[FIC] Mannequin
Title: Mannequin
Author: crazyeverafter
Rating: PG-13 for implied abuse in the past.
Word Count: 3,502, including interspersed Katy Perry lyrics.
Disclaimer: Nolan owns, I'm just playing in the sandbox dreamscape.
Spoilers/Warnings: OOC, but not on a grandiose level. Mild use of "bad words". Implied abuse in the past.
Summary: Four times Arthur might as well be made of stone, and one time that he crumbles, with Eames there to pick up the pieces. A/E slash, and a look into Arthur's not-so-pleasant past.
V. How do I get closer to you when you keep it all on mute?
How will I know the right way to love you?
Eames flopped back onto his side of the bed, panting, and pulled the flimsy grey sheet up to his heaving chest. He lay there smiling, his ravenous appetite for Arthur only temporarily sated.
Speaking of which….
“Have you the foggiest idea of just how much I love you, darling?” Eames rolled to his side and pulled Arthur snug to him.
“Oh, please, Sean. It’s hot in here,” Arthur replied, squirming and trying to get out of Eames’s grip.
“Well, I was hoping for ‘I love you, too’, but I guess ’Please, Sean, it’s hot in here’ will just have to do.”
“I love you, too. It’s just too hot for cuddling.”
“Oh, well you weren’t complaining about hot and sticky when we were fuc-”
“Sean.”
“What? Were you complaining? You did not seem to be. In fact, you weren’t very vocal at all.”
“It’s not like my noises could be heard over yours, Tarzan, even if I was vocal. So, what’s the point?”
“The point is for me to learn from them. You make a good noise; I make a mental note to add whatever it is I did to the regular playbook. You make a not-so-good noise; I cross an idea off the list and go back to what works.”
“List?”
“Figuratively speaking, darling. You may rest easy; there’s no tangible list of the naughty, naughty things I want to do to you, no written evidence that I want to fuck you nine ways from Sunday, not a single trace to point to the fact that you-”
“Eames?”
“Yes, love?”
“Shut up and go to sleep.”
“But-”
“No.”
Eames sighed, “Fine.”
IV. I wish I could just turn you on, put a battery in, and make you talk.
Even pull a string for you to say anything.
But with you, there is no guarantee, only expired warranty.
“Tell me again what the occasion is, Sean.”
“For the last time, Arthur, there is no particular occasion. I simply thought you would appreciate this lovely bottle of rice whiskey, fresh from the shores of the Mekong River. I hear this delicacy really makes the magic happen,” Eames said, waggling his eyebrows with the last bit.
“Well, that it does. Long-lasting magic.”
“That’s the best kind, no?”
“Normally, yes, but not tonight, Sean. I have some rather surreptitious errands to run in the morning.”
“Surreptitious?”
Arthur leveled a near-glare at Eames.
“Only joking, darling. However, you know this job is going to be a piece of cake. You should relax. Any number of minute details could misfire, and you’d be so wrapped up in research that you wouldn’t notice.”
Again with the near-glare.
“All right, nothing would fall through the cracks. Not with you, at least. But I do miss you. It feels as though I never see you.”
“You see me all the time, Mr. Eames.”
“Can‘t fault you there. I see you in the mornings, as you are quietly enjoying your coffee and the newspaper. I see you as you get dressed for the day, quietly, and then I bid you adieu. Then, after you have made it back home, I see you as you submerge yourself in your work. We talk over dinner, maybe, but then, you’re off to bed. I suppose I could watch you sleep and therefore see you some more, but that just seems a tad disturbing to me. Therefore, yes, I see you all the time. It’s just not the same.”
“The idea of wasting away on Saito’s fortune is probably appealing to most, but I can’t sit around doing nothing all the time, Sean. I have to be out there, doing something.”
“I’m not saying that you should sit around doing nothing all the time. I am simply telling you to slow down with your work. The time seems to pass so slowly when it is happening, but you look back, and you wonder where it all went. Is that what you want your life to be like?”
“The sentimentality card. Oh, I get it now. Is that why you bought the booze? To liquor me up until I have fallen into one of my deeply melancholy moods? Then you’d present your case, as you just did, and once I’m awake, I’ll somehow, almost as if you’d done some sort of inception, have the foggy notion that I need to cut back my hours and spend more time with you.”
“Arthur, what on Earth-”
“No, Mr. Eames. I’m going to bed.”
“Arthur, wait just a bloody minute,” he exclaimed, but the door to the bedroom was already closed.
III. Breaking down the man is no workout, but I have no clue how to get through to you.
Oh, I wanna hit you just to see if you cry.
I keep knocking on wood hoping there’s a real boy inside, because you’re not a man.
You’re just a mannequin.
I wish you could feel that my love is real.
Eames turned on his heel abruptly, once more facing the man from whom he had just been stomping away. He threw a hand up in the air, because he honestly did not know what else to do. He was reaching his wits’ end, and he absolutely detested just how easily Arthur made him lose his head. It was his job to get under Arthur’s skin, but the point man was a master reciprocator. Usually, Eames reveled in that fact, but this was a different situation entirely.
“You know what? You, my dear, are absolutely infuriating,” he shouted. “You act as though I’m going to sell your secrets to the government. Or the tabloids, whichever you’d most fear.” A bitter laugh crept into his voice (after all, his grandmother had always said, ‘If you can’t cuss or cry, you may as well laugh’), and he did nothing to silence it. He did, however, take a long moment to breathe before he continued, this time without shouting, “I’m not interrogating you, Arthur. I am trying to know you. Why can’t you see that?”
Eames paced away again, staring out at the city lights. He ran a hand down his face and sighed. Bloody hell, he had not meant for things to go this way. The last thing he had wanted was for this night to end in a fight. This night should have been one of their very best together. Should have, but instead, here they were, rooftop of an apartment building, neither man daring to near the edge lest they be thrown by the other to the streets below or tempted to jump off the ledge themselves.
The small table where they had shared a dinner by romantic candlelight now sat abandoned. A half-burned candle dripped wax onto the now-ruined tablecloth, and the overturned chairs told a ghost story to the untrained eye. To Eames, though, the story was not of ghosts but of something less frightening and slightly more volatile. The overturned chairs were merely unfortunate victims of yet another disastrous storm, of which the table was now the physical epicenter.
“We were having a perfectly decent celebration before you started talking.”
“Oh, wow. So, giving you dinner and allowing you to share my bed, those things are allowed. Apparently, conversation is not. Well, you would think that, of the two of us, I’d be the one in the relationship for the sex, and not the other way around.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it, Sean.”
“Well, Arthur, that’s what you may as well have meant! But maybe that is not such a bad idea, yeah? That’s the only time you ever let me close, when we are sodomizing the daylights out of one another. The only time when you’re sober, anyway.” Eames grinned humorlessly, his teeth gritting painfully together. He stared at Arthur as if waiting for a response. Upon realizing he would get no such thing, he began to pace towards the door leading to the staircase. Before he reached the door, he paused and turned back to where a silent Arthur stood, and spoke again. The anger in his voice had faded, but the traces of disappointment and sadness were obvious. Perhaps that was even worse.
“You know the worst part, Arthur? Cobb told me this would happen. Told me that trying to talk to you is like talking to a brick wall: someone walks away looking like an idiot and that someone is never you,” he momentarily pointed a finger at Arthur. “Oh, I fought him over it, saying that I would be different. Told him I would be the one to finally crack you open and you would be spilling secrets in no time. But, no. Happiness is not in the cards, apparently.” With that, he threw his hands in front of him, palms out in a show of surrender.
“Happy anniversary, darling,” he bit out, and then made his way to the door and down the stairs, leaving Arthur where he stood, hands in his pockets, on the roof where it all went wrong.
II. A bunch of broken parts, and I can’t seem to find your heart.
Oh, I’m such a fool, I’m such a fool, I’m such a fool.
This one’s out of my hands;
I can’t put you back together again.
Frankly, Eames was getting tired of Ariadne’s infallible enthusiasm. Of course, she was currently providing for him a place to sleep, so he could not complain. He would not complain anyway, because Ariadne was relatively ingenuous when it came to the ways of the world, and Eames was not contributing to her disenchantment any more than necessary. Still, she asked many questions. Too many, really.
“What happened with you and Arthur?” This was the first question she had asked. It was Eames’s first night away from home, and he was sharing with Ariadne a dinner that consisted of entirely too much greenery.
“You’ve been waiting to ask that since I arrived this afternoon, haven’t you?”
She had grace enough to look abashed, but it did not last, and she never denied his gentle accusation.
“We had a fight, Ariadne, and neither of us will be the first to willingly apologize.”
“Who’s in the wrong?”
This girl had entirely too much faith in the world, always assuming that any question she could conjure would be appropriate and simple. Eames paused to simply take her in, both amazed at her boldness and surprised by her question.
“I guess that depends.”
“On?”
“On your personal beliefs. Two sides to every story, and all that.”
“Well, what’s your side of the story?”
Eames pushed his salad away and leaned back in his chair. He reached forward for his cup, brought it to his lips, and drained it of the remaining whiskey. The ice clinked against the glass as he sat the glass back on the table. After a moment of silence, he sighed, apparently having won the debate with himself about trusting Ariadne.
“Arthur refuses to open up or get close to me. Asking personal questions is completely off-limits, apparently. Half the time, he verbally attacks me, and the other half, he shuts down completely. Then, there are the times I mention anything having to do with bonding, or spending time together, or any of those other atrocious things. He accuses me of trying to tie him down, as if I’m trying to control his life, when I simply want to be with him. And then there’s the fact that he never wants to touch or be touched, especially right after we‘ve had s-”
“Whoa-kay, there, Sean. I get the picture.”
“Hmm. Well, that makes one of us,” he scoffed.
Ariadne sat in silence for a moment, seemingly contemplating something in her head. Then, she spoke in gentle tones.
“Sean, how much do you know about Arthur’s past? His childhood, specifically.”
“I thought I just explained what happened when I asked personal questions.”
“And you haven’t done any ‘independent research’?”
“Negative. I have known him for ages, and I don’t do more reading than absolutely necessary. Never had a reason to do any research.”
“Well, this might not be something you could have found out through research, anyway.”
“What might not be something I could’ve found out through research?”
“The reason Arthur is… Arthur.”
“Don’t you bloody stop there. Keep talking, Ari.”
“I don’t know if-”
“Ariadne. Please,” he turned his pout upon her full-force. Oh, he felt childish, but what good was being a forger if he did not get to manipulate anyone while awake?
“Oh, fine. But, this is on you. You are forcing me to tell you.”
“And how exactly am I managing such a feat?”
“Have you ever tried to tell your face no?”
Eames could not help but laugh. The girl’s honesty was a thing of beauty.
“Thought not. All right. Well, you know Arthur was fairly close to his mother, right?”
“Actually, I’ve always held the belief that Arthur is really some highly secretive government experiment that was grown in a Petri dish.”
“Eames.”
“Okay, yes. He has mentioned her quite often, but never in great detail. It’s as if it pains him to speak of her.”
“It probably does. His father… wasn’t the best, not to him or to his mother.”
“He didn’t-”
“No, no sexual abuse on Arthur’s part. His mother, though….”
“Oh, my God. No wonder….”
“Arthur wasn’t made to watch, but he did hear graphic details. His father would drug his mother and then, well, you know…. He would have his way with her, and then he would explain it all to Arthur once he was drunk, like he was hosting a show-and-tell session. Arthur would try to stand up for his mother, but his father was a big guy, and Arthur did not stand a chance. When his mother woke up sore the next morning, not remembering much of anything, Arthur’s father would convince her that she’d gone to bed early, either drunk or with a headache, and forgotten all about it. Then, for so-called ‘proof’, he would read something out of her journal and pretend she had let it slip the night before. Arthur was scared to tell her the truth. He and his father explained the bruises by saying they’d gone out to play ball or something after she went to sleep.”
“That bastard. He deserves to rot in hell.”
“He likely is. Cirrhosis of the liver, among other things, three years ago.”
“Is that where Arthur disappeared to those two weeks?”
“Yes. He had to empty the house of his father’s belongings.”
“And his mother’s things?”
“She passed twelve years ago. Arthur already has everything of hers that he wants. Hey, you know that patterned tie he wears, the only one that has any sort of color to it?”
“It’s his favorite. Mine too, actually. What about it?”
“He had it made out of his mother’s favorite skirt. Neat, right?”
“Definitely…. Say, Ariadne? Don’t take this the wrong way, but why would Arthur tell you this and not me?”
“He trusts me in a different way than he trusts you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he and I are friends, but that’s all we’ll ever be. I have no reason to hurt him. There are no benefits to the relationship, other than company and conversation. You, on the other hand, he has more invested in you, but he is not completely assured of your relationship. He’s seen what men can do to those they supposedly love.”
“I more than supposedly love him, Ari. I’ve told him that again and again, and it just won’t soak through.”
“I think this one is out of your hands, Eames. This is something Arthur needs to work through alone.”
“He can work through it, but not alone. This may be his past we are dealing with, but it concerns my future, as mine is tangled with his for as far as I can see. Hopefully farther.”
“Go get your man, Sean. I won’t wait up, but there’s a spare under the mat outside, just in case things don’t immediately go so well.”
“Thank you for your unwavering faith in me, Ariadne. ‘Tis much appreciated.”
“Anytime, Eames. Anytime.”
I. If the past is the problem, the future can solve it, baby.
I could bring you alive if you’d let me inside, baby.
It’ll hurt, but in the end, you’ll be a man.
Eames found Arthur curled up in an armchair, surrounded by more clutter than Eames thought Arthur could possibly stand. In fact, Eames nearly panicked at the thought that he might not be asleep after all; perhaps he had fainted, or worse, completely perished amongst the relative chaos. He supposed it was a ridiculous notion, but he could not deny the irrational relief he felt when Arthur began to stir.
“Sean?” he mumbled, still obviously groggy. His hair was uncharacteristically mussed, and the shirt he was wearing was two sizes too big. In fact, the shirt was not even Arthur’s. It belonged to Eames.
“Yes, darling. I‘m home.”
“Sean!” Arthur was perfectly alert now and scrambled gracelessly to the floor to hide the mess surrounding him. The effort was valiant, but ultimately futile; Eames had already seen the portraits on the ground and the table, and if he had been given three guesses as to the subject, he would have answered the same each time: Arthur’s mother. Well, Arthur’s mother and variations on such: Arthur’s mother in a car; Arthur’s mother in a dress; Arthur’s mother by a tree. However, the picture that Eames had most carefully studied in the brief minute he had was the one that was formerly clutched to Arthur’s chest: a picture of Arthur’s mother, grinning and clutching her smiling son as though she were a tree and he the ground in which she had taken root. It was clearly a favorite.
Eames walked over to where Arthur sat and dropped to his knees onto the ground beside him. He brushed a hand against Arthur’s cheek and forced the man to lift his eyes from the carpet and meet Eames’s own.
“It’s all right, love. Ari told me everything,” he said simply.
Arthur’s face paled at first, but then went abruptly red. He opened his mouth to speak, and Eames could tell by the furrowed eyebrows that his words would be words of anger.
“No, Arthur. Please do not be mad. I made her tell me. I am sorry. But I get it now. I understand…. And there’s something you need to understand,” he paused before continuing, waiting for Arthur to meet his eyes once more. He reached out and placed a hand on each of the man’s shoulders before slowly trailing his hands up Arthur’s neck and bringing them to rest on either side of his face.
“I am not your father,” Eames slowly enunciated. His stomach twisted as he said the words, partially because of how disgusted he was with a man he had never met and partially for causing pain to Arthur by mentioning the past. He was not sure how Arthur would react, and that scared him as well. There was a chance that Arthur would be angry with him and never want to see his face again. There was a chance that Arthur would resume his mask of cold indifference. There was a chance that Eames had just ruined the best thing he ever had and ever would know. The worst part, though, was not the amount of possibilities. No, the worst part was waiting to find out exactly how Arthur would react.
When he finally did, after what seemed nearly an eternity, it was in none of the ways Eames had expected. Instead, Arthur let out a loud choked sob before leaping forward to bury his face in Eames’s neck. His body shook violently as his emotions finally, finally overpowered his previously impenetrable intellect, but Eames simply held him tighter. With the hand not wrapped around Arthur’s torso, he gently stroked the man’s unkempt hair and murmured as many assurances as he could think of into his ear. He did not even wince as Arthur’s hold tightened around his neck or when tears and mucus began to soak through his shirt. Instead, he stood as gingerly as was possible when your lover had haphazardly entangled themselves in your limbs, and carried Arthur to the bedroom.
Eames knew that this was merely a start to cracking Arthur’s tough façade. Things would be inevitably awkward in the morning as soon as Arthur’s memories surfaced, but it would get better, eventually.
Yes, Eames knew that this was merely a start. That fact would likely bother him later, but at that moment, he could not possibly have cared less. At that moment, he had a man that needed him, and Eames had nowhere else he would rather be.
Author: crazyeverafter
Rating: PG-13 for implied abuse in the past.
Word Count: 3,502, including interspersed Katy Perry lyrics.
Disclaimer: Nolan owns, I'm just playing in the sandbox dreamscape.
Spoilers/Warnings: OOC, but not on a grandiose level. Mild use of "bad words". Implied abuse in the past.
Summary: Four times Arthur might as well be made of stone, and one time that he crumbles, with Eames there to pick up the pieces. A/E slash, and a look into Arthur's not-so-pleasant past.
V. How do I get closer to you when you keep it all on mute?
How will I know the right way to love you?
Eames flopped back onto his side of the bed, panting, and pulled the flimsy grey sheet up to his heaving chest. He lay there smiling, his ravenous appetite for Arthur only temporarily sated.
Speaking of which….
“Have you the foggiest idea of just how much I love you, darling?” Eames rolled to his side and pulled Arthur snug to him.
“Oh, please, Sean. It’s hot in here,” Arthur replied, squirming and trying to get out of Eames’s grip.
“Well, I was hoping for ‘I love you, too’, but I guess ’Please, Sean, it’s hot in here’ will just have to do.”
“I love you, too. It’s just too hot for cuddling.”
“Oh, well you weren’t complaining about hot and sticky when we were fuc-”
“Sean.”
“What? Were you complaining? You did not seem to be. In fact, you weren’t very vocal at all.”
“It’s not like my noises could be heard over yours, Tarzan, even if I was vocal. So, what’s the point?”
“The point is for me to learn from them. You make a good noise; I make a mental note to add whatever it is I did to the regular playbook. You make a not-so-good noise; I cross an idea off the list and go back to what works.”
“List?”
“Figuratively speaking, darling. You may rest easy; there’s no tangible list of the naughty, naughty things I want to do to you, no written evidence that I want to fuck you nine ways from Sunday, not a single trace to point to the fact that you-”
“Eames?”
“Yes, love?”
“Shut up and go to sleep.”
“But-”
“No.”
Eames sighed, “Fine.”
IV. I wish I could just turn you on, put a battery in, and make you talk.
Even pull a string for you to say anything.
But with you, there is no guarantee, only expired warranty.
“Tell me again what the occasion is, Sean.”
“For the last time, Arthur, there is no particular occasion. I simply thought you would appreciate this lovely bottle of rice whiskey, fresh from the shores of the Mekong River. I hear this delicacy really makes the magic happen,” Eames said, waggling his eyebrows with the last bit.
“Well, that it does. Long-lasting magic.”
“That’s the best kind, no?”
“Normally, yes, but not tonight, Sean. I have some rather surreptitious errands to run in the morning.”
“Surreptitious?”
Arthur leveled a near-glare at Eames.
“Only joking, darling. However, you know this job is going to be a piece of cake. You should relax. Any number of minute details could misfire, and you’d be so wrapped up in research that you wouldn’t notice.”
Again with the near-glare.
“All right, nothing would fall through the cracks. Not with you, at least. But I do miss you. It feels as though I never see you.”
“You see me all the time, Mr. Eames.”
“Can‘t fault you there. I see you in the mornings, as you are quietly enjoying your coffee and the newspaper. I see you as you get dressed for the day, quietly, and then I bid you adieu. Then, after you have made it back home, I see you as you submerge yourself in your work. We talk over dinner, maybe, but then, you’re off to bed. I suppose I could watch you sleep and therefore see you some more, but that just seems a tad disturbing to me. Therefore, yes, I see you all the time. It’s just not the same.”
“The idea of wasting away on Saito’s fortune is probably appealing to most, but I can’t sit around doing nothing all the time, Sean. I have to be out there, doing something.”
“I’m not saying that you should sit around doing nothing all the time. I am simply telling you to slow down with your work. The time seems to pass so slowly when it is happening, but you look back, and you wonder where it all went. Is that what you want your life to be like?”
“The sentimentality card. Oh, I get it now. Is that why you bought the booze? To liquor me up until I have fallen into one of my deeply melancholy moods? Then you’d present your case, as you just did, and once I’m awake, I’ll somehow, almost as if you’d done some sort of inception, have the foggy notion that I need to cut back my hours and spend more time with you.”
“Arthur, what on Earth-”
“No, Mr. Eames. I’m going to bed.”
“Arthur, wait just a bloody minute,” he exclaimed, but the door to the bedroom was already closed.
III. Breaking down the man is no workout, but I have no clue how to get through to you.
Oh, I wanna hit you just to see if you cry.
I keep knocking on wood hoping there’s a real boy inside, because you’re not a man.
You’re just a mannequin.
I wish you could feel that my love is real.
Eames turned on his heel abruptly, once more facing the man from whom he had just been stomping away. He threw a hand up in the air, because he honestly did not know what else to do. He was reaching his wits’ end, and he absolutely detested just how easily Arthur made him lose his head. It was his job to get under Arthur’s skin, but the point man was a master reciprocator. Usually, Eames reveled in that fact, but this was a different situation entirely.
“You know what? You, my dear, are absolutely infuriating,” he shouted. “You act as though I’m going to sell your secrets to the government. Or the tabloids, whichever you’d most fear.” A bitter laugh crept into his voice (after all, his grandmother had always said, ‘If you can’t cuss or cry, you may as well laugh’), and he did nothing to silence it. He did, however, take a long moment to breathe before he continued, this time without shouting, “I’m not interrogating you, Arthur. I am trying to know you. Why can’t you see that?”
Eames paced away again, staring out at the city lights. He ran a hand down his face and sighed. Bloody hell, he had not meant for things to go this way. The last thing he had wanted was for this night to end in a fight. This night should have been one of their very best together. Should have, but instead, here they were, rooftop of an apartment building, neither man daring to near the edge lest they be thrown by the other to the streets below or tempted to jump off the ledge themselves.
The small table where they had shared a dinner by romantic candlelight now sat abandoned. A half-burned candle dripped wax onto the now-ruined tablecloth, and the overturned chairs told a ghost story to the untrained eye. To Eames, though, the story was not of ghosts but of something less frightening and slightly more volatile. The overturned chairs were merely unfortunate victims of yet another disastrous storm, of which the table was now the physical epicenter.
“We were having a perfectly decent celebration before you started talking.”
“Oh, wow. So, giving you dinner and allowing you to share my bed, those things are allowed. Apparently, conversation is not. Well, you would think that, of the two of us, I’d be the one in the relationship for the sex, and not the other way around.”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it, Sean.”
“Well, Arthur, that’s what you may as well have meant! But maybe that is not such a bad idea, yeah? That’s the only time you ever let me close, when we are sodomizing the daylights out of one another. The only time when you’re sober, anyway.” Eames grinned humorlessly, his teeth gritting painfully together. He stared at Arthur as if waiting for a response. Upon realizing he would get no such thing, he began to pace towards the door leading to the staircase. Before he reached the door, he paused and turned back to where a silent Arthur stood, and spoke again. The anger in his voice had faded, but the traces of disappointment and sadness were obvious. Perhaps that was even worse.
“You know the worst part, Arthur? Cobb told me this would happen. Told me that trying to talk to you is like talking to a brick wall: someone walks away looking like an idiot and that someone is never you,” he momentarily pointed a finger at Arthur. “Oh, I fought him over it, saying that I would be different. Told him I would be the one to finally crack you open and you would be spilling secrets in no time. But, no. Happiness is not in the cards, apparently.” With that, he threw his hands in front of him, palms out in a show of surrender.
“Happy anniversary, darling,” he bit out, and then made his way to the door and down the stairs, leaving Arthur where he stood, hands in his pockets, on the roof where it all went wrong.
II. A bunch of broken parts, and I can’t seem to find your heart.
Oh, I’m such a fool, I’m such a fool, I’m such a fool.
This one’s out of my hands;
I can’t put you back together again.
Frankly, Eames was getting tired of Ariadne’s infallible enthusiasm. Of course, she was currently providing for him a place to sleep, so he could not complain. He would not complain anyway, because Ariadne was relatively ingenuous when it came to the ways of the world, and Eames was not contributing to her disenchantment any more than necessary. Still, she asked many questions. Too many, really.
“What happened with you and Arthur?” This was the first question she had asked. It was Eames’s first night away from home, and he was sharing with Ariadne a dinner that consisted of entirely too much greenery.
“You’ve been waiting to ask that since I arrived this afternoon, haven’t you?”
She had grace enough to look abashed, but it did not last, and she never denied his gentle accusation.
“We had a fight, Ariadne, and neither of us will be the first to willingly apologize.”
“Who’s in the wrong?”
This girl had entirely too much faith in the world, always assuming that any question she could conjure would be appropriate and simple. Eames paused to simply take her in, both amazed at her boldness and surprised by her question.
“I guess that depends.”
“On?”
“On your personal beliefs. Two sides to every story, and all that.”
“Well, what’s your side of the story?”
Eames pushed his salad away and leaned back in his chair. He reached forward for his cup, brought it to his lips, and drained it of the remaining whiskey. The ice clinked against the glass as he sat the glass back on the table. After a moment of silence, he sighed, apparently having won the debate with himself about trusting Ariadne.
“Arthur refuses to open up or get close to me. Asking personal questions is completely off-limits, apparently. Half the time, he verbally attacks me, and the other half, he shuts down completely. Then, there are the times I mention anything having to do with bonding, or spending time together, or any of those other atrocious things. He accuses me of trying to tie him down, as if I’m trying to control his life, when I simply want to be with him. And then there’s the fact that he never wants to touch or be touched, especially right after we‘ve had s-”
“Whoa-kay, there, Sean. I get the picture.”
“Hmm. Well, that makes one of us,” he scoffed.
Ariadne sat in silence for a moment, seemingly contemplating something in her head. Then, she spoke in gentle tones.
“Sean, how much do you know about Arthur’s past? His childhood, specifically.”
“I thought I just explained what happened when I asked personal questions.”
“And you haven’t done any ‘independent research’?”
“Negative. I have known him for ages, and I don’t do more reading than absolutely necessary. Never had a reason to do any research.”
“Well, this might not be something you could have found out through research, anyway.”
“What might not be something I could’ve found out through research?”
“The reason Arthur is… Arthur.”
“Don’t you bloody stop there. Keep talking, Ari.”
“I don’t know if-”
“Ariadne. Please,” he turned his pout upon her full-force. Oh, he felt childish, but what good was being a forger if he did not get to manipulate anyone while awake?
“Oh, fine. But, this is on you. You are forcing me to tell you.”
“And how exactly am I managing such a feat?”
“Have you ever tried to tell your face no?”
Eames could not help but laugh. The girl’s honesty was a thing of beauty.
“Thought not. All right. Well, you know Arthur was fairly close to his mother, right?”
“Actually, I’ve always held the belief that Arthur is really some highly secretive government experiment that was grown in a Petri dish.”
“Eames.”
“Okay, yes. He has mentioned her quite often, but never in great detail. It’s as if it pains him to speak of her.”
“It probably does. His father… wasn’t the best, not to him or to his mother.”
“He didn’t-”
“No, no sexual abuse on Arthur’s part. His mother, though….”
“Oh, my God. No wonder….”
“Arthur wasn’t made to watch, but he did hear graphic details. His father would drug his mother and then, well, you know…. He would have his way with her, and then he would explain it all to Arthur once he was drunk, like he was hosting a show-and-tell session. Arthur would try to stand up for his mother, but his father was a big guy, and Arthur did not stand a chance. When his mother woke up sore the next morning, not remembering much of anything, Arthur’s father would convince her that she’d gone to bed early, either drunk or with a headache, and forgotten all about it. Then, for so-called ‘proof’, he would read something out of her journal and pretend she had let it slip the night before. Arthur was scared to tell her the truth. He and his father explained the bruises by saying they’d gone out to play ball or something after she went to sleep.”
“That bastard. He deserves to rot in hell.”
“He likely is. Cirrhosis of the liver, among other things, three years ago.”
“Is that where Arthur disappeared to those two weeks?”
“Yes. He had to empty the house of his father’s belongings.”
“And his mother’s things?”
“She passed twelve years ago. Arthur already has everything of hers that he wants. Hey, you know that patterned tie he wears, the only one that has any sort of color to it?”
“It’s his favorite. Mine too, actually. What about it?”
“He had it made out of his mother’s favorite skirt. Neat, right?”
“Definitely…. Say, Ariadne? Don’t take this the wrong way, but why would Arthur tell you this and not me?”
“He trusts me in a different way than he trusts you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he and I are friends, but that’s all we’ll ever be. I have no reason to hurt him. There are no benefits to the relationship, other than company and conversation. You, on the other hand, he has more invested in you, but he is not completely assured of your relationship. He’s seen what men can do to those they supposedly love.”
“I more than supposedly love him, Ari. I’ve told him that again and again, and it just won’t soak through.”
“I think this one is out of your hands, Eames. This is something Arthur needs to work through alone.”
“He can work through it, but not alone. This may be his past we are dealing with, but it concerns my future, as mine is tangled with his for as far as I can see. Hopefully farther.”
“Go get your man, Sean. I won’t wait up, but there’s a spare under the mat outside, just in case things don’t immediately go so well.”
“Thank you for your unwavering faith in me, Ariadne. ‘Tis much appreciated.”
“Anytime, Eames. Anytime.”
I. If the past is the problem, the future can solve it, baby.
I could bring you alive if you’d let me inside, baby.
It’ll hurt, but in the end, you’ll be a man.
Eames found Arthur curled up in an armchair, surrounded by more clutter than Eames thought Arthur could possibly stand. In fact, Eames nearly panicked at the thought that he might not be asleep after all; perhaps he had fainted, or worse, completely perished amongst the relative chaos. He supposed it was a ridiculous notion, but he could not deny the irrational relief he felt when Arthur began to stir.
“Sean?” he mumbled, still obviously groggy. His hair was uncharacteristically mussed, and the shirt he was wearing was two sizes too big. In fact, the shirt was not even Arthur’s. It belonged to Eames.
“Yes, darling. I‘m home.”
“Sean!” Arthur was perfectly alert now and scrambled gracelessly to the floor to hide the mess surrounding him. The effort was valiant, but ultimately futile; Eames had already seen the portraits on the ground and the table, and if he had been given three guesses as to the subject, he would have answered the same each time: Arthur’s mother. Well, Arthur’s mother and variations on such: Arthur’s mother in a car; Arthur’s mother in a dress; Arthur’s mother by a tree. However, the picture that Eames had most carefully studied in the brief minute he had was the one that was formerly clutched to Arthur’s chest: a picture of Arthur’s mother, grinning and clutching her smiling son as though she were a tree and he the ground in which she had taken root. It was clearly a favorite.
Eames walked over to where Arthur sat and dropped to his knees onto the ground beside him. He brushed a hand against Arthur’s cheek and forced the man to lift his eyes from the carpet and meet Eames’s own.
“It’s all right, love. Ari told me everything,” he said simply.
Arthur’s face paled at first, but then went abruptly red. He opened his mouth to speak, and Eames could tell by the furrowed eyebrows that his words would be words of anger.
“No, Arthur. Please do not be mad. I made her tell me. I am sorry. But I get it now. I understand…. And there’s something you need to understand,” he paused before continuing, waiting for Arthur to meet his eyes once more. He reached out and placed a hand on each of the man’s shoulders before slowly trailing his hands up Arthur’s neck and bringing them to rest on either side of his face.
“I am not your father,” Eames slowly enunciated. His stomach twisted as he said the words, partially because of how disgusted he was with a man he had never met and partially for causing pain to Arthur by mentioning the past. He was not sure how Arthur would react, and that scared him as well. There was a chance that Arthur would be angry with him and never want to see his face again. There was a chance that Arthur would resume his mask of cold indifference. There was a chance that Eames had just ruined the best thing he ever had and ever would know. The worst part, though, was not the amount of possibilities. No, the worst part was waiting to find out exactly how Arthur would react.
When he finally did, after what seemed nearly an eternity, it was in none of the ways Eames had expected. Instead, Arthur let out a loud choked sob before leaping forward to bury his face in Eames’s neck. His body shook violently as his emotions finally, finally overpowered his previously impenetrable intellect, but Eames simply held him tighter. With the hand not wrapped around Arthur’s torso, he gently stroked the man’s unkempt hair and murmured as many assurances as he could think of into his ear. He did not even wince as Arthur’s hold tightened around his neck or when tears and mucus began to soak through his shirt. Instead, he stood as gingerly as was possible when your lover had haphazardly entangled themselves in your limbs, and carried Arthur to the bedroom.
Eames knew that this was merely a start to cracking Arthur’s tough façade. Things would be inevitably awkward in the morning as soon as Arthur’s memories surfaced, but it would get better, eventually.
Yes, Eames knew that this was merely a start. That fact would likely bother him later, but at that moment, he could not possibly have cared less. At that moment, he had a man that needed him, and Eames had nowhere else he would rather be.