so his car can pass through. He can hear Eames shouting his name when the car skids out to the curb. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t look back. He just pushes the gas pedal and increases the speed.
Arthur does not care that he doesn’t have his shoes on. He doesn’t care that he is currently breaking the speed limit in the suburban neighbourhood. He doesn’t care that there is a large red spot on his right sleeve, and it’s growing larger steadily the more Arthur tightens his hold on the steering wheel.
He tries to calm himself, to even his breath, but he can’t. He can’t stop cursing himself, cursing everything in his fucked up life and then he slams his hand to the steering wheel and yells, “How could I be so stupid?!” It does nothing but adds more pain to his injured arm.
Arthur loosens his tie with his right hand-fingers shaking, his left still gripping the steering wheel tightly. His heart is hammering his ribcage and Arthur just can’t stop thinking how stupid he is, how foolish he has been in the past five years. He can just imagine how it will be, if everyone in The Organisation knows the one who jeopardised the Fischer job was actually Mr. Arthur Eames’ own husband. Of course, it’s not as though everyone in The Organisation knows Arthur is married, only the ones stationed in his architecture firm. But that doesn’t make it any less humiliating.
The news will spread like a wildfire. Everyone, even the janitor, will know Mr. Arthur, the so called finest and most ruthless assassin of The Organisation, has been deceived by his own spouse. He’ll be laughing stock of the week, month, or year even.
He needs to do something, something real quick before his boss gets wind of this. Of course his boss knows about his marital status. Arthur had told him firsthand that ‘no, Sir, it will not be a hindrance at all’, that Eames would never know Arthur’s true occupation. His boss had been sceptical but Arthur insisted everything would be all right.
Arthur scoffs at himself, at how gullible he was, and how blinded he was by love that he had ignored everything. Just to be with Eames. He was so sure about Eames back then, so sure that they could be happy together despite everything. But that was when he thought Eames was only an art curator who owned a gallery in midtown New York. Now, now Arthur isn’t so sure.
He doesn’t know what he should do once his boss knows. His boss gave him forty eight hours to ‘clean the scene’, meaning Arthur has forty five hours left to find a way to untangle the whole mess he’s in. He doesn’t have many options to choose from.
Right now Arthur’s only option is to get as far away as possible from Eames. But it looks as though he will not even have the luxury of taking that option because he can see Eames’ car tailing closer from the rear window. Fuelled with anger, Arthur drops a gear and halts the car suddenly, causing their cars to collide, and then he pushes up the speed again.
Eames recovers from the collision faster than Arthur expects. Eames’ car swerves past a car between them and in just a quick glance, Arthur sees Eames has already caught up with him. Eames has his passenger seat window down and he’s shouting at Arthur. Arthur can’t make out clearly what Eames is saying but he can hear a muffled ‘…need to talk!’.
The scowl on his forehead deepens and he shoots Eames a cold glare. He pushes a button and his window rolls down. The cold night air hits his face hard and he’s shivering immediately. “There’s nothing to talk about!” he shouts, his eyes still on the road.
“You don’t want to go to bed angry, Arthur. Stop the car!”
Arthur turns to Eames and hopes he will just burn in hell. “You lied to me!” He takes a swift turn and bumps his car to Eames’, causing sparks to fly.
“Don’t dent the fucking car!” Eames yells as his car skids out of the lane and is almost hit by a car coming from opposite direction.
Arthur grits his teeth, closes the window and speeds up again. Once more, Eames catches up to him and this time he swerves around Arthur’s car to the other side. Arthur tries to gain some distance but it’s difficult with Eames trying to take the lane. Having no other choice, Arthur pushes the gas again and bumps their cars while shouting, “Get out of my fucking lane!”
Right after this third collision, Arthur hears a swift zing and then hears something passing by his head at high speed. He stamps on the brake at the same time as Eames’ car skids to a halt. He looks at the hole in the passenger seat window and then to the one on his other side.
Blood boiling to a dangerous degree, Arthur turns to the right and shoots Eames his most pissed off look. Eames looks startled, but Arthur doesn’t buy that. Arthur should never believe that face anymore.
“Accident!” Eames shouts, holding his two hands up. His right hand is holding a suppressed SIG with his forefinger off the trigger. “It’s an accident!”
Arthur doesn’t care and doesn’t want to care. He bends down and reaches to the small compartment under his seat. There are two Para Ordnances hidden there, he takes one and clicks the safety off, Arthur starts shooting Eames’ car. He sees Eames ducks down when the window starts shattering, showering him with broken glass. Arthur keeps shooting until there’s only empty click, he’s breathing heavily and his right hand, still holding the gun, is shaking both from the recoil and from the pain surging up and down. He clips the empty magazine out and reaches into the glove compartment for a spare.
After a few seconds of silence Arthur sees Eames rises up. There are splinters of glasses in his hair and a cut on his left cheek.
“Arthur, you’re over-reacting!”
It is just so Eames to rile Arthur up in this kind of situation. Arthur bites his tongue and opts to starts driving away again. His right hand will be of no use if he keeps on straining it like that and he really, really doesn’t want to see Eames’ face any more.
Arthur keeps a hold of his gun, using only his left hand to navigate the steering wheel. He notices a sign on the roadside, ‘OFF-RAMP INCOMING’ it says. He takes a deep breath and lowers his speed, letting Eames catch up to him.
He shoots another round to Eames’ car, breaking the windshield as Eames bends down again to avoid the rain of bullets. Arthur speeds up , letting go of the gun and gripping the steering wheel tightly to steady his shaking hand. Eames’ car zooms close and they’re head to head now. The speedometer shows that he’s driving at 130 mph.
Arthur closes his eyes for just a second and then he turns to Eames. Their eyes meet, and Arthur feels his chest tighten and it is really difficult to keep breathing. It feels like the very first time they met, back in that hotel, in Mombasa. He remembers the spark of attraction.
“You lied to me too!” Eames shouts.
It’s true. They have both been lying to each other. They are both no better than the other. And it makes Arthur feel even worse.
So Arthur gives Eames a wry smile, takes a screeching turn and slams the brake. He sees how Eames’ car goes straight towards the ramp. He hears how the steel guardrails collide with the front of the car, the car crashing through it. He tries to keep calm as he hears a loud splash, the car falling down to the river over the ramp, and then silence.
There is only the sound of his laboured breathing and the soft whirring of the engine. Arthur bumps his head to the steering wheel and closes his eyes tightly, ignoring the pain in his right hand. After a couple of minutes, he takes a deep breath, grabs both guns this time, unbuckles the safety belt and steps out of the car. Barefooted, he walks towards the ramp wall and looks down to the river.
Guns in both hands Arthur sweeps the river, trying to see through the darkness. But it is too dark. There is nothing, no bubbles of air, no movement, no Eames. He stops at a spot and waits. A minute passes. Still no Eames.
Suddenly Arthur hears sirens. Before the police get to him he has to get away from this place.
Arthur takes another glance to the river-still nothing. He lowers his guns and goes back to his car. He slumps his head on to the steering wheel again, trying not to think.
He doesn’t know where to go.
The door is opened and Yusuf gives Eames yet another one of his looks. It says, ‘what in the bloody hell have you done to yourself this time?’. But Yusuf doesn’t keep his wondering of how stupid Eames is to himself this time, he says it out loud.
“My Arthur,” Eames grunts, shoving Yusuf away and storming into the flat.
“Oh wow, he’s resorted to domestic violence now?” Yusuf asks, pointing at the state of Eames’ torn shirt, bloodied knees, and the overall ‘I just jumped off a ledge straight into a bloody river’ look. “About time, took him long enough.”
Eames stomps his way to Yusuf’s kitchen, wet shoes squeaking and leaving mud trails on the floor. He violently opens the fridge. He scowls at the suspicious looking bottles and beakers nside. “Beer, Yusuf. I need lots of them right now.”
Yusuf sighs and shoves Eames away, telling him to sit on one of the chairs surrounding the small rectangle dining table and muttering how lucky Eames is because his wife is currently back in her parents’ home for the monthly visit. He opens the lower drawer and pulls out a six pack beer from it. Eames plucks oneand downs almost half of its contents before taking a deep breath and facing Yusuf.
“Arthur’s that other hitman,” he begins. And saying it out loud doesn’t make the pain in his chest any better. Instead it’s getting more and more painful. Because saying it out loud to someone else feels like he has just cemented the fact that Arthur has destroyed the foundation of their marriage by lying about his occupation.
Yusuf doesn’t say anything until Eames finishes his first can of beer. And Eames feels he needs the silence at the moment.
“It’s… implausible,” Yusuf croaks out after what feels like half an hour while in truth it’s only a couple of minutes.
“Believe it or not, my friend.” Eames pops out another can and downs the beer. He stands up and paces back and forth.
“No, I mean, really. What are the chances of that happening?”
“It has happened, if you haven’t realised.”
--
It feels so cold in the office, even without the air conditioner on, and Arthur shivers. He only has his undershirt on and his shirt is draped haphazardly on the sofa’s armrest. The shiver might have been caused by the stinging pain on his arm. It might also have been caused by the chilled bottle of vodka he is holding. The coldness seems to intensify as the scene of Eames’ car flew down the river replays in his mind
“You’re kidding,” Ariadne says, rolling the bandage around Arthur’s right arm after she stitches the gash again. She’s kneeling beside him on the floor, the medical kit box open near her.
Arthur takes a large gulp of vodka straight from the bottle and Ariadne tsks at him. “Nope. When have I ever told you a joke, Ariadne?”
“Sometimes. A rarity though. I’m starting to think you don’t have a single funny bone in your skinny body,” Ariadne says as-a-matter-of-factly, fastening the bandage and gives it a light pat.
“I’m not skinny,” he says, scowling at her.
Ariadne sighs and gives Arthur a sympathetic look. “But are you sure it’s Eames? Your husband? The one who’s also after Fischer?”
Arthur closes his eyes and hopes the alcohol can quickly numb body. And preferably numb the pain in his chest too or he’ll explode.
“The very same.”
Arthur really hates the look on Ariadne’s face and he hopes she would just leave for now. Or maybe for ever. He needs to be alone but he also doesn’t want to be alone.
“But how could it be possible?”
Arthur wants an answer to that question too. He has no answer to that question.
--
Eames washes his hair in the kitchen sink, a towel draped around his shoulders. It’s cold and the shirt is clinging to his skin. He needs a shower, to clean his whole body, and maybe to clean the contents of his head too, if it’s even possible.
Yusuf is still giving him an apprehensive look and he doesn’t like that look. Eames doesn’t want Yusuf’s pity. He doesn’t anyone to pity him for falling in love with the enemy. Arthur is an enemy, he convinces himself. What would you call someone who’s shot you during one of your jobs, if not your enemy? Even if said enemy is incidentally also your own bloody husband?
“So… you mean he’s been doing this from the start?”
Eames shrugs at Yusuf’s question, unbuttoning his ruined shirt and shrugging it off. “Who knows? I can’t believe he’s been lying to me all these years.”
“You should realise that you’re not really playing straight yourself, Eames.”
“That’s completely different!” Eames frowns at Yusuf, plopping down on the chair again, his trousers feel utterly uncomfortable clinging like that. “I married him because I loved him.”
Yusuf doesn’t respond for a few moments and there is only the sound of water dripping from the faucet on the sink. Eames wipes his face dry and keeps the towel covering his face.
“Well…” Yusuf starts again. “Do you still love him?” Eames drops the towel and goes to speak when Yusuf stops him. “Wait, don’t answer that. You should sleep on this. You’re both upset.”
“Upset? Upse-Yusuf, he wants to kill me!” And if only Eames hadn’t been able to hold his breath for longer than five minutes, Arthur would be successful.
“That’s not unusual. My wife says she wants to kill me every time we have a row,” Yusuf says wisely, sipping on his lukewarm coffee.
Eames gives Yusuf an incredulous look. “You didn’t see Arthur firing fifteen bloody shots to my car! And he drove me off the road into the river.”
Yusuf clears his throat and shifts in his seat, looking a bit uncomfortable and trying to hide his grimace. “Well… that’s less usual, I must admit. But trust me, right now he’s probably as confused as you are. Hurt… and vulnerable… perhaps.”
“He didn’t seem vulnerable to me,” Eames says indignantly. But Eames can’t help but wonder for a moment if Yusuf is right. Considering that he’s still angry though, he doesn’t want to think further whether Arthur is as hurt as he feels at the moment.
“Just get some sleep, mate,” Yusuf suggests, standing up and patting his shoulder. “See him in the morning, talk to him. Maybe buy him a new suit or something. Be nice…”
Eames sighs and rakes his fingers through his damp hair. “You don’t understand, Yusuf. He’s the other hitman. Arthur ID’d me on the Fischer job. Don’t you remember Boss’ message? Don’t you realise what all these mean?”
Yusuf doesn’t answer and even without looking, Eames knows Yusuf clearly understands what it means.
After giving Eames a change of clothes,Yusuf bids him good night and tells him to take the sofa and sleep it off. Eames can only sit, looking to the painting hanging on the wall and trying to rearrange his messed up thoughts. He’s clutching the blanket on his lap tightly as he thinks about Arthur again and he thumbs the ring on his left hand. He looks down and brings his fist up, looking at the platinum ring glinting as the light from the sitting room lamp hits it. He takes the ring off and looks at the letters inscribed inside.
Before they got married, he and Arthur had agreed to inscript a word of their own choice to each other’s ring. Eames had chosen ‘Darling’, a petname he often used for Arthur, for Arthur’s ring. The reason why Eames had chosen the word was because to him, Arthur would always be his beloved darling.
Arthur, on the other hand, had chosen to write something more common-and typical, perhaps-and put ‘Forever’ for Eames’ ring. Arthur never really told him why he chose the word and Eames never really bothered to ask because the word, to him, was already enough of a statement.
Now though, now Eames doesn’t really know what to think about the word. He had thought it meant that Arthur would love him forever, or that they’d be together forever, things like that. But after tonight, he supposes there will be no more ‘Forever’ in his and Arthur’s life.
Eames puts the ring on the coffee table by the sofa and looks at it for another couple of minutes before moving his gaze to the phone, also on the table. He’s reminded of how his mobile phones-all two of them-are now worse for wear after his diving into the river stint. Try as he might, he cannot pull up enough care for his beloved-now destructed-phones. How can he, when his mind is already filled with this whole… thing with Arthur. Who can give a damn about mobile phones?
He sighs. There’s no escaping it now. His marriage, and his life in general, is fucked up. He doubts that even Miles and all his wisdom from his thick books on psychology can help them. Best thing he could advise them is to ‘talk their problem through’. Yeah, right, Eames thinks with a snort. What a splendid idea. Talk. Don’t they say that all relationship problems stem from that little word called ‘communication’? But he wonders what would have happened if he and Arthur did ‘communicate’. What would they say? What would they accomplish?
Probably nothing, other than the fact that he and Arthur would have tried to kill each other sooner. And thinking about the prospect makes his mouth go dry and his stomach clench. Consequently, it also makes him angry and even more frustrated, and generally worse than before.
He’s ashamed to admit that he’s really tempted to call his Mum and bemoan his fate to her.
Snorting, he tries to think just how Arthur might mock him if he can see him now. Arthur knows how he only calls his Mum when he’s in a tight spot, ranting to her in a way that belies his age. Arthur used to tease him because of that, saying that it proves that he’s just a big baby after all.
But now Arthur won’t do that again. Really. Arthur prefers to shoot him than to tease him nowadays. And anyone who says words are more lethal than bullets surely never experienced the fate of being shot by their own goddamn husband.
With resigned surprise, Eames finds his hand reaching out for the phone. Sighing, he admits defeat and dials his mother’s private line.
It should be around afternoon in London at the moment and his mother must be having the good old fashioned tea time with his younger sisters. He bites his lip as the phone rings two times before his Mum picks up. Hearing that gentle sound of hers, Eames closes his eyes and slumps deeper into the sofa.
“Hello,” his mother’s voice carries through the phone connection, way across the Atlantic and Eames somehow imagines that he can smell her lavender perfume vividly. “Good afternoon, who’s speaking?”
“Hello, Mum,” he says with the kind of voice that he hopes might conceal his restless mind. “It’s me.”
“William.” His mother sounds happy to hear his voice. “So rare for you to call your dear old Mum. What’s happened now?”
In the background, he can hear the ecstatic voice of his littlest sister saying ‘Is that Willy? Is Arthur with him? Mum, please let me speak to him’ and a smile breaks on his face. Mary, his dearest sister, has had a crush on Arthur ever since the first time Eames introduced him to the family. It’s almost funny, how Arthur keeps being polite to her while fending off her apparent adoration.
He can hear his mother gently scolding her daughter to mind her manners and he chuckles. Arthur always says that he’s a gentleman. Guess he should thank his mother for that.
But still, a voice says in his head, what kind of gentleman shot his own partner?
“William?” his mother’s voice startles him a little bit from his grim thought reality in which he and Arthur are trying to kill each other. “What’s wrong, son?”
“Nothing, I just… miss you, I guess,” he says. “How are you?”
“Same old, dearest. A household to take care of, a young lady to be raised still…” There’s a faint ‘Mum!’ from Mary and Eames chuckles, “… and still hoping my one and only dearest son will come home with my son-in-law for a visit.”
This time, Eames really flinches.
“Mum, you know that we…” He tries to think of something to say and finds that he can’t really fill the blank that follows. Surely he can’t tell his Mum that the reason he and Arthur can’t visit is because they’re in a really big fight. A big fight that involves firearms, even. Because even though Eames can say that he’s fond of his Mum and that their relationship is close, there are things that he still keeps from her. One of those so-called ‘things’ was the fact that her dear little William is not an art curator but an assassin for hire. He never tells her that and he plans on never telling her that. It’s his secret to keep and it’s better than to have her worry over him.
“I know that you both are busy, ducklings,” his Mum says. “Though I start to resent that country for keeping my sons away from me, but what's an old lady like me to do? You both have a life of your own.”
“How’s Father?” Eames quickly says, half because he wants to steer the conversation to some safer route and half because he can’t bear the hurt he feels when his mother mentions about ‘a life of your own’. His life with Arthur is over now.
“Still trying to convince Amelia’s fiancé to take our family name. He seems to have finally given up on you coming back.”
“He should’ve realised it’s futile to make me take over his position years ago.”
“You know how stubborn your father is. You take after him after all.”
“Mum,” he says with a despairing sigh. “I’m not calling you only to hear you reciting that over and over again.”
“Oh, of course, dear. Now if we don’t talk about your father, why don’t we talk about you,” his mother says and before Eames could even think ‘oh damn’, his mother asks, “How are you and Arthur?”
His mother knows about his strained relationship with Arthur. He has told her about that, even though she never really knows to what extent. She only thinks they’re having a phase. Something that, she has told him, is not unusual in married life.
“We’re fine,” Eames lies automatically.
His mother makes a delicate cluck of her tongue. “Nonsense. You think you can lie to your mother, young man?”
Funny, Eames thinks, how his mother never knew he was lying about his real work for all these years when she can tell he’s lying right now over the phone.
“You would never call me if there was nothing wrong,” his mother continues. “What happened?”
“Just… the usual. You know about it, Mum…” Eames says with a sigh.
“Darling, I’ve told you that every marriage has its up and down,” his mother says and Eames wonders if other people’s marriages have the kind of ‘down’ moment that involves car chases and gunshots and all kinds of dangerous business. “I know you’re a man, now, William, and you won’t need your Mum meddling with your business, so I try not to get in the way. I just hate to imagine you and Arthur having problems… darling you two are so in love it breaks my heart thinking about you two in a quarrel.”
“I know, Mum, please don’t worry, it’s not… that bad,” Eames says and he feels like a thousand kind of liars for saying it. “I just called because I wanted to hear your voice, really.”
“I know that’s not the complete truth,” his mother says. “But… I suppose, perhaps this time I can let it pass. Just this once, for the sake of my darling son who almost never called his mother.”
Eames smiles. “You always spoil me, Mum.”
“And sometimes I wonder why,” his mother says, making Eames chuckle. “Now, Mary wants to speak with you, if I am to judge by the way she’s tugging at my sleeve. Really, you lot, I thought I raised you to be well-mannered people yet look at you. Here’s your sister, William.”
He only has a few seconds to brace himself before his sister’s rapid speech begins assaulting his ears. He can only cringe as he listens to Mary’s latest rendition of ‘why my brother Willy is an idiot’ which, this time, mostly consists of ‘I can’t believe you dared not showing up for Amelia’s wedding, Willy, how could you’. Finished with that, she launched onto a rant about her studies, about the boys from school and how they’re all not on par with her most delightful (her exact words) brother-in-law, how she wishes there are more men like Arthur around. And she curses Eames for hogging on the best for himself.
Eames can only listen and makes sure to drop ‘uh-hum’ and ‘I see’ here and there to let Mary know that he’s still listening. It feels so… normal to listen to his sister. So normal, in the midst of all this chaos that his life has become. He can even say it feels a little surreal to laugh with his sister via the phone, talking about Arthur of all things when he has just tried to shoot Arthur a couple of hours ago.
He just wants to bask in the normalcy, because if he doesn’t do that he will be going insane. He just want to talk about Arthur, because he’s afraid he might start thinking of him as ‘the enemy’ and forget about all those years they have had. He just wants to forget the last couple of hours of his life, because remembering them causes him too much pain.
He just wants to laugh, because he doesn’t want to cry.
--
As Ariadne clears up the medical kit, Arthur gathers his ruined shirt. It smells of sweat, cologne, and blood. To be honest, it’s not really a comforting scent at all but it somehow fits the mood. And, he thinks as he put the shirt on, at least it will keep him warm.
“Are you sure you’re going to be all right?” Ariadne asks, shutting the box as she stands up. She’s giving him one of those look again, the one which shows equal parts pity and worry.
Arthur nods and slumps back to the sofa. He closes his eyes and drapes his uninjured arm over them, trying to block out the light, as if by doing that he might also block his mind from remembering what events have taken place during the last couple of hours.
“Are you really sure, Arthur?”
He’s tired and he wants to be alone. “Yes, Ariadne. Now, can you ple-”
Ariadne cuts him before he can finish his sentence. “Do you realise you have to kill him now that you know he’s ID’d you?”
Arthur drops his arm down and looks at Ariadne. That look is still there on her face. How could she speak about killing Eames while giving him that look? He hates it.
“Of course,” he answers stiffly, leaning back again. “If he’s not already dead after getting shot fifteen times, that is.”
Oh yes, he’s keeping count. Arthur is a professional. Of course he will keep count, how many bullets he has spent, how many shots he has fired, how many times he has tried to hurt-to kill Eames.
Ariadne’s frown deepens but she doesn’t say anything. In a sense, Arthur enjoys the silence but he knows that Ariadne is still thinking about something. And when she launches her next question, it takes him by surprise.
“Do you love him, Arthur?”
Arthur sighs and knows he’s showing too much, letting Ariadne sees too much of his vulnerable side. But Ariadne is a smart girl and Arthur is too tired to tell her any lies. Arthur knows Ariadne will just keep on prying if he doesn’t say anything.
“I thought I did,” he says. “I thought he did.”
“Do you still love him then?”
“He lied to me,” he replies without really answering the question.
“And you lied to him too.” Ariadne pauses and sits on the sofa, her hand hovering just above Arthur’s forehead. He feels her small fingers massaging his temples lightly. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No and you can leave now,” he answers immediately. Ariadne has been working as his assistant for a year and a half, she knows how to deal with his perfectionism and can see through almost everything. She’s a busybody but Arthur sort of thinks she can even be counted as a friend. Other than the Cobbs, Arthur doesn’t know any other people he still considers friends. But this is where Arthur draws a line. He just can’t share, or talk, or even think about this matter at the moment. Not with anyone or even himself.
Arthur hears Ariadne sigh and stand up again. A moment later, a thin blanket is draped over him. Sweet Ariadne, his dependable assistant, partner-friend. No matter what, she still cares about him and the simple act of kindness touches Arthur’s heart.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, opening his eyes blearily.
“You’re welcome, Boss,” Ariadne says, smiling ruefully.
Arthur gives Ariadne a dismissal nod. He buries his face in the blanket after Ariadne bids him good night and closes the door.
His head is still spinning even though he’s tried his hardest to stop thinking.
He feels a vibration from his pocket, it is his phone. He really wants to chuck the phone away. He doesn’t think he’s in the right mind to answer any calls. After the vibration stops, Arthur sighs and takes another swig from his bottle of vodka. He grabs one of the cushions from the sofa and lays it down on the floor. Another swig and he lies down on the cushion, feeling his throat burns and his chest constricts.
His phone starts vibrating again, thinking maybe it’s a call from his boss, he takes it out and looks at the caller ID. It’s Mal.
“Hm?”
“Arthur?”
“Yeah, what’s up?” he slurs.
“Are you drunk, Arthur?” Mal asks. Even in his state of half drunkenness, Arthur can still sense the concern in Mal’s voice. He can’t guess, though, what makes her sound so worried.
“Not really,” he says. “What’s wrong?”
“I called your house but no one answered. Where are you right now?”
Arthur looks around his office, taking in the architectural models Ariadne had built and forced him to put on display, the three laptops on his desk, and the two Para Ordinance P18.9s on the floor. “My office.”
“Why aren’t you at home?”
For a moment, he feels like snorting. Home, he thinks bitterly, why isn’t he at home? Where is his home? That house he owns with Eames, it’s not his home anymore. Not after he knew Eames is never an art curator, not after he realised the countless lies being spoken in that house, not after Eames shot him…
And a voice on the back of his mind whispered ‘and not after you lie to him, not after you shot him, not after you tried to kill him with your own hands, drenched in blood without any shame…’
“Are you having a fight again?”
He takes a deep breath. His eyes are starting to sting. He must have had too much drink.
“Five years isn’t a short time, Arthur,” Mal says carefully.
“I know,” he says, hoping that Mal won’t notice how his voice breaks.
“Look, I… you might hate me for saying this and you might be already bored listening to this over and over again, but Arthur…” Mal says. “Don’t let mere differences break the relationship you both have tried so hard to build for five long years.”
Arthur doesn’t think lying about your real occupation can be counted as a ‘mere difference’. But he’s not one to talk.
“I know, Mal.”
“When you love someone,” Mal continues, “You love all of them. Didn’t you say it yourself in your wedding vow, Arthur? Didn’t you promise to love and cherish, for better and for worse? Do you remember that?”
Arthur closes his eyes. He can see their wedding day again behind his eyelids. He can remember Eames’ smile and the way his lips felt against Arthur’s after they were pronounced married.
“I do,” he says softly, echoing his vow that day.
“Welcome to ‘worse’,” Mal says. “Now the question is, do you still ‘love and cherish’ him?”
He lets go of the bottle of vodka and grasps his shirt, right above his chest. It’s not just about the bad things or the petty things he doesn’t like about Eames. Even after their life together has turned into a plain and boring routine, Arthur has never even once thought that he doesn’t love Eames anymore. Yes, he had said to Miles that perhaps marrying Eames had just been a mistake and it’s hard to keep being in love with him, but Arthur could never imagine how his life would be if he never fell in love with Eames.
It’s never the question of whether he loves Eames or not, no matter what Ariadne or Mal or-God-even Eames thinks. He loves William Eames. But he wonders now if Eames ever loved him in return. He wonders now if it was all just a cover. He wonders now if all the years he has had with Eames were mere illusion.
“Just think about it, okay? And Arthur… you don’t want it to end like this.”
Only thing is, Arthur thinks, it has already ended. It ended the moment his and Eames’ paths crossed during the Fischer job.
“I will,” Arthur says-lies, his mind tells him. “I’ll try, Mal. I will.”
[for richer for poorer] next >>
Part V: for better for worse
[masterpost]
<< [from this day forward] previous
The thing is, Eames does think that their marriage was a happy one. But that’s the problem, it’s ‘was’.
At first he didn’t know what it was that created the space between them. The first three years were probably the happiest times of their marriage. The last two years however, it’s like the passion they had for each other flickered, and died, just like that. He thought it was just because of the mundane and monotonous routines he had to endure for five long years. He blamed it on himself, on how he had to lead a tiring double life. And also there was the fact that Arthur became an even more condescending and anal bastard. But they were both trying to mend their relationship by giving Mal’s suggestion for them to consult her father a chance.
Eames thought they were making progress. Little to almost none progress, but progress nonetheless.
Now, though, Eames doesn’t know what to think. Maybe he just needs to stop thinking altogether because it was making his head ache. It is like there is a ticking time-bomb inside his head and the more time he spends thinking of Arthur, the closer the countdown gets to zero and to blowing his brain to bits.
It is not only his head that’s suffering of course. There is the matter of that persistent painful tug in his chest that refuses to go away. He just needs to make sure that Arthur has nothing to do with the Fischer job. That it’s just a horrible coincidence. That maybe it’s just some undercover hitman working in the firm. It’s not possible that Arthur is the same person who had shot at Eames.
But Eames can’t keep on lying to himself. That’s why when he hears the familiar screeching of Arthur’s car entering the garage, he grits his teeth, taking the two tumblers of whiskey and gets ready to welcome Arthur.
“Perfect timing!” he says as a greeting when Arthur opens the kitchen door. Eames notices how Arthur stands rigid and looks a little bit more alert than usual. After resting his suitcase on the wall behind the back door, Arthur gives Eames a once over-an eyebrow rises at the black shirt Eames is wearing-and then looks at the small mess on the kitchen counter.
“As always,” Arthur says, walking closer and leans in to give Eames a small peck on the corner of his lips.
Eames tries not to clench his jaw at the all too loving, too perfect to be true gesture. Instead he smiles widely at Arthur and gives another peck in return, right on the spot where a dimple would’ve appeared if Arthur smiled.
“You got back early,” Arthur says.
“I missed you, darling,” he whispers to Arthur’s ear.
“Missed you too.”
Eames’ hold on the tumblers tighten and in a split second, he thinks he almost cracks the glass with his bare hand. He closes his eyes and pushes himself away from Arthur’s personal space.
“Welcome home,” he says flourishly, handing one of the tumblers to Arthur who takes it and looks at it as if something will jump out of the liquid. “Dinner is almost ready.”
Eames puts a hand on the small of Arthur’s back and guides him towards the dining room. Arthur doesn’t flinch or step away like usual, but his body is rigid and there is an air around him that screams ‘don’t touch me’. Eames’ eyes slide up Arthur’s lithe body, covered in his bespoke suit-Dunhill, and Eames now starts to wonder if Arthur’s earning as an architect is enough to cover for all the expenses on the bespoke suits he has in their closet-and looking sharp as usual. He is looking for clues, for anything hidden beneath the layers of clothing, noting every sharp edge and for the first time in years really looking at the man he has been sharing his bed with, .
The first clue appears when Eames insists on helping Arthur out of his suit jacket. He notices how Arthur’s jaw clenches tightly when he pulls his right arm out of the sleeve. Eames is not really sure but he can make out a patch on Arthur’s left shoulder beneath the white with light blue pinstripe shirt.
“What’s the occasion?” Arthur asks as he scans the dining table, all the foods on the table are his favourite.
Eames just gives him a slightly strained smile and ushers him to take a seat while he goes to the kitchen again to take the melanzane alla parmagiana and the four ramekins of chocolate pot de crème out of the oven. He puts the pot de crème inside the freezer to be chilled. If nothing goes wrong-if he can make sure Arthur had nothing to do with the earlier incident at all, he tells himself-then in thirty minutes, Arthur will get to taste the special lactose free pot de crème.
Sometimes, Eames thinks he is too considerate, too compromising. Arthur has a lot of dislikes. He doesn’t like onions. He has sensitive teeth; hence, he doesn’t like sweet and cold desserts. He is lactose intolerant. He has a penchant to dislike some of the British cuisine Eames likes, claiming they taste too bland and ‘Mal’s cooking tastes better than that’.
It’s a tough feat, trying to sate Arthur’s every whim on the dining table, but at least, back when they were still a happy loving couple, he always showed how much he appreciated Eames’ efforts at making sure he could eat everything he wants. Now though, it’s always a small frown here, a displeased grunt there, and sometimes, a disapproving glare. It’s like anything that Eames cooks is not to his liking.
When he re-enters the dining room again, Arthur is standing by the table and is sharpening the carving knife Eames put by the large plate of beef pot roast. Eames quickly puts the melanzane alla parmagiana in the middle of the table and rushes over behind Arthur’s back and clutches his right arm, stopping him from making the knife even sharper than it already is.
“Please, darling, just have a seat and let me do it,” he says smoothly to Arthur’s ear, their bodies almost touching, almost, with just a couple inches between his chest and Arthur’s back and Eames can feel Arthur’s body heat. The grip he puts on Arthur’s right wrist somehow causes Arthur to wince slightly. It comes and goes in just a blink but Eames has seen how Arthur seems to favour his right arm when he takes his seat on the other end of the dining table, dragging the chair and flicks the napkin with only his left hand. And Eames remembers how the shrimpy guy had looked as he ran down the emergency stairs cradling his rifle from his binocular after the top floor exploded. The guy’s right sleeve was stained in red.
“How was work?” he asks as he carves the beef, cutting thin slices and putting a couple on a plate.
Arthur has both his hands on the table, he is looking at Eames as if he is studying him, noting his every movement. What he’s doing is exactly the same thing Eames is doing, even as he puts the plate in front of Arthur. Their eyes meet, and there are hidden words, unspoken questions, and many flicks of uncertainty. Eames breaks off their gaze, goes to the other side of the table, his side, and opens the lid of a large soup bowl.
“Oh same old,” Arthur answers shortly. “Though… there are some problems.”
“Really?” Eames tries to sound disinterested as he ladles bouillabaisse to a soup cup. “What kind of problems?”
“Double booking. We found out there’s another firm involved in the same project.”
Eames pauses for just a millisecond. Then he continues to spoon another cup for himself before putting the other soup cup near Arthur’s water goblet. “I bet you’ve solved the problem then?” He notices how Arthur’s right hand is trembling slightly as he takes the knife.
“Not yet.” Arthur cuts a small piece of the meat and puts it in his mouth, slowly savouring the taste. “But don’t worry. It’s nothing I can’t handle.”
Eames hums, eyes never leaving Arthur’s, then he takes a seat and starts eating.
“How about you? I see you came back early. Did you get the paintings?” Arthur asks, wiping his mouth with the napkin. Once again his right hand shakes slightly as he takes a sip of water.
“Had a problem too. There’s another curator going after the collection. Had an explosive argument. Still working on getting the collection.”
Eames sees Arthur’s eyebrow rises. He uses the term ‘explosive’ deliberately. He’s baiting for any reaction from Arthur and that single movement speaks so many words to Eames. If Arthur didn’t have anything to do with the Fischer job, Eames’ words would mean nothing to him, and he’d just brush it off. He wouldn’t even give any reaction. But Arthur is reacting, it’s only a small reaction, but it’s there.
“Is it that much of a valuable collection?” Arthur asks, calm and calculated.
“I’d kill to get the collection, Arthur,” Eames says. “But we’ll get there. It’s just a matter of time.”
The clinking of their cutlery stops. Eames looks up from his plate and once again his eyes and Arthur’s locked. The stiff and cold air around them is not an unusual thing. Their dinners together have been like this for the past months. But the silence enveloping them tonight feels different somehow. Eames feels even more distant from Arthur with all the suspicion he’s got.
After a few moments, Eames breaks the silence with a request for Arthur to open the wine he’s just bought.
Eames eyes Arthur’s every movement, right from the way he sits up, how he uses his left hand to take the bottle of Pinot Noir, to the way he’s having difficulties unscrewing the cork because his right hand is shaking so hard. Arthur’s face doesn’t give anything out, there’s a slight frown, but it’s clear to Eames that Arthur is trying to mask the pain.
Eames stands up and walks closer to Arthur. He grabs Arthur’s right arm, “Let me do it, Ar-”
But before Eames can finish his sentence, Arthur has let out a small gasp and he lets go of the wine bottle. The bottle falls to the floor, rolling under the dining table. Eames doesn’t care where the bottle rolls off to. He has his eyes fixed on Arthur, who is clutching his right hand in front of his chest, protecting it. And he sees the red spot on Arthur’s sleeve.
The look Arthur is giving him is the turning point. Eames knows that look. Arthur is panicking, the stoic mask finally breaks and his brown eyes are telling Eames everything he needs to know.
Arthur is the other hitman.
--
Arthur takes off his shoes the moment he’s in the kitchen so he can bolt out of the kitchen door without making any noise. He doesn’t go straight to the garage, even though he knows he should get away from Eames immediately. He doesn’t have weapons with him and he can’t go back in, runs up to get any of his guns from his study, not without knowing where Eames is. There is a pair of Para Ordnance under the seat of his car but Arthur just wants to know first, just needs to make sure this is really not just a horrible nightmare. He has to know that this is real, that his Eames, his own husband, is the very same assassin who made him fail at completing the Fischer job.
He presses his back to the wall, bending down when he passes the kitchen windows and tries to make out any noise from inside the house. When he hears Eames’ voice calls out, “Arthur? Darling?”, he carefully takes a look inside from the sitting room’s window. The ugly curtains that Eames still stubbornly keeps is obstructing his view, but Arthur can see him-Eames in the black shirt Arthur likes; Eames who is holding a gun-a suppressed SIG Sauer-and his finger is hovering just so near the trigger.
“Fuck!” Arthur curses and runs straight to the garage.
He slams the side door open, uses the remote control to open the garage door and dunks in to his car. His hands are shaking and he’s breathing heavily like he has just run a marathon. He doesn’t wait until the door fully opens, he just needs it to open high enough so his car can pass through. He can hear Eames shouting his name when the car skids out to the curb. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t look back. He just pushes the gas pedal and increases the speed.
Arthur does not care that he doesn’t have his shoes on. He doesn’t care that he is currently breaking the speed limit in the suburban neighbourhood. He doesn’t care that there is a large red spot on his right sleeve, and it’s growing larger steadily the more Arthur tightens his hold on the steering wheel.
He tries to calm himself, to even his breath, but he can’t. He can’t stop cursing himself, cursing everything in his fucked up life and then he slams his hand to the steering wheel and yells, “How could I be so stupid?!” It does nothing but adds more pain to his injured arm.
Arthur loosens his tie with his right hand-fingers shaking, his left still gripping the steering wheel tightly. His heart is hammering his ribcage and Arthur just can’t stop thinking how stupid he is, how foolish he has been in the past five years. He can just imagine how it will be, if everyone in The Organisation knows the one who jeopardised the Fischer job was actually Mr. Arthur Eames’ own husband. Of course, it’s not as though everyone in The Organisation knows Arthur is married, only the ones stationed in his architecture firm. But that doesn’t make it any less humiliating.
The news will spread like a wildfire. Everyone, even the janitor, will know Mr. Arthur, the so called finest and most ruthless assassin of The Organisation, has been deceived by his own spouse. He’ll be laughing stock of the week, month, or year even.
He needs to do something, something real quick before his boss gets wind of this. Of course his boss knows about his marital status. Arthur had told him firsthand that ‘no, Sir, it will not be a hindrance at all’, that Eames would never know Arthur’s true occupation. His boss had been sceptical but Arthur insisted everything would be all right.
Arthur scoffs at himself, at how gullible he was, and how blinded he was by love that he had ignored everything. Just to be with Eames. He was so sure about Eames back then, so sure that they could be happy together despite everything. But that was when he thought Eames was only an art curator who owned a gallery in midtown New York. Now, now Arthur isn’t so sure.
He doesn’t know what he should do once his boss knows. His boss gave him forty eight hours to ‘clean the scene’, meaning Arthur has forty five hours left to find a way to untangle the whole mess he’s in. He doesn’t have many options to choose from.
Right now Arthur’s only option is to get as far away as possible from Eames. But it looks as though he will not even have the luxury of taking that option because he can see Eames’ car tailing closer from the rear window. Fuelled with anger, Arthur drops a gear and halts the car suddenly, causing their cars to collide, and then he pushes up the speed again.
Eames recovers from the collision faster than Arthur expects. Eames’ car swerves past a car between them and in just a quick glance, Arthur sees Eames has already caught up with him. Eames has his passenger seat window down and he’s shouting at Arthur. Arthur can’t make out clearly what Eames is saying but he can hear a muffled ‘…need to talk!’.
The scowl on his forehead deepens and he shoots Eames a cold glare. He pushes a button and his window rolls down. The cold night air hits his face hard and he’s shivering immediately. “There’s nothing to talk about!” he shouts, his eyes still on the road.
“You don’t want to go to bed angry, Arthur. Stop the car!”
Arthur turns to Eames and hopes he will just burn in hell. “You lied to me!” He takes a swift turn and bumps his car to Eames’, causing sparks to fly.
“Don’t dent the fucking car!” Eames yells as his car skids out of the lane and is almost hit by a car coming from opposite direction.
Arthur grits his teeth, closes the window and speeds up again. Once more, Eames catches up to him and this time he swerves around Arthur’s car to the other side. Arthur tries to gain some distance but it’s difficult with Eames trying to take the lane. Having no other choice, Arthur pushes the gas again and bumps their cars while shouting, “Get out of my fucking lane!”
Right after this third collision, Arthur hears a swift zing and then hears something passing by his head at high speed. He stamps on the brake at the same time as Eames’ car skids to a halt. He looks at the hole in the passenger seat window and then to the one on his other side.
Blood boiling to a dangerous degree, Arthur turns to the right and shoots Eames his most pissed off look. Eames looks startled, but Arthur doesn’t buy that. Arthur should never believe that face anymore.
“Accident!” Eames shouts, holding his two hands up. His right hand is holding a suppressed SIG with his forefinger off the trigger. “It’s an accident!”
Arthur doesn’t care and doesn’t want to care. He bends down and reaches to the small compartment under his seat. There are two Para Ordnances hidden there, he takes one and clicks the safety off, Arthur starts shooting Eames’ car. He sees Eames ducks down when the window starts shattering, showering him with broken glass. Arthur keeps shooting until there’s only empty click, he’s breathing heavily and his right hand, still holding the gun, is shaking both from the recoil and from the pain surging up and down. He clips the empty magazine out and reaches into the glove compartment for a spare.
After a few seconds of silence Arthur sees Eames rises up. There are splinters of glasses in his hair and a cut on his left cheek.
“Arthur, you’re over-reacting!”
It is just so Eames to rile Arthur up in this kind of situation. Arthur bites his tongue and opts to starts driving away again. His right hand will be of no use if he keeps on straining it like that and he really, really doesn’t want to see Eames’ face any more.
Arthur keeps a hold of his gun, using only his left hand to navigate the steering wheel. He notices a sign on the roadside, ‘OFF-RAMP INCOMING’ it says. He takes a deep breath and lowers his speed, letting Eames catch up to him.
He shoots another round to Eames’ car, breaking the windshield as Eames bends down again to avoid the rain of bullets. Arthur speeds up , letting go of the gun and gripping the steering wheel tightly to steady his shaking hand. Eames’ car zooms close and they’re head to head now. The speedometer shows that he’s driving at 130 mph.
Arthur closes his eyes for just a second and then he turns to Eames. Their eyes meet, and Arthur feels his chest tighten and it is really difficult to keep breathing. It feels like the very first time they met, back in that hotel, in Mombasa. He remembers the spark of attraction.
“You lied to me too!” Eames shouts.
It’s true. They have both been lying to each other. They are both no better than the other. And it makes Arthur feel even worse.
So Arthur gives Eames a wry smile, takes a screeching turn and slams the brake. He sees how Eames’ car goes straight towards the ramp. He hears how the steel guardrails collide with the front of the car, the car crashing through it. He tries to keep calm as he hears a loud splash, the car falling down to the river over the ramp, and then silence.
There is only the sound of his laboured breathing and the soft whirring of the engine. Arthur bumps his head to the steering wheel and closes his eyes tightly, ignoring the pain in his right hand. After a couple of minutes, he takes a deep breath, grabs both guns this time, unbuckles the safety belt and steps out of the car. Barefooted, he walks towards the ramp wall and looks down to the river.
Guns in both hands Arthur sweeps the river, trying to see through the darkness. But it is too dark. There is nothing, no bubbles of air, no movement, no Eames. He stops at a spot and waits. A minute passes. Still no Eames.
Suddenly Arthur hears sirens. Before the police get to him he has to get away from this place.
Arthur takes another glance to the river-still nothing. He lowers his guns and goes back to his car. He slumps his head on to the steering wheel again, trying not to think.
He doesn’t know where to go.
The door is opened and Yusuf gives Eames yet another one of his looks. It says, ‘what in the bloody hell have you done to yourself this time?’. But Yusuf doesn’t keep his wondering of how stupid Eames is to himself this time, he says it out loud.
“My Arthur,” Eames grunts, shoving Yusuf away and storming into the flat.
“Oh wow, he’s resorted to domestic violence now?” Yusuf asks, pointing at the state of Eames’ torn shirt, bloodied knees, and the overall ‘I just jumped off a ledge straight into a bloody river’ look. “About time, took him long enough.”
Eames stomps his way to Yusuf’s kitchen, wet shoes squeaking and leaving mud trails on the floor. He violently opens the fridge. He scowls at the suspicious looking bottles and beakers nside. “Beer, Yusuf. I need lots of them right now.”
Yusuf sighs and shoves Eames away, telling him to sit on one of the chairs surrounding the small rectangle dining table and muttering how lucky Eames is because his wife is currently back in her parents’ home for the monthly visit. He opens the lower drawer and pulls out a six pack beer from it. Eames plucks oneand downs almost half of its contents before taking a deep breath and facing Yusuf.
“Arthur’s that other hitman,” he begins. And saying it out loud doesn’t make the pain in his chest any better. Instead it’s getting more and more painful. Because saying it out loud to someone else feels like he has just cemented the fact that Arthur has destroyed the foundation of their marriage by lying about his occupation.
Yusuf doesn’t say anything until Eames finishes his first can of beer. And Eames feels he needs the silence at the moment.
“It’s… implausible,” Yusuf croaks out after what feels like half an hour while in truth it’s only a couple of minutes.
“Believe it or not, my friend.” Eames pops out another can and downs the beer. He stands up and paces back and forth.
“No, I mean, really. What are the chances of that happening?”
“It has happened, if you haven’t realised.”
--
It feels so cold in the office, even without the air conditioner on, and Arthur shivers. He only has his undershirt on and his shirt is draped haphazardly on the sofa’s armrest. The shiver might have been caused by the stinging pain on his arm. It might also have been caused by the chilled bottle of vodka he is holding. The coldness seems to intensify as the scene of Eames’ car flew down the river replays in his mind
“You’re kidding,” Ariadne says, rolling the bandage around Arthur’s right arm after she stitches the gash again. She’s kneeling beside him on the floor, the medical kit box open near her.
Arthur takes a large gulp of vodka straight from the bottle and Ariadne tsks at him. “Nope. When have I ever told you a joke, Ariadne?”
“Sometimes. A rarity though. I’m starting to think you don’t have a single funny bone in your skinny body,” Ariadne says as-a-matter-of-factly, fastening the bandage and gives it a light pat.
“I’m not skinny,” he says, scowling at her.
Ariadne sighs and gives Arthur a sympathetic look. “But are you sure it’s Eames? Your husband? The one who’s also after Fischer?”
Arthur closes his eyes and hopes the alcohol can quickly numb body. And preferably numb the pain in his chest too or he’ll explode.
“The very same.”
Arthur really hates the look on Ariadne’s face and he hopes she would just leave for now. Or maybe for ever. He needs to be alone but he also doesn’t want to be alone.
“But how could it be possible?”
Arthur wants an answer to that question too. He has no answer to that question.
--
Eames washes his hair in the kitchen sink, a towel draped around his shoulders. It’s cold and the shirt is clinging to his skin. He needs a shower, to clean his whole body, and maybe to clean the contents of his head too, if it’s even possible.
Yusuf is still giving him an apprehensive look and he doesn’t like that look. Eames doesn’t want Yusuf’s pity. He doesn’t anyone to pity him for falling in love with the enemy. Arthur is an enemy, he convinces himself. What would you call someone who’s shot you during one of your jobs, if not your enemy? Even if said enemy is incidentally also your own bloody husband?
“So… you mean he’s been doing this from the start?”
Eames shrugs at Yusuf’s question, unbuttoning his ruined shirt and shrugging it off. “Who knows? I can’t believe he’s been lying to me all these years.”
“You should realise that you’re not really playing straight yourself, Eames.”
“That’s completely different!” Eames frowns at Yusuf, plopping down on the chair again, his trousers feel utterly uncomfortable clinging like that. “I married him because I loved him.”
Yusuf doesn’t respond for a few moments and there is only the sound of water dripping from the faucet on the sink. Eames wipes his face dry and keeps the towel covering his face.
“Well…” Yusuf starts again. “Do you still love him?” Eames drops the towel and goes to speak when Yusuf stops him. “Wait, don’t answer that. You should sleep on this. You’re both upset.”
“Upset? Upse-Yusuf, he wants to kill me!” And if only Eames hadn’t been able to hold his breath for longer than five minutes, Arthur would be successful.
“That’s not unusual. My wife says she wants to kill me every time we have a row,” Yusuf says wisely, sipping on his lukewarm coffee.
Eames gives Yusuf an incredulous look. “You didn’t see Arthur firing fifteen bloody shots to my car! And he drove me off the road into the river.”
Yusuf clears his throat and shifts in his seat, looking a bit uncomfortable and trying to hide his grimace. “Well… that’s less usual, I must admit. But trust me, right now he’s probably as confused as you are. Hurt… and vulnerable… perhaps.”
“He didn’t seem vulnerable to me,” Eames says indignantly. But Eames can’t help but wonder for a moment if Yusuf is right. Considering that he’s still angry though, he doesn’t want to think further whether Arthur is as hurt as he feels at the moment.
“Just get some sleep, mate,” Yusuf suggests, standing up and patting his shoulder. “See him in the morning, talk to him. Maybe buy him a new suit or something. Be nice…”
Eames sighs and rakes his fingers through his damp hair. “You don’t understand, Yusuf. He’s the other hitman. Arthur ID’d me on the Fischer job. Don’t you remember Boss’ message? Don’t you realise what all these mean?”
Yusuf doesn’t answer and even without looking, Eames knows Yusuf clearly understands what it means.
After giving Eames a change of clothes,Yusuf bids him good night and tells him to take the sofa and sleep it off. Eames can only sit, looking to the painting hanging on the wall and trying to rearrange his messed up thoughts. He’s clutching the blanket on his lap tightly as he thinks about Arthur again and he thumbs the ring on his left hand. He looks down and brings his fist up, looking at the platinum ring glinting as the light from the sitting room lamp hits it. He takes the ring off and looks at the letters inscribed inside.
Before they got married, he and Arthur had agreed to inscript a word of their own choice to each other’s ring. Eames had chosen ‘Darling’, a petname he often used for Arthur, for Arthur’s ring. The reason why Eames had chosen the word was because to him, Arthur would always be his beloved darling.
Arthur, on the other hand, had chosen to write something more common-and typical, perhaps-and put ‘Forever’ for Eames’ ring. Arthur never really told him why he chose the word and Eames never really bothered to ask because the word, to him, was already enough of a statement.
Now though, now Eames doesn’t really know what to think about the word. He had thought it meant that Arthur would love him forever, or that they’d be together forever, things like that. But after tonight, he supposes there will be no more ‘Forever’ in his and Arthur’s life.
Eames puts the ring on the coffee table by the sofa and looks at it for another couple of minutes before moving his gaze to the phone, also on the table. He’s reminded of how his mobile phones-all two of them-are now worse for wear after his diving into the river stint. Try as he might, he cannot pull up enough care for his beloved-now destructed-phones. How can he, when his mind is already filled with this whole… thing with Arthur. Who can give a damn about mobile phones?
He sighs. There’s no escaping it now. His marriage, and his life in general, is fucked up. He doubts that even Miles and all his wisdom from his thick books on psychology can help them. Best thing he could advise them is to ‘talk their problem through’. Yeah, right, Eames thinks with a snort. What a splendid idea. Talk. Don’t they say that all relationship problems stem from that little word called ‘communication’? But he wonders what would have happened if he and Arthur did ‘communicate’. What would they say? What would they accomplish?
Probably nothing, other than the fact that he and Arthur would have tried to kill each other sooner. And thinking about the prospect makes his mouth go dry and his stomach clench. Consequently, it also makes him angry and even more frustrated, and generally worse than before.
He’s ashamed to admit that he’s really tempted to call his Mum and bemoan his fate to her.
Snorting, he tries to think just how Arthur might mock him if he can see him now. Arthur knows how he only calls his Mum when he’s in a tight spot, ranting to her in a way that belies his age. Arthur used to tease him because of that, saying that it proves that he’s just a big baby after all.
But now Arthur won’t do that again. Really. Arthur prefers to shoot him than to tease him nowadays. And anyone who says words are more lethal than bullets surely never experienced the fate of being shot by their own goddamn husband.
With resigned surprise, Eames finds his hand reaching out for the phone. Sighing, he admits defeat and dials his mother’s private line.
It should be around afternoon in London at the moment and his mother must be having the good old fashioned tea time with his younger sisters. He bites his lip as the phone rings two times before his Mum picks up. Hearing that gentle sound of hers, Eames closes his eyes and slumps deeper into the sofa.
“Hello,” his mother’s voice carries through the phone connection, way across the Atlantic and Eames somehow imagines that he can smell her lavender perfume vividly. “Good afternoon, who’s speaking?”
“Hello, Mum,” he says with the kind of voice that he hopes might conceal his restless mind. “It’s me.”
“William.” His mother sounds happy to hear his voice. “So rare for you to call your dear old Mum. What’s happened now?”
In the background, he can hear the ecstatic voice of his littlest sister saying ‘Is that Willy? Is Arthur with him? Mum, please let me speak to him’ and a smile breaks on his face. Mary, his dearest sister, has had a crush on Arthur ever since the first time Eames introduced him to the family. It’s almost funny, how Arthur keeps being polite to her while fending off her apparent adoration.
He can hear his mother gently scolding her daughter to mind her manners and he chuckles. Arthur always says that he’s a gentleman. Guess he should thank his mother for that.
But still, a voice says in his head, what kind of gentleman shot his own partner?
“William?” his mother’s voice startles him a little bit from his grim thought reality in which he and Arthur are trying to kill each other. “What’s wrong, son?”
“Nothing, I just… miss you, I guess,” he says. “How are you?”
“Same old, dearest. A household to take care of, a young lady to be raised still…” There’s a faint ‘Mum!’ from Mary and Eames chuckles, “… and still hoping my one and only dearest son will come home with my son-in-law for a visit.”
This time, Eames really flinches.
“Mum, you know that we…” He tries to think of something to say and finds that he can’t really fill the blank that follows. Surely he can’t tell his Mum that the reason he and Arthur can’t visit is because they’re in a really big fight. A big fight that involves firearms, even. Because even though Eames can say that he’s fond of his Mum and that their relationship is close, there are things that he still keeps from her. One of those so-called ‘things’ was the fact that her dear little William is not an art curator but an assassin for hire. He never tells her that and he plans on never telling her that. It’s his secret to keep and it’s better than to have her worry over him.
“I know that you both are busy, ducklings,” his Mum says. “Though I start to resent that country for keeping my sons away from me, but what's an old lady like me to do? You both have a life of your own.”
“How’s Father?” Eames quickly says, half because he wants to steer the conversation to some safer route and half because he can’t bear the hurt he feels when his mother mentions about ‘a life of your own’. His life with Arthur is over now.
“Still trying to convince Amelia’s fiancé to take our family name. He seems to have finally given up on you coming back.”
“He should’ve realised it’s futile to make me take over his position years ago.”
“You know how stubborn your father is. You take after him after all.”
“Mum,” he says with a despairing sigh. “I’m not calling you only to hear you reciting that over and over again.”
“Oh, of course, dear. Now if we don’t talk about your father, why don’t we talk about you,” his mother says and before Eames could even think ‘oh damn’, his mother asks, “How are you and Arthur?”
His mother knows about his strained relationship with Arthur. He has told her about that, even though she never really knows to what extent. She only thinks they’re having a phase. Something that, she has told him, is not unusual in married life.
“We’re fine,” Eames lies automatically.
His mother makes a delicate cluck of her tongue. “Nonsense. You think you can lie to your mother, young man?”
Funny, Eames thinks, how his mother never knew he was lying about his real work for all these years when she can tell he’s lying right now over the phone.
“You would never call me if there was nothing wrong,” his mother continues. “What happened?”
“Just… the usual. You know about it, Mum…” Eames says with a sigh.
“Darling, I’ve told you that every marriage has its up and down,” his mother says and Eames wonders if other people’s marriages have the kind of ‘down’ moment that involves car chases and gunshots and all kinds of dangerous business. “I know you’re a man, now, William, and you won’t need your Mum meddling with your business, so I try not to get in the way. I just hate to imagine you and Arthur having problems… darling you two are so in love it breaks my heart thinking about you two in a quarrel.”
“I know, Mum, please don’t worry, it’s not… that bad,” Eames says and he feels like a thousand kind of liars for saying it. “I just called because I wanted to hear your voice, really.”
“I know that’s not the complete truth,” his mother says. “But… I suppose, perhaps this time I can let it pass. Just this once, for the sake of my darling son who almost never called his mother.”
Eames smiles. “You always spoil me, Mum.”
“And sometimes I wonder why,” his mother says, making Eames chuckle. “Now, Mary wants to speak with you, if I am to judge by the way she’s tugging at my sleeve. Really, you lot, I thought I raised you to be well-mannered people yet look at you. Here’s your sister, William.”
He only has a few seconds to brace himself before his sister’s rapid speech begins assaulting his ears. He can only cringe as he listens to Mary’s latest rendition of ‘why my brother Willy is an idiot’ which, this time, mostly consists of ‘I can’t believe you dared not showing up for Amelia’s wedding, Willy, how could you’. Finished with that, she launched onto a rant about her studies, about the boys from school and how they’re all not on par with her most delightful (her exact words) brother-in-law, how she wishes there are more men like Arthur around. And she curses Eames for hogging on the best for himself.
Eames can only listen and makes sure to drop ‘uh-hum’ and ‘I see’ here and there to let Mary know that he’s still listening. It feels so… normal to listen to his sister. So normal, in the midst of all this chaos that his life has become. He can even say it feels a little surreal to laugh with his sister via the phone, talking about Arthur of all things when he has just tried to shoot Arthur a couple of hours ago.
He just wants to bask in the normalcy, because if he doesn’t do that he will be going insane. He just want to talk about Arthur, because he’s afraid he might start thinking of him as ‘the enemy’ and forget about all those years they have had. He just wants to forget the last couple of hours of his life, because remembering them causes him too much pain.
He just wants to laugh, because he doesn’t want to cry.
--
As Ariadne clears up the medical kit, Arthur gathers his ruined shirt. It smells of sweat, cologne, and blood. To be honest, it’s not really a comforting scent at all but it somehow fits the mood. And, he thinks as he put the shirt on, at least it will keep him warm.
“Are you sure you’re going to be all right?” Ariadne asks, shutting the box as she stands up. She’s giving him one of those look again, the one which shows equal parts pity and worry.
Arthur nods and slumps back to the sofa. He closes his eyes and drapes his uninjured arm over them, trying to block out the light, as if by doing that he might also block his mind from remembering what events have taken place during the last couple of hours.
“Are you really sure, Arthur?”
He’s tired and he wants to be alone. “Yes, Ariadne. Now, can you ple-”
Ariadne cuts him before he can finish his sentence. “Do you realise you have to kill him now that you know he’s ID’d you?”
Arthur drops his arm down and looks at Ariadne. That look is still there on her face. How could she speak about killing Eames while giving him that look? He hates it.
“Of course,” he answers stiffly, leaning back again. “If he’s not already dead after getting shot fifteen times, that is.”
Oh yes, he’s keeping count. Arthur is a professional. Of course he will keep count, how many bullets he has spent, how many shots he has fired, how many times he has tried to hurt-to kill Eames.
Ariadne’s frown deepens but she doesn’t say anything. In a sense, Arthur enjoys the silence but he knows that Ariadne is still thinking about something. And when she launches her next question, it takes him by surprise.
“Do you love him, Arthur?”
Arthur sighs and knows he’s showing too much, letting Ariadne sees too much of his vulnerable side. But Ariadne is a smart girl and Arthur is too tired to tell her any lies. Arthur knows Ariadne will just keep on prying if he doesn’t say anything.
“I thought I did,” he says. “I thought he did.”
“Do you still love him then?”
“He lied to me,” he replies without really answering the question.
“And you lied to him too.” Ariadne pauses and sits on the sofa, her hand hovering just above Arthur’s forehead. He feels her small fingers massaging his temples lightly. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No and you can leave now,” he answers immediately. Ariadne has been working as his assistant for a year and a half, she knows how to deal with his perfectionism and can see through almost everything. She’s a busybody but Arthur sort of thinks she can even be counted as a friend. Other than the Cobbs, Arthur doesn’t know any other people he still considers friends. But this is where Arthur draws a line. He just can’t share, or talk, or even think about this matter at the moment. Not with anyone or even himself.
Arthur hears Ariadne sigh and stand up again. A moment later, a thin blanket is draped over him. Sweet Ariadne, his dependable assistant, partner-friend. No matter what, she still cares about him and the simple act of kindness touches Arthur’s heart.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, opening his eyes blearily.
“You’re welcome, Boss,” Ariadne says, smiling ruefully.
Arthur gives Ariadne a dismissal nod. He buries his face in the blanket after Ariadne bids him good night and closes the door.
His head is still spinning even though he’s tried his hardest to stop thinking.
He feels a vibration from his pocket, it is his phone. He really wants to chuck the phone away. He doesn’t think he’s in the right mind to answer any calls. After the vibration stops, Arthur sighs and takes another swig from his bottle of vodka. He grabs one of the cushions from the sofa and lays it down on the floor. Another swig and he lies down on the cushion, feeling his throat burns and his chest constricts.
His phone starts vibrating again, thinking maybe it’s a call from his boss, he takes it out and looks at the caller ID. It’s Mal.
“Hm?”
“Arthur?”
“Yeah, what’s up?” he slurs.
“Are you drunk, Arthur?” Mal asks. Even in his state of half drunkenness, Arthur can still sense the concern in Mal’s voice. He can’t guess, though, what makes her sound so worried.
“Not really,” he says. “What’s wrong?”
“I called your house but no one answered. Where are you right now?”
Arthur looks around his office, taking in the architectural models Ariadne had built and forced him to put on display, the three laptops on his desk, and the two Para Ordinance P18.9s on the floor. “My office.”
“Why aren’t you at home?”
For a moment, he feels like snorting. Home, he thinks bitterly, why isn’t he at home? Where is his home? That house he owns with Eames, it’s not his home anymore. Not after he knew Eames is never an art curator, not after he realised the countless lies being spoken in that house, not after Eames shot him…
And a voice on the back of his mind whispered ‘and not after you lie to him, not after you shot him, not after you tried to kill him with your own hands, drenched in blood without any shame…’
“Are you having a fight again?”
He takes a deep breath. His eyes are starting to sting. He must have had too much drink.
“Five years isn’t a short time, Arthur,” Mal says carefully.
“I know,” he says, hoping that Mal won’t notice how his voice breaks.
“Look, I… you might hate me for saying this and you might be already bored listening to this over and over again, but Arthur…” Mal says. “Don’t let mere differences break the relationship you both have tried so hard to build for five long years.”
Arthur doesn’t think lying about your real occupation can be counted as a ‘mere difference’. But he’s not one to talk.
“I know, Mal.”
“When you love someone,” Mal continues, “You love all of them. Didn’t you say it yourself in your wedding vow, Arthur? Didn’t you promise to love and cherish, for better and for worse? Do you remember that?”
Arthur closes his eyes. He can see their wedding day again behind his eyelids. He can remember Eames’ smile and the way his lips felt against Arthur’s after they were pronounced married.
“I do,” he says softly, echoing his vow that day.
“Welcome to ‘worse’,” Mal says. “Now the question is, do you still ‘love and cherish’ him?”
He lets go of the bottle of vodka and grasps his shirt, right above his chest. It’s not just about the bad things or the petty things he doesn’t like about Eames. Even after their life together has turned into a plain and boring routine, Arthur has never even once thought that he doesn’t love Eames anymore. Yes, he had said to Miles that perhaps marrying Eames had just been a mistake and it’s hard to keep being in love with him, but Arthur could never imagine how his life would be if he never fell in love with Eames.
It’s never the question of whether he loves Eames or not, no matter what Ariadne or Mal or-God-even Eames thinks. He loves William Eames. But he wonders now if Eames ever loved him in return. He wonders now if it was all just a cover. He wonders now if all the years he has had with Eames were mere illusion.
“Just think about it, okay? And Arthur… you don’t want it to end like this.”
Only thing is, Arthur thinks, it has already ended. It ended the moment his and Eames’ paths crossed during the Fischer job.
“I will,” Arthur says-lies, his mind tells him. “I’ll try, Mal. I will.”
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