ten decisions shape your life, you'll be aware of about five.
i'll try anything once
cobb/eames, pg-13, for bronson the cobbay to my roberto, etc. title from the strokes' song of the same name. listen to it babes, some poignant stuff there c/o mr. sexy julian casablancas.
1600 words
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There came a day, six months later, when Cobb actually contemplated hurling himself off a ledge.
The thought of a quick death comforted him, his brain working on little to no sleep. Unable to land a decent job after a decade of living off the grid, he found himself getting progressively depressed after a series of job interviews confirmed his worst fears: he had too much education, but hardly any job experience to back it up.
The corporate world, he'd found, was ruthless and demanded he be angular, devoted single-mindedly to his field of expertise, but not above starting from a clerical position.
The verdict arrived several months later in the mail: rejected for jobs he was overqualified for but accepted everywhere else, including a managerial position at a retail outlet.
There was always that teaching position at Berkeley waiting for him, but Cobb didn't want to inconvenience Miles, who will have to pull some strings to get him the job, further. Cobb was his own man now, living on his own, for his kids who were always demanding to be fed, clothed, doted on, who were always wanting something or another from him, daddy this, daddy that, daddy James wet himself again.
Miles said it would grow on him. Give it time, he said, it's a work in progress -- much like everything in his life, Cobb thought, who, three months in, was already positively haggard.
Three weeks later, he woke up in a hospital bed, his mouth numb and tasting sour and dry from unuse. He hardly remembered how he'd ended up there; he was making the kids breakfast one morning when he felt a sudden flash of pain between his temples, sharp, like a clap of lightning. And then: not much else.
"Mal?" Cobb said as he sat up slowly. He saw the blurred outline of somebody leaning over him and then, there it was, the familiar scent that kicked his brain into alert wakefulness. He blinked five times. It wasn't Mal; it was Eames.
"I thought you were in Moldova?"
"You don't want to know what they do to people like me in Moldova, or what they do to all the sheep," Eames said. He'd lost some weight, but the distinct curves of his shoulders were still there, only more defined.
Cobb cradled his face in his hands; he felt like shit. An IV drip was embedded into one blue-veined wrist. He looked around: white walls, white ceiling, and Eames standing there with his hands in his pockets, wearing dark blue jeans and a white button down shirt.
"Where are my kids?" Cobb said, propping himself up against some pillows. His head hurt again. "What am I doing here?" He eyed the get well cards sitting on the table to his left. Philippa and James, he thought with a faint smile, leafing through the bright orange crayon scrawls before putting them down again.
"You look horrible," Eames told him. He steepled his fingers below his chin. "Oh, don't give me that look, you do." Eames rolled his eyes. "Your pallor is unhealthy; you're still sporting the same haircut from six months ago. You're letting yourself go. What happened to you?"
Cobb snorted. It hurt his nose a little bit so he tipped his head back, flinging an arm across his eyes and then shaking his head. "Life happened, what else? Where are my kids?"
"Your children are safe, rest assured. They were here a moment ago but they had to leave for school; Miles drove them."
"Miles," Cobb repeated with an audible wince. He sighed and brought a hand up to scrub his face. Miles was always looking after him, even after all this time. "That doesn't explain what you're doing here, though."
Eames sat himself down on the chair adjacent the bed, crossing his legs at the ankle. He looked good, Cobb thought idly. Relaxed and altogether different but familiar, still.
"I was in town, passing through." Eames shrugged. A lie, probably, knowing him. "Also, Miles found me on your speed dial. I can't say I'm not flattered. I've never really met the man until a few days ago but he's a nice chap. Very accommodating. Like Mallorie had been." He looked away at the name, thumbing his bottom lip.
Cobb was no longer paralyzed with grief whenever he remembered her but that didn't mean he didn't miss her, because he did, every day of his life, in between watching Philippa trot out the driveway in her pink tutu and plastic angel wings and boxing up toys James no longer needed.
"You collapsed from fatigue," Eames continued. His voice sounded muffled, far away, like it was coming through water. "How much sleep are you getting these days? Are you sleeping at all?"
Cobb smirked. He always thought coming back to live with his kids was going to be easy, a few bumps on the road, but not completely unmanageable; now, he wasn't too sure. He often worried about whether his kids liked him enough and how his two year absence was going to impact their lives as they got older.
Philippa, she was six now and starting to put two and two together, asking all sorts of questions. The other week she asked him what he did for a living and he'd fumbled for an answer. He didn't want to lie to her but he didn't want to devastate her with the truth, either. One step, one day at a time to try to redeem himself, but at the end of the day, he was who he was: a criminal.
Cobb thought about the dreams, the accumulation of old memories and the newly formed worry nesting in the pit of his stomach, like hungry vipers. "I haven't been sleeping a lot, lately," he confessed, clenching his eyes shut, watching the purple swirl of light behind his eyelids. He heard a rustle, the distinct scrape of a chair and Eames' tired sigh, coming closer, then away.
"Insomnia," Cobb murmured, "Too much caffeine, too much thinking. Too much everything. " He wanted to laugh and made a feeble gesture with his hand before bringing it back down to his side. Everything was making him tired. He wished he were in coma.
"I sleep better with a gun under my pillow. You should try that," Eames said.
Cobb smiled, looking up at him, remembering the time he slept next to Eames on a dirty mattress in Bangkok, their backs pressed together, the distinct groove of Eames' handgun outlined under their shared pillow. The room was so tiny that there was hardly any space left to set up equipment. It was the middle of August and the nights were muggy with summer heat that they had to sleep on their sides with the windows open to let in downtown smog. They stripped down to their undershirts as they worked, sweat pooling under their arms and the backs of their knees.
Five years later and Cobb could still remember that strong, sharp scent: a combination of sweat and soggy noodles left congealing at the table, and Eames' cologne perfuming the tiny rickety apartment -- a good memory Cobb swore to bury in forgetfulness, but here he was, looking back, eyes wet, mouth tired.
He blinked his eyes open when he felt the edge of the mattress dip under Eames' weight. Up close, Eames looked tired too, jaw roughened with stubble in patches, catching the light.
"By the way," Eames said, leaning back on his palms. His voice was low, soft, bringing Cobb back to the same place, the same memory: Bangkok, and how, in the morning, they scoured the city like tourists, sleeves rolled up, skins slick, maps rolled into their backpockets; they fucked too, sometimes, when they were both liquored up enough and frustrated, the rough scrape of teeth and fingernails leaving welts and mouth-shaped bruises that refused to disappear for days.
Eames said, in the same low, quiet voice, "You just missed Philippa's ballet recital yesterday."
Cobb felt his heart squeeze a little at the thought, his little girl and her soft blonde hair, her mother's eyes, dancing in a room full of people. He glanced up when he felt Eames leaning over him, the bed creaking, and Eames' scent, filling the air in front of his face.
"I miss a lot of things, don't I?" Cobb said, laughing miserably and shaking his head; he felt dead, inside and out, and Eames pulled him up into his chest, slinging an arm around his back, stroking a warm hand between his shoulder blades. Cobb shuddered against him, pressing his forehead to his neck, breathing in his skin, his closeness, his heat. He felt his eyes water against the bristles of Eames' jaw. They didn't speak for a long time, and Cobb lifted both hands to grasp Eames' side.
"It can't be helped," Eames said, brushing back Cobb's hair. His mouth was close enough to kiss but neither of them moved.
"I want to go home, see my kids," Cobb said.
"All right," Eames acquiesced, pulling back. His smile was sad around the edges when he cupped Cobb's jaw, the same gesture from five years ago when Eames leaned down to kiss him in a dank alleyway, steam rising from the gutters.
"All right," Eames said again. "We'll get you home."