re: stacks
forged you like a weapon, like an arrow in my bow
Arthur/Eames, PG-13, prompt: " Five times Eames called Arthur in the middle of the night, and one time Arthur showed up unexpectedly on Eames' doorstep."
3216 words
a huge thank you goes out to bronson who, despite, being asleep for the most part, played a huge role in the making of this fic. naks.
--
1.
Arthur gets the call in Odessa when he's ducking into a cab. His phone vibrates in his pocket and he flips it open, cradling it between his shoulder and ear, gesturing for the cab driver to give him a couple of minutes.
It's Eames.
"Where are you?"
"How did you get this number?" Arthur frowns, pulling the door shut.
There's a laugh at the other end, and Arthur can vaguely make out the clink of glass. He cups a hand over the phone, leaning forward in his seat, then tells the driver to take him to the airport but avoid traffic, if possible. He barely catches the tail end of Eames' sentence when he presses the phone back to his ear: "-pleasantly surprised you didn't hang up,"
A shaky exhale - and Arthur can almost picture Eames running a hand through his hair, scuffing the toe of his shoe against the floor, one hand hidden inside the pocket of his trousers. The last time he'd seen Eames was five months ago when they'd worked a job together in Sarajevo. He hadn't heard from him ever since.
"You didn't answer my question," Eames says, and there's the sound of glass again as he exhales through his mouth. "Where are you?"
Arthur doesn't respond at first. Spots of light flash between the trees outside. He drums his fingers against his knee, restless all of a sudden. "Somewhere," he answers vaguely, checking his watch. "In Europe. How did you get this number?"
"Oh, I have my sources." Eames hums.
"Cobb?"
Eames clicks his tongue. "I was sworn to secrecy, darling. I'm afraid I can't divulge any names right now." His voice, it's heavy with charm, deeply but not punctuated with the same cadence he uses to con his way out of trouble.
"It's Cobb isn't it." Arthur concludes, the corners of his lips turning up slightly. Still, he can't summon any real anger, at least not toward Cobb. It's not as if he'd told him explicitly not to give this number away, just ran with the assumption that Cobb wouldn't.
"So," Eames continues with a sigh. "Odessa. What's the weather like this time of year, mm?"
"How do you know for sure that I'm in Odessa?" Arthur asks. He tenses instinctively, hand poised around the gun at his hip. There's that brief moment of embarrassment as realization kicks in and the tension eases from his shoulders like a fever: he isn't being watched - it's damn near impossible as he made sure to stay completely off the grid, clean up his tracks.
Eames laughs again. Five seconds of laughter always sounds longer on the phone. Arthur ignores him and glances out the window, at the sidewalk where half a dozen pedestrians are huddled together and waiting for the light to change. He checks his watch again. Twenty minutes ahead of schedule.
There's a rustle of static and then the beat of heavy footsteps, and then a mesh of other sounds that Arthur can barely pick apart. "Fuck," Eames mutters. A loud crash - cymbals? - something falling on the floor with a heavy thud.
Arthur frowns. "Eames, are you in the middle of a job?"
"Something like that, yeah," Eames says, sounding sheepish. "Listen," he continues, and there's a pause lasting nearly half a minute. When he comes back on, the lilt in his voice has tapered off, and he sounds a little out of breath.
"Listen," he begins again. "Arthur. I'm a bit held up at the moment - something unexpected came up. But I'll tell you what, I'll call you again when I am not otherwise engaged and perhaps then we can-"
There's a click at the other end, cutting him off, and Arthur frowns at the phone for a moment before realizing that the cab has stopped moving. He looks up. The driver has rolled down the window and leaned out to light a cigaratte. They're here.
2.
He's in a hotel in Seoul when his phone vibrates near his cheek. He picks it up but doesn't speak then glances at the clock on the bedside table. 1:13. He scrubs a hand through his hair, rolling onto his back.
"Did I call at a bad time?"
Arthur wants to laugh but he's so tired that he hardly says anything at all. There's no doubt at all that this is Eames. He's worked with him enough times to recognize the distinct patterns of his speech - the subtle nuances of his accent. He lies on side, facing the window. Slices of light cut through the blinds, lining the floor.
"To what do I owe this honor?" he asks. His voice is hoarse. He's just dropped off to sleep half an hour ago and now his suit is wrinkled beyond misery, his tie undone and dribbling down the sides of his neck like a noose. Briefly, Arthur considers hanging up, but then it's been awhile and the smooth rhythm of Eames' voice makes the noise in his head recede.
"What time is it there?" Eames asks. Wherever he is, it's quiet too. Arthur can't make out the sound of anything else but the deep pulls of Eames' exhalations, soft and barely there.
"It's too early to be having this conversation, Eames," he says finally, cupping a hand over his eyes and pressing the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. "Aren't you going to ask me where I am?"
"No." Eames laughs. "Not this time." And then: "Have you heard?"
"Heard what?"
"Cobb getting married."
Arthur stiffens. He reaches over the bedside table to turn on the lamp, blinking the sting from his eyes when light floods the room. He wills for them to adjust the sudden brightness before sitting up and carefully toeing off his shoes. He picks up the wedding invitation from the bedside table crowded with half-smoked cigarettes and a stack of folders.
"Yeah." he sighs. He flips the card open with the pad of his thumb. "Are you invited?"
"Yes. But I'm afraid I can't make it."
"The wedding's this Saturday."
"Which is precisely why I can't go."
"You called me just to say that?" he snaps. He's not angry, just tired. For the first time in his life, Arthur is homesick. And it's a strange thing. It's not sadness or a feeling of displacement or secondhand epiphany brought on by Cobb's sudden decision to marry. It's - he wants to sleep in his apartment again, surrounded by things that are familiar. The depth of his exhaustion is something he continues to marvel at; it's settled deep in the marrow of his bones where it's been nesting for the past three or so years.
"You know why I call you, Arthur." Eames continues, and there is a pause as Arthur rubs the back of his neck and waits for him to speak again. Eames doesn't, not for awhile, so Arthur closes his eyes and tries to form a clear picture of him in his head - the shades pulled down, Eames miles away in an identical hotel room, cradling the phone against his ear and nursing a glass of bourbon in one hand.
It's entirely plausible, and for some reason the thought makes Arthur smile, but he says nothing and continues to say nothing, turning off the light and settling back half under the covers. The sheets rustle when he shifts, turning onto his side and pressing his cheek against his pillow.
Two more hours before he has to leave again for a flight back to Los Angeles. Arthur is almost asleep when Eames says, soft, "He made you best man didn't he?" and he is on the verge of saying, no, of course Cobb hadn't because he's known Eames longer.
He opens his mouth to say all of that but by the time the thought has gathered voice in his throat he's already fallen asleep.
3.
"Hello, etcetera. You do know who this is right?"
Arthur's lips curl in spite of himself. He doesn't know why he picks up these calls. Often times, he tells himself he'll stop, but then goes on to do the exact opposite anyway.
"Eames." He balances the phone in the crook of his neck, collecting the plates from the table with one hand and his glass of wine with the other. He's looking after the kids tonight while Cobb and Mal spend an evening together at the Opera.
"Are you dressed?" Eames asks.
Arthur snorts. He navigates his way past discarded toys on the floor and sets the dishes down on the sink. He turns on the tap and watches as the water rises up to wash the grease off the plates.
"Of course I'm dressed, Eames. Why wouldn't I be?"
"Oh, you know," Eames says. "I might've caught you on your way out of the shower."
Upstairs, the kids are asleep, tucked peacefully under covers. Arthur picks up Philippa's stuffed bear from the floor and deposits it on the counter, running his fingers over the soft, cotton edges of its ears.
"I'm babysitting right now." Arthur finds himself saying.
"Who would've thought." Eames says. There's no condescension in his voice, just wry amusement, and Arthur can almost imagine him standing in the middle of an urban street, tipsy after one too many scotches, head ducked down. He closes his eyes and he listens, trying to isolate the noise from the low cadence of Eames' voice - there's the patter of rain, hardly distinguishable over the stream of conversation in the background, and then the hum of cars.
"I'm in Spain," Eames informs him. "On the job as per usual. I hardly get any sleep as it is with people wanting something or another from me. It's ridiculous; you should see it. Just the other day a man walked up and swung his fist at me after mistaking me for a con man who swindled him for his money. Of course - I was the con man who swindled him for his money but it took awhile before I was able to convince him otherwise." He winces. "Bastard gave me a black eye."
"A black eye?" Arthur laughs. It's part of the job description, of course, a necessary risk. You move around a lot, live alone, work a few gigs until something interesting comes up. It's the only job they know how to do and do well. Arthur's been shot a few times before during minor altercations - he knows what it's like. He hates it when it happens but over time you get used to it.
"You should be here," Eames sighs.
Arthur's mouth twists and he stands straighter. "What?"
"You should be here," Eames repeats. He sounds exasperated. "You'd love it here with your propensity for all things exotic. The women are beautiful and the language itself is - it's glorious. Take for example: quien no tiene, perder no puede. Do you know what that means?"
Arthur picks at his fingernails, resting his weight on his elbows on the kitchen counter. It's 10:24 PM. "No," he says after a moment, cupping his forehead. "Are you going for profundity?"
"Yes, actually," Eames laughs. "Nothing gets past you, does it?"
Arthur smiles. He doesn't answer. There's a rustle in the doorway and he looks up sharply, spine taut, gun at the ready. But then he sees that it's just Philippa, standing in the hall in her pajamas.
"May I have a drink of water please?" she asks, shifting from one foot to another. She's four with Dom's eyes and Mal's mouth, and curtain of soft hair tumbling down her face.
"I have to go." Arthur says, ruffling the top of Philippa's hair with his hand.
"All right," Eames concedes. "Take care of yourself, Arthur."
"You too," Arthur tells him. "I mean it."
It's only when he pockets his phone that he realizes what he's just said and stops short.
4.
Arthur's phone rings during his first evening back in New York. The call is from an unknown number but he picks it up anyway just to distract himself.
"I sent you something." Eames says.
Of course, it's Eames, it's always Eames. Arthur walks to the window, easing the blinds apart with one finger. The late-afternoon light filters in from the street, soft like a rising blue mist.
"It's under the rug outside." Eames continues.
"Do I even want to know how it got there?" Arthur asks, but he's already halfway out the door as he says this. He bends down on one knee and slips a hand under the welcome carpet. His fingers catch on the creased edges of a postcard. He lifts it up to the light. Next to a picture of a man playing an accordion are the words I love Buenos Aires in bold red letters.
Arthur frowns. "What's this supposed to be?" He turns the card over in his hands - no postage stamp, just Eames' loopy handwriting in blue ballpoint, smudged in the corners, in lowercase: to arthur, from eames in argentina.
"For you." Eames says simply. "I thought you might appreciate it. I'm sorry I never made it to the funeral."
"Why are you telling me this?" Arthur says. His blood runs hot and something inside him snaps and ignites. "Shouldn't you be talking to Cobb?" Arthur climbs back to his feet, slamming the door behind him with more force than he actually means to.
"There's going be other women out there," Eames says, undeterred, "But he's never going get another first love. That one is always going be Mal." He laughs, not without a hint of irony, just as Arthur leans against the door. His mouth feels disconnected from the rest of his body. The urge to smoke sits heavily between the spaces of his fingers, making the rest of his hand twitch.
"You build your world around someone, and then what happens when they disappear, mm?" Eames says.
There's no answer for that. This is Arthur's first phonecall since Mal died. The funeral was three days ago, in Connecticut, and Arthur stood all the way in the back in the same shoes he wore to the wedding, his hands clasped behind him. And he isn't sad - just winded; none of them expected her to jump. Death was always a part of the game but none of them expected her to jump.
He walks to the kitchen. There's still a bit of wine left from this afternoon sitting on the counter. He pours some and takes both the bottle and the glass in the bedroom where he sits on the bed and takes off his shoes.
"I wanted to pay my respects," Eames tells him. "I wanted to but I was in the middle of something, ah, important that I couldn't just drop, you see. But I sent flowers."
"I saw," Arthur says, mouth suddenly sour. "Lilies." They were white like the dress she was buried in that made the deep brown of her hair stand out. Cobb didn't speak a single word during the service. Arthur forgot to tell him he was going to lay low for awhile, visit family in Rhode Island, try to figure some things out for himself. It's funny how his entire life can be packed away in a leather suitcase. He left the evening of the funeral, hadn't heard from Cobb since.
There's a hitch in the normal rhythm of Eames' breath. Arthur exhales and fights off a shiver, hunching forward with his elbows on his knees. It's been a full year since he's last seen Eames. It was in Cape Town, he knew, they were both there for separate jobs and caught sight of each other in the lobby of The Bay Hotel. Had a few drinks then compared frequent flyer miles, stayed up until five in the morning and then drank espressos by the railing, still in the same clothes they wore the night before.
It's been awhile.
Arthur takes a tiny sip of his wine and makes a silent toast.
5.
It's tourist season in Roppongi. The sidewalks are packed with people and the road is thick with rush hour traffic. He's here on business, flown in from Hong Kong the day before, tired to the bone but he's seen worse days.
His phone rings in his pocket. It's a miracle he still hears it over the noise in the street.
"Where are you?" Eames asks.
"On a business trip," answers Arthur. He crosses the street, lugging his suitcase behind him, pressing his phone closer to his ear. "It's been a month, Eames. You've fallen off the radar. Where have you been all this time?"
"Oh, don't play innocent now, Arthur," Eames says, scoffing. "It doesn't suit you. Don't think I don't know what you did. You changed your number. It took me awhile to track you down; I had to get back on Cobb's good side. Hard work but here we are now."
Arthur laughs in spite of himself. "It's nothing personal," he says. "I had my reasons." He ducks into another street housing rows of pachinko parlors, reaching for the strip of paper in his breastpocket. He smoothes out the creases from the corners, doublechecking the numbers before stepping inside the lobby of a hotel, shoes clicking against the smooth, marbled floors.
Eames doesn't say anything for awhile although there's a flurry of activity at the other end - sounds of paper rustling and the familiar clink of ice cubes.
"Are you drinking?" Arthur asks.
"Social lubricant," Eames replies smoothly. "I have a job lined up this evening. I need to be loose."
"When are you ever not loose?"
He hears Eames smile. Arthur takes the elevator to the tenth floor, checking the time before pocketing his hand. He pops his neck. Inside the lift are two other people - a business man in his fifties, a woman in white wearing red high heels.
"I'm going to hang up now." Arthur says as he steps out into the hallway, shoes sinking against the plush velvet carpeting. He straightens his jacket, pushing errant strands of hair away from his face. His hand hovers over the doorbell, finger poised, ready, waiting.
"Do not hang up on me," Eames says. He sounds like he means it, too. "Arthur, don't."
Arthur hits the buzzer.
"Arthur," Eames says, this time with exasperation, "Listen - I need to get the door but I will get back to you, all right? Stay right where you are -"
Arthur looks up when the door slides open.
It takes a second for Eames to respond, and when he does, it's not in any way that Arthur expects.
"I didn't have anything better to do," Arthur says. And then, a little more casually: "Hey."
"Hi." Eames says, blinking. He pockets his phone and smiles, leaning heavily against the doorway, thrusting out a hand. Arthur stares at it for a second. Then he takes it and Eames yanks him forward so that they're standing cheek to cheek.
And Arthur can smell him, his sweat and his cologne, in the soft folds of his neck, can feel the grit of his stubble brush his jawline. Arthur turns his face towards him, the barest hint of a smile in the corners of his lips, and shivers.
It's been awhile.