Fic: The man who had none of the luck 5/6
Title: The man who had none of the luck part 5
author: Black Gem
pairing: Arthur/Eames
characters: Arthur, Eames
rating: R
warnings: mentions of violence, rape and other dark themes
disclaimer: I own nothing, I'm just playing with them.
Summary: When Arthur choose to go to ground, even the hounds of hell couldn't drag him out.
Of course the hounds of hell didn't know the man even a fraction as well as Eames did.
Author's note: I do like Cobb, really I do, but somehow I can't help be write the relationship between him and Eames as being somewhat confrontational. It's the protective big brother vibe I'm getting off him I think.
Author's note 2: I'm perfectly willing to admit I Did Not Do The Research on either the medical side or Bangkok, so I have tried to keep both vague. Next time I shall ensure to base a fic somewhere I actually know.
Eames - Bangkok: 25th September, 6:03pm
“Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck,” Eames stormed out the warehouse, pushing past a curious Ariadne and a worried Cobb. He wasn't certain whether to laugh or cry, so he settled instead for cursing and violence.
“Fuck,” he kicked a large dumpster, hearing the satisfying metal clang as he did so.
“Fuck,” he punched the wall, taking comfort in the pain shooting up his arm.
In fact, the feeling was so satisfying, he did it again, beating the wall with both fists, a litany of curses with each strike until his hands felt as raw as he heart. It took several moments for him to realise that Cobb was calling to him and he whirled on him, seeking an outlet for his anger.
“You! This is your fault, if we'd have gotten to him earlier, done the job as soon as we had the lead instead of waiting three days this wouldn't have happened.” He was being unreasonable, he knew it, he didn't care. He expected, hoped even, that Cobb would shout back, defend himself, retaliate, give him an excuse to get in a fight.
Cobb didn't, merely saying his name again, hands out in what was no doubt meant to be a placating gesture, “Eames!”
He punched him anyway. It felt satisfying, he tensed, ready for the retaliation, wanting it so bad he could almost taste it. But Cobb, the bastard, doesn't. Instead, he rubs his jaw where the fist had landed and took a couple of steps back before saying, in that same calm, sympathetic voice. “Have you got that out your system now or do you need another go?” Eames looked back at him and it was as if a dam had broken, all the anger, the tension, the wound up anticipation over the possibility that this finally might be where they found Arthur, left him in an instant.
He went to sit down on the nearest solid surface, a crate in this case, his legs barely able to support him and shakily pulled a cigarette out of the packet. Cobb was still looking at him with those sympathetic, worried eyes, worried for him, worried for Arthur and he had to look away, fumbling with the lighter using fingers that no longer seemed to work the right way.
And the extractor is kneeling in front of his, his own lighter, a cheap tacky thing, held lit in front of him and Eames is somehow absurdly grateful because its clear that there is no way he could light the cigarette on his own. Taking a deep drag, he exhaled, a soft, “fuck” muttered under his breath.
“Better now?” Cobb is talking to him and it takes him a few moments to bring him back together enough to concentrate on the words, “We need you Eames, I need you, Arthur needs you, but you need to pull yourself together. You're no use to anyone, least of all him, like this.”
Eames nodded shakily at that, his mind already half supplying the dry, though somehow still caring, commentary that Arthur would have provided if he saw him fall apart like this. He nodded again, almost visibly pulling himself together, and turns back towards the others. Ariadne is doing her best to look away, to pretend her attention is entirely taking up by the crude graffiti on the warehouse wall, whilst Yusuf appears to be fidgeting with one of the bottles which had been scattered around the floor, something clearly on his mind.
Plastering on a nonchalant smile as if nothing had happened, as if they hadn't all just watched him almost fall apart. Luckily he's saved from having to say anything by Ariadne, which was a good thing, because he didn't think right now he'd have much of a chance of getting anything out without his voice cracking.
“So... what now?” she's directing the question at Cobb but she's looking straight at him, so he decided to try and answer the question anyway.
“Now we try and find the stupid sod before he gets into any more trouble,” he was almost proud that he managed to get the sentence out with barely even a waiver at the end.
++++
Finding Arthur took considerably longer than Eames would have liked. Despite the fact that the evidence from the warehouse pointed very distinctly towards the point man being severely injured, tortured Eames' treacherous mind supplied, and based on the drug vials found, quite likely both delirious and heavily sedated. Despite even the traces of blood leading out from the industrial area before trailing off somewhere once they reached run-down high rises and almost shanty town constructions of wood and iron. Arthur it would appear had very effectively gone to ground.
It shouldn't have necessarily been surprising, he had, after all, spent various parts of his career as a soldier, a spy and, briefly, a mercenary long before before he got into the extraction business. Arthur wasn't just good in the real world as well as the dreamscape, he was the best in the dreamscape because of his abilities in the waking world. When Arthur choose to go to ground, even the hounds of hell couldn't drag him out.
Of course the hounds of hell didn't know the man even a fraction as well as Eames did. No one did, not even Cobb, not that he would normally expect the other man to admit this.
Which was why he was pleasantly surprised when, an hour after the blood trails had run out and the questioning of the locals had lead to nothing, and the blond extractor had proclaimed that, “This is getting us nowhere, we can't follow a trail that doesn't exist. We need to figure out where Arthur is likely to go,” he had looked directly towards the British forger for answers.
Eames barely needed to think about the reply, Arthur was nothing if not consistent when hiding. Oh, the locations changed and finding him was never easy, but the basic characteristics remained the same. ”As high up as he can get whilst still keeping an escape route.” he said easily, “our dear point man has a bit of a thing for heights, never understood why.” Which was a lie, because Arthur had once told him about the treehouse he and his brother had built in the backyard, high up in the branches where none of the adults would climb. It was pretty much the only thing the man had told him about his childhood, and that was hardly surprising. People with happy childhoods didn't, as a rule, end up in professions like theirs.
He looked around, dismissing at once of low-slung slums and half-built houses. Their mazes of alleyways and hideyholes may have been the logical choice, but if Yusuf's conclusions as to Arthurs state of mind were correct, they could hardly count on him feeling rational. Rather he looked towards the taller crumbling brick buildings, cheap housing clearly put up for port workers in a by-gone era, which clustered together with narrow streets and even narrower alleyways in between. Further for the injured man to run, but also further from the site of captivity. It was, now he was looking for it, obvious that was where the point man would run to feel safe.
Despite the certainty of the point man's general location, it still took them hours to track the man down, so much so that Eames started to doubt his own certainty, his own knowledge of the other man. Eventually however, after endless questioning in broken English and Cantonese, not to mention the universal language of the dollar, they get a possible location, a local gesticulating towards a large, crumbling building. Although smaller than some of the other high-rises, older too, a rickety fire escape was visible running along the outside, and it is clear that this additional means of escape would have attracted the point man to this building over the others. The boarded up windows, the still dark rooms despite the night's gloom, and nailed over doorways also indicated that whatever residents the building did have, it was unlikely they were living there officially.
The inside of the building looked even more decrepit than the outside. It was clear that the owners, when they had boarded the place up and left it to rot, had gone through haphazardly removing anything they thought could be of value. Even the doors had been removed, either then or later, and most the rooms leading off the main corridor appeared to have only curtains to give a semblance of privacy. The residents themselves were equally as mixed, whole families in threadbare clothing with the pinched faces of the terminally hungry cowered in corners alongside skeletal junkies, flamboyant lady-boys, hardened prostitutes and orphaned children, all often one and the same person. None of them however appeared willing to mess with the armed, well-dressed foreigners who had invaded their dwelling.
Eames ignored the lower levels, moving further up, towards the top of the building, towards where Arthur would feel safe. It appeared that his hunch was correct as he spotted a flash of pale skin on the stairs leading up to the top floor, and the glint of a gun. He barely managed to throw himself out the way as a shot rang out, splintering the wall besides him. He could hear the others running up the stairs towards the shot and he gestured for them to stop, even as the scrabbling on the stair above him indicated that Arthur, please god let it be Arthur, was doing the same. No doubt heading towards the nearest window and the attached fire escape leading out from the top floor.
He called out, “Arthur! It's us.” He resisted adding, 'it's me', because he wasn't the hero of some trashy romance. Instead, he tried to keep his voice calm, reassuring despite the pounding in his heart, “We're here to help you.” The movement above him stopped, and all he could hear was his own heavy breathing. He decided to chance it.
“I'm coming up the stairs now, I'd appreciate it if you didn't shot me, eh love, you know how difficult it is to get blood stains out and this really is my best shirt.” It was too, Arthur had bought it for him for his birthday last year. Carefully he climbed the stairs, keeping his hands visible so as to avoid startling the other man and causing him to shot at him again, or worse, run out the window and down the fire escape which was in no state to take even a man like Arthur's weight.
No shot came, although he could hear the other man's footsteps as he climbed, retreating to keep a safe distance, to keep his vantage point in case needed. It wasn't until he got to the top of the stairs, pushing aside the thin curtain which offered an illusion of privacy to those within that Arthur eventually spoke.“Take your shirt off,” he ordered, an almost imperceptible crack underlying the otherwise confident tone. He was standing at the back of the room, close to the window, as expected, and the rickety, broken down fire escape outside.
Eames wondered briefly if the other man had taken his quip about the shirt too literally. “I know I'm irresistible, darling,” he replied lightly, gently, anything to avoid startling to other man, “but surely this isn't the quite the time or the place for this sort of thing.” Despite his words he complied with the request, because Arthur had a gun, and in Eames' experience you always did what desperate and halfway delirious men with guns said, it avoided a lot of pain for both sides.
Almost as soon as he'd finished pulling his shirt off, Arthur was moving forward, next to him, right up into his personal space but not touching, never touching. Instead he appeared to be tracing the tattoos spread liberally around the forger's body, fingers ghosting over his shoulder, moving down towards his chest. The gun in his left hand dangled loosely by his side, but Eames made no move to take it, nothing which could break the intense almost reverent look of concentration on his lover's face.
Instead, whilst Arthur focused his attention on the ink liberally spread across his chest, detailing memories of misspent youth and an even more wayward adulthood, Eames took the opportunity to inspect him in turn.
He looked like hell, bruises, scratches and cuts covering every inch of exposed skin, and probably more underneath, many of which looked angry and red with infection. Always thin, Eames now reckoned he could count individual ribs from underneath the tattered remnants of his shirt and the trembling of his limbs bore testament to the effort he was expending just to keep standing. But worse, worse was the look in his eyes which told the forger in no uncertain terms that the man was near breaking point, jagged edges of pain and hurt bleeding through, his composure held together merely by willpower and hope.
Eames was beginning to wish that some of the men from the warehouse were still alive, so he could have the pleasure of killing them again, slowly.
Almost instinctively, he went to raise his arms, to encircle Arthur, as much to reassure himself as the other man but he aborted the movement as soon as he saw the barely suppressed flinch from the point man at even the suggestion of a touch. Instead, he left his arms by his side and allowed Arthur to continue his exploration at his own pace, all the while swearing undying revenge against all those involved in the other man's abduction, starting with Carnhain.
After what felt like an age, Arthur finally looked at him, eyes tracing the lines of his face even as he rested his arms on the forgers broader shoulders. “You're real” he stated factually but undercut with a tinge of wonder.
“Yes love, I am,” Eames smiled at him in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. Taking care to ensure that the other man saw the movement, he again attempted to raise his arms, to mirror the hands resting on his own shoulders and reassure both of them that he was real, he was safe. This time, the point man let him, though the tension thrumming through the man was palpable underneath his hands.
“This is reality” the same factual statement, the same tinge of wonder.
“Yes love, it is.” and Eames almost breathed a sigh of relief, because Arthur wasn't going to be another Mal, unable to tell the difference between reality and fantasy, never truly believing in the waking world.
“And the ants?” Arthur asked, his voice cracking and there was a shudder running through his frame.
Eames looked around the small run down room. Despite the dirty, fetid conditions, he couldn't see any sign of ants. “What ants would that be pet?”
Arthur shuddered again, “the ones crawling all over my body.”
“No love, they're not real.” Yusuf had warned them that the point man may still be perceiving hallucinations, visual artefacts that weren't really there.
Arthur seemed to contemplate the answer for a few seconds, before nodding and almost perceptibly relaxing, “Good.” He then collapsed in Eames arms. He did it in the way the point man did everything, gracefully and oh so composed. So much so that it took Eames a couple of moments to realise that the other man had actually lost consciousness.
++++
Bangkok, 26th September, 5.24am
The clinic was expensive, exclusive and oh so private, another favour from Saito of course, and Eames wonders if they're close using up all the favours the businessman owed them. Money can buy a lot of things, especially silence, but all the money in the world it seemed wasn't able to remove the hospital smell from the visitors room where the three of them waited anxiously for news on Arthur's condition. Yusuf had left soon after they had arrived, all anxious glances and pleading look as he tried to make them understand how much he hated hospitals, hated the waiting, extracting instead a promise to call him as soon as they heard anything. Eames had known the man long enough to know that by now he was probably in his hotel room, crawling deep into a bottle and trying to forget what he'd seen today, trying to convince himself that all would be well when he woke up.
Eames wished he could have that luxury, wanted nothing more than to do the same, probably surprised Cobb by not doing so in fact. It was after all his usual way of dealing with things and it would not have been out of character. But Eames was self-aware enough to know that there wasn't an alcohol on earth strong enough to make him forget, not today, not until he knew the other man was going to be alright. So instead he paced, and he smoked, escaping the small waiting room with its surprisingly comfortable chairs and high-class selection of magazines, to perch on a wall outside, and fill his lungs with nicotine.
His second pack was lying crumpled by his feet, the final cigarette turning to ash in his fingers, bitter hospital coffee cooling in the cup besides him, when Cobb comes out. The blond man doesn't really need to say anything, the look is enough and Eames is jumping off the wall he is perched on and heading inside before the he can even open his mouth.
The doctor, a Dr Song according to his name tag, is a sympathetic middle aged Chinese man and he waits patiently for Eames to take a seat next to a previously dozing Ariadne, face now alert and sharp with worry, before he begins.
When he starts, his voice is calm and professional, but not unkind, reading from the file with a clear label of T. Williams. Eames had chosen the false name, remembering the conversation he'd had with his sister all those weeks ago, and despite a bemused look, Cobb had gone along with it. “Firstly, allow me to assure you that the despite the extensive nature of Mr Williams injuries, with the correct treatment we would expect him to make a full recovery.” Eames let out a breath then he didn't realise he'd been holding at that, relief flooding through him, his only thought that Arthur was going to alright, that he was safe.
He barely managed to bring his attention back as the doctor continued, detailing Arthur's injuries in a calm clinical tone, “Mr Williams has considerable bruising and lacerations on almost all parts of his body, dating back we would estimate up to four weeks ago,” Eames could see Cobb nodding a that, almost imperceptible, it fit the timeline from when Arthur had disappeared, “we'd expect these to heal with time, although I am somewhat worried about some of the bruising around the eyes and throat and we will have to keep an eye on this to ensure there is no permanent damage to either his eyes or larynx.” The doctor continued in much the same vein, the list of injuries bearing testament to the torment inflicted on the point man during the time of captivity. Cracked ribs, broken foot, and the most worrying, badly infected cuts and lacerations covering his back and ribcage, caused by a variety of instruments and methods.
“Can we see him?” Ariadne asked tentatively once the list was done, breaking the stunned silence and sometime during the doctors speech, Cobb's arms had come up around her, embracing her and offering comfort.
“Of course. He is currently sedated so we could reset his foot, and we would not expect him to wake for several hours but if you will follow Ms San,” he pointed to a petite nurse who was standing just behind him, “she will take you to his room.”
As Eames moved to file out past him, he cleared his throat gently, “Mr Roberts,” he said, using Eames current alias, “if you have a moment.” he gestured back to the chair Eames had just vacated.
“I understand you and Mr Williams are in a relationship.” he said it matter of factly and it took Eames a moment to remember how he'd insisted on noting himself down as next of kin on the forms when signing him in.
“Yes, he's my …” he had to search a moment for the right term to describe what Arthur was to him, 'boyfriend' seemed too childish, 'lover' too intimate given the setting, “partner” he finally settled on and the term still seemed inadequate however.
The doctor paused, seemingly trying to figure out how to broach the subject, “I... would normally not be willing to discuss this without the patients express permission, but given the circumstances and your relationship, I feel it is important that you are aware.” he cleared his throat nervously before continuing, trying to keep his tone clinical, “The bruising around Mr Williams throat and the tearing around his anus and internally are consistent with subjected to forceful penetrative sex.”
Eames felt as if he had been punched, but somehow he kept his voice calm as he asked, “You're saying that he was raped?”
He saw the doctor flinch back slightly, some of the anger he was feeling clearly showing through in his words, but somehow managed to meet his eyes as he continued. “By more than one individual and on possibly multiple occassions, yes.”
“I'm sorry,” he added, his tone remained sympathetic and Eames wondered how he could be so calm, so nice whilst describing something so horrific. “We have conducted a number of blood tests, in case of infection, however of course the symptoms of some may not be apparent for another three months.” It was obvious to what he was referring to and the forger felt sick at the thought.
There was nothing else really to say and Eames left the visitors room numbly, making his way towards Arthur's room, following the doctors quietly murmured directions. His heart almost stopped when he saw the point man lying there, looking so uncharacteristically small and vulnerable underneath all the bandages, the machinery and IV lines.
He pushed past Ariadne and Cobb, ignoring their questioning stares, heading up to the bedside and, after taking a few moments to really look at him, carefully brushed a lock of hair off his forehead where it had fallen down. “Oh love,” he murmered, pressing a kiss on his forhead where his hand had just been.
He left Arthur there, now he knew he was safe. Left him sleeping and went to get horrendously, horrifically drunk, anything to try and drown out the pain, the recriminations for what had happened. He knew he was running away from the problem and he vowed to return once the other man had woken up, to work through whatever issues came out the ordeal, to be there as and when needed. But not tonight, not when all he could think of was exactly how much pain he wanted to inflict on the them men responsible for this.
++++
He didn't go back to the hospital the next day, however, or the day after, or even the one after that. He tells himself its because there are loose ends to tie up, to make sure they are safe. He knows its a lie even as he says it down the phone when Cobb calls him a third time, asking he where he was. But then he'd never been very good at handling his own feelings, especially when it came to a certain point man.
As he watches, from a safe distance, the flames start to catch the warehouse, the final bits of evidence linking them, linking Arthur to what happened inside engulfed in the fire, he knew he was running out of excuses.
Cobb had obviously thought so too, the man was waiting for him in his room when he got back to the hotel, eyeing the many empty bottles strewn around the place with distaste. He looked tired, drawn, as if the past few days had aged him twenty years. Eames hadn't looked in the mirror recently, but he suspected his own face bore a similar testament to recent events.
“How is he?” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.
Cobb sighes, “In and out mostly, feverish, still working off the last of the hallucinogens they pumped him full of,” Eames nodded, he knew this already, he phoned the hospital regularly to check, “asking after you.”
Eames didn't know that, he flinched slightly then covered it up with a barely suppressed snort of disbelief.
“He needs you, even if he'll never admit it.” The words are low but with an intensity that carried then across the room.
This time Eames does nothing to suppress the laugh that wells up, a strained bitter sound, “Oh, I imagine I'm the last person he wants to see, after...” he trails off realising what he was about the say.
“After what Eames?” and Cobb is up now, in his face and the forger had to look away, going over to the half-emptied bottled of vodka and pouring himself a large measure. The silence was heavy between them.
“You know, I never took you for a fair-weather lover. Guess I was wrong about you.” Eames looks up at that into Cobbs glare and feels a surge of anger, because the other man has no right at all to be questioning him on this.
“And I never took you for a man to stick his nose into things that don't concern him.” he growled back.
“This is my best friend we're talking about, the man I consider to be a brother, of course this concerns me!” he shouted back before giving a disgusted sigh, “I always thought you were good for each other . He was happy with you, happier than I've ever seen him, you drew him out of himself, made him feel and I guess I imagined you loved him back. Seems I was wrong.” he turned to leave, disappointment radiating from his ever move.
The words, the implication took all the fight out of him and Eames felt himself slide down the wall he'd been leaning against, as if he legs couldn't stand to hold him anymore. “Don't...I... fuck” he stammered out, words for once failing him.
He could feel the pinprick of tears at the corners of eyes and he closed his eyes, his hand rubbing across his face in an attempt to clear them. When he opened them up Cobb was crouched in front of him, a concerned expression no doubt on his face but Eames didn't dare look him in the eye, instead focusing his gaze on the hotel wall behind him. “I just... I don't know how to fix this, I don't know how I can possibly make this better for him.” It was hard putting words to the sense of helplessness or impotence he felt. It was an unusual feeling for him and it scared him, not being able to do anything to change things.
Cobb gave him a small, sad smile, “In my experience, Arthur is pretty good at fixing himself. You just need to be there, to remind him its worth the effort.”
Eames nodded slowly at that turning the words over in his mind. As he did soft buzz permeated the room, and it took him a moment to realise it was Cobbs phone. The other man moved away from where he was crouched answered it quickly, and the forger woulc barely hear the soft conversation, only catching the final “we'll be right there” before he hung up.
He turned back to look down at the forger where he was sitting, still slumped against the wall.
“That was Ariadne, he's awake and lucid this time.” he started moving towards the door, looking back as Eames continued to stare at him as if in a daze. “You coming?” he asked and the forger could only nod in reply and pull himself up. Because after all, this was Arthur, and really what else could he do.
Part 6
author: Black Gem
pairing: Arthur/Eames
characters: Arthur, Eames
rating: R
warnings: mentions of violence, rape and other dark themes
disclaimer: I own nothing, I'm just playing with them.
Summary: When Arthur choose to go to ground, even the hounds of hell couldn't drag him out.
Of course the hounds of hell didn't know the man even a fraction as well as Eames did.
Author's note: I do like Cobb, really I do, but somehow I can't help be write the relationship between him and Eames as being somewhat confrontational. It's the protective big brother vibe I'm getting off him I think.
Author's note 2: I'm perfectly willing to admit I Did Not Do The Research on either the medical side or Bangkok, so I have tried to keep both vague. Next time I shall ensure to base a fic somewhere I actually know.
Eames - Bangkok: 25th September, 6:03pm
“Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck,” Eames stormed out the warehouse, pushing past a curious Ariadne and a worried Cobb. He wasn't certain whether to laugh or cry, so he settled instead for cursing and violence.
“Fuck,” he kicked a large dumpster, hearing the satisfying metal clang as he did so.
“Fuck,” he punched the wall, taking comfort in the pain shooting up his arm.
In fact, the feeling was so satisfying, he did it again, beating the wall with both fists, a litany of curses with each strike until his hands felt as raw as he heart. It took several moments for him to realise that Cobb was calling to him and he whirled on him, seeking an outlet for his anger.
“You! This is your fault, if we'd have gotten to him earlier, done the job as soon as we had the lead instead of waiting three days this wouldn't have happened.” He was being unreasonable, he knew it, he didn't care. He expected, hoped even, that Cobb would shout back, defend himself, retaliate, give him an excuse to get in a fight.
Cobb didn't, merely saying his name again, hands out in what was no doubt meant to be a placating gesture, “Eames!”
He punched him anyway. It felt satisfying, he tensed, ready for the retaliation, wanting it so bad he could almost taste it. But Cobb, the bastard, doesn't. Instead, he rubs his jaw where the fist had landed and took a couple of steps back before saying, in that same calm, sympathetic voice. “Have you got that out your system now or do you need another go?” Eames looked back at him and it was as if a dam had broken, all the anger, the tension, the wound up anticipation over the possibility that this finally might be where they found Arthur, left him in an instant.
He went to sit down on the nearest solid surface, a crate in this case, his legs barely able to support him and shakily pulled a cigarette out of the packet. Cobb was still looking at him with those sympathetic, worried eyes, worried for him, worried for Arthur and he had to look away, fumbling with the lighter using fingers that no longer seemed to work the right way.
And the extractor is kneeling in front of his, his own lighter, a cheap tacky thing, held lit in front of him and Eames is somehow absurdly grateful because its clear that there is no way he could light the cigarette on his own. Taking a deep drag, he exhaled, a soft, “fuck” muttered under his breath.
“Better now?” Cobb is talking to him and it takes him a few moments to bring him back together enough to concentrate on the words, “We need you Eames, I need you, Arthur needs you, but you need to pull yourself together. You're no use to anyone, least of all him, like this.”
Eames nodded shakily at that, his mind already half supplying the dry, though somehow still caring, commentary that Arthur would have provided if he saw him fall apart like this. He nodded again, almost visibly pulling himself together, and turns back towards the others. Ariadne is doing her best to look away, to pretend her attention is entirely taking up by the crude graffiti on the warehouse wall, whilst Yusuf appears to be fidgeting with one of the bottles which had been scattered around the floor, something clearly on his mind.
Plastering on a nonchalant smile as if nothing had happened, as if they hadn't all just watched him almost fall apart. Luckily he's saved from having to say anything by Ariadne, which was a good thing, because he didn't think right now he'd have much of a chance of getting anything out without his voice cracking.
“So... what now?” she's directing the question at Cobb but she's looking straight at him, so he decided to try and answer the question anyway.
“Now we try and find the stupid sod before he gets into any more trouble,” he was almost proud that he managed to get the sentence out with barely even a waiver at the end.
++++
Finding Arthur took considerably longer than Eames would have liked. Despite the fact that the evidence from the warehouse pointed very distinctly towards the point man being severely injured, tortured Eames' treacherous mind supplied, and based on the drug vials found, quite likely both delirious and heavily sedated. Despite even the traces of blood leading out from the industrial area before trailing off somewhere once they reached run-down high rises and almost shanty town constructions of wood and iron. Arthur it would appear had very effectively gone to ground.
It shouldn't have necessarily been surprising, he had, after all, spent various parts of his career as a soldier, a spy and, briefly, a mercenary long before before he got into the extraction business. Arthur wasn't just good in the real world as well as the dreamscape, he was the best in the dreamscape because of his abilities in the waking world. When Arthur choose to go to ground, even the hounds of hell couldn't drag him out.
Of course the hounds of hell didn't know the man even a fraction as well as Eames did. No one did, not even Cobb, not that he would normally expect the other man to admit this.
Which was why he was pleasantly surprised when, an hour after the blood trails had run out and the questioning of the locals had lead to nothing, and the blond extractor had proclaimed that, “This is getting us nowhere, we can't follow a trail that doesn't exist. We need to figure out where Arthur is likely to go,” he had looked directly towards the British forger for answers.
Eames barely needed to think about the reply, Arthur was nothing if not consistent when hiding. Oh, the locations changed and finding him was never easy, but the basic characteristics remained the same. ”As high up as he can get whilst still keeping an escape route.” he said easily, “our dear point man has a bit of a thing for heights, never understood why.” Which was a lie, because Arthur had once told him about the treehouse he and his brother had built in the backyard, high up in the branches where none of the adults would climb. It was pretty much the only thing the man had told him about his childhood, and that was hardly surprising. People with happy childhoods didn't, as a rule, end up in professions like theirs.
He looked around, dismissing at once of low-slung slums and half-built houses. Their mazes of alleyways and hideyholes may have been the logical choice, but if Yusuf's conclusions as to Arthurs state of mind were correct, they could hardly count on him feeling rational. Rather he looked towards the taller crumbling brick buildings, cheap housing clearly put up for port workers in a by-gone era, which clustered together with narrow streets and even narrower alleyways in between. Further for the injured man to run, but also further from the site of captivity. It was, now he was looking for it, obvious that was where the point man would run to feel safe.
Despite the certainty of the point man's general location, it still took them hours to track the man down, so much so that Eames started to doubt his own certainty, his own knowledge of the other man. Eventually however, after endless questioning in broken English and Cantonese, not to mention the universal language of the dollar, they get a possible location, a local gesticulating towards a large, crumbling building. Although smaller than some of the other high-rises, older too, a rickety fire escape was visible running along the outside, and it is clear that this additional means of escape would have attracted the point man to this building over the others. The boarded up windows, the still dark rooms despite the night's gloom, and nailed over doorways also indicated that whatever residents the building did have, it was unlikely they were living there officially.
The inside of the building looked even more decrepit than the outside. It was clear that the owners, when they had boarded the place up and left it to rot, had gone through haphazardly removing anything they thought could be of value. Even the doors had been removed, either then or later, and most the rooms leading off the main corridor appeared to have only curtains to give a semblance of privacy. The residents themselves were equally as mixed, whole families in threadbare clothing with the pinched faces of the terminally hungry cowered in corners alongside skeletal junkies, flamboyant lady-boys, hardened prostitutes and orphaned children, all often one and the same person. None of them however appeared willing to mess with the armed, well-dressed foreigners who had invaded their dwelling.
Eames ignored the lower levels, moving further up, towards the top of the building, towards where Arthur would feel safe. It appeared that his hunch was correct as he spotted a flash of pale skin on the stairs leading up to the top floor, and the glint of a gun. He barely managed to throw himself out the way as a shot rang out, splintering the wall besides him. He could hear the others running up the stairs towards the shot and he gestured for them to stop, even as the scrabbling on the stair above him indicated that Arthur, please god let it be Arthur, was doing the same. No doubt heading towards the nearest window and the attached fire escape leading out from the top floor.
He called out, “Arthur! It's us.” He resisted adding, 'it's me', because he wasn't the hero of some trashy romance. Instead, he tried to keep his voice calm, reassuring despite the pounding in his heart, “We're here to help you.” The movement above him stopped, and all he could hear was his own heavy breathing. He decided to chance it.
“I'm coming up the stairs now, I'd appreciate it if you didn't shot me, eh love, you know how difficult it is to get blood stains out and this really is my best shirt.” It was too, Arthur had bought it for him for his birthday last year. Carefully he climbed the stairs, keeping his hands visible so as to avoid startling the other man and causing him to shot at him again, or worse, run out the window and down the fire escape which was in no state to take even a man like Arthur's weight.
No shot came, although he could hear the other man's footsteps as he climbed, retreating to keep a safe distance, to keep his vantage point in case needed. It wasn't until he got to the top of the stairs, pushing aside the thin curtain which offered an illusion of privacy to those within that Arthur eventually spoke.“Take your shirt off,” he ordered, an almost imperceptible crack underlying the otherwise confident tone. He was standing at the back of the room, close to the window, as expected, and the rickety, broken down fire escape outside.
Eames wondered briefly if the other man had taken his quip about the shirt too literally. “I know I'm irresistible, darling,” he replied lightly, gently, anything to avoid startling to other man, “but surely this isn't the quite the time or the place for this sort of thing.” Despite his words he complied with the request, because Arthur had a gun, and in Eames' experience you always did what desperate and halfway delirious men with guns said, it avoided a lot of pain for both sides.
Almost as soon as he'd finished pulling his shirt off, Arthur was moving forward, next to him, right up into his personal space but not touching, never touching. Instead he appeared to be tracing the tattoos spread liberally around the forger's body, fingers ghosting over his shoulder, moving down towards his chest. The gun in his left hand dangled loosely by his side, but Eames made no move to take it, nothing which could break the intense almost reverent look of concentration on his lover's face.
Instead, whilst Arthur focused his attention on the ink liberally spread across his chest, detailing memories of misspent youth and an even more wayward adulthood, Eames took the opportunity to inspect him in turn.
He looked like hell, bruises, scratches and cuts covering every inch of exposed skin, and probably more underneath, many of which looked angry and red with infection. Always thin, Eames now reckoned he could count individual ribs from underneath the tattered remnants of his shirt and the trembling of his limbs bore testament to the effort he was expending just to keep standing. But worse, worse was the look in his eyes which told the forger in no uncertain terms that the man was near breaking point, jagged edges of pain and hurt bleeding through, his composure held together merely by willpower and hope.
Eames was beginning to wish that some of the men from the warehouse were still alive, so he could have the pleasure of killing them again, slowly.
Almost instinctively, he went to raise his arms, to encircle Arthur, as much to reassure himself as the other man but he aborted the movement as soon as he saw the barely suppressed flinch from the point man at even the suggestion of a touch. Instead, he left his arms by his side and allowed Arthur to continue his exploration at his own pace, all the while swearing undying revenge against all those involved in the other man's abduction, starting with Carnhain.
After what felt like an age, Arthur finally looked at him, eyes tracing the lines of his face even as he rested his arms on the forgers broader shoulders. “You're real” he stated factually but undercut with a tinge of wonder.
“Yes love, I am,” Eames smiled at him in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. Taking care to ensure that the other man saw the movement, he again attempted to raise his arms, to mirror the hands resting on his own shoulders and reassure both of them that he was real, he was safe. This time, the point man let him, though the tension thrumming through the man was palpable underneath his hands.
“This is reality” the same factual statement, the same tinge of wonder.
“Yes love, it is.” and Eames almost breathed a sigh of relief, because Arthur wasn't going to be another Mal, unable to tell the difference between reality and fantasy, never truly believing in the waking world.
“And the ants?” Arthur asked, his voice cracking and there was a shudder running through his frame.
Eames looked around the small run down room. Despite the dirty, fetid conditions, he couldn't see any sign of ants. “What ants would that be pet?”
Arthur shuddered again, “the ones crawling all over my body.”
“No love, they're not real.” Yusuf had warned them that the point man may still be perceiving hallucinations, visual artefacts that weren't really there.
Arthur seemed to contemplate the answer for a few seconds, before nodding and almost perceptibly relaxing, “Good.” He then collapsed in Eames arms. He did it in the way the point man did everything, gracefully and oh so composed. So much so that it took Eames a couple of moments to realise that the other man had actually lost consciousness.
++++
Bangkok, 26th September, 5.24am
The clinic was expensive, exclusive and oh so private, another favour from Saito of course, and Eames wonders if they're close using up all the favours the businessman owed them. Money can buy a lot of things, especially silence, but all the money in the world it seemed wasn't able to remove the hospital smell from the visitors room where the three of them waited anxiously for news on Arthur's condition. Yusuf had left soon after they had arrived, all anxious glances and pleading look as he tried to make them understand how much he hated hospitals, hated the waiting, extracting instead a promise to call him as soon as they heard anything. Eames had known the man long enough to know that by now he was probably in his hotel room, crawling deep into a bottle and trying to forget what he'd seen today, trying to convince himself that all would be well when he woke up.
Eames wished he could have that luxury, wanted nothing more than to do the same, probably surprised Cobb by not doing so in fact. It was after all his usual way of dealing with things and it would not have been out of character. But Eames was self-aware enough to know that there wasn't an alcohol on earth strong enough to make him forget, not today, not until he knew the other man was going to be alright. So instead he paced, and he smoked, escaping the small waiting room with its surprisingly comfortable chairs and high-class selection of magazines, to perch on a wall outside, and fill his lungs with nicotine.
His second pack was lying crumpled by his feet, the final cigarette turning to ash in his fingers, bitter hospital coffee cooling in the cup besides him, when Cobb comes out. The blond man doesn't really need to say anything, the look is enough and Eames is jumping off the wall he is perched on and heading inside before the he can even open his mouth.
The doctor, a Dr Song according to his name tag, is a sympathetic middle aged Chinese man and he waits patiently for Eames to take a seat next to a previously dozing Ariadne, face now alert and sharp with worry, before he begins.
When he starts, his voice is calm and professional, but not unkind, reading from the file with a clear label of T. Williams. Eames had chosen the false name, remembering the conversation he'd had with his sister all those weeks ago, and despite a bemused look, Cobb had gone along with it. “Firstly, allow me to assure you that the despite the extensive nature of Mr Williams injuries, with the correct treatment we would expect him to make a full recovery.” Eames let out a breath then he didn't realise he'd been holding at that, relief flooding through him, his only thought that Arthur was going to alright, that he was safe.
He barely managed to bring his attention back as the doctor continued, detailing Arthur's injuries in a calm clinical tone, “Mr Williams has considerable bruising and lacerations on almost all parts of his body, dating back we would estimate up to four weeks ago,” Eames could see Cobb nodding a that, almost imperceptible, it fit the timeline from when Arthur had disappeared, “we'd expect these to heal with time, although I am somewhat worried about some of the bruising around the eyes and throat and we will have to keep an eye on this to ensure there is no permanent damage to either his eyes or larynx.” The doctor continued in much the same vein, the list of injuries bearing testament to the torment inflicted on the point man during the time of captivity. Cracked ribs, broken foot, and the most worrying, badly infected cuts and lacerations covering his back and ribcage, caused by a variety of instruments and methods.
“Can we see him?” Ariadne asked tentatively once the list was done, breaking the stunned silence and sometime during the doctors speech, Cobb's arms had come up around her, embracing her and offering comfort.
“Of course. He is currently sedated so we could reset his foot, and we would not expect him to wake for several hours but if you will follow Ms San,” he pointed to a petite nurse who was standing just behind him, “she will take you to his room.”
As Eames moved to file out past him, he cleared his throat gently, “Mr Roberts,” he said, using Eames current alias, “if you have a moment.” he gestured back to the chair Eames had just vacated.
“I understand you and Mr Williams are in a relationship.” he said it matter of factly and it took Eames a moment to remember how he'd insisted on noting himself down as next of kin on the forms when signing him in.
“Yes, he's my …” he had to search a moment for the right term to describe what Arthur was to him, 'boyfriend' seemed too childish, 'lover' too intimate given the setting, “partner” he finally settled on and the term still seemed inadequate however.
The doctor paused, seemingly trying to figure out how to broach the subject, “I... would normally not be willing to discuss this without the patients express permission, but given the circumstances and your relationship, I feel it is important that you are aware.” he cleared his throat nervously before continuing, trying to keep his tone clinical, “The bruising around Mr Williams throat and the tearing around his anus and internally are consistent with subjected to forceful penetrative sex.”
Eames felt as if he had been punched, but somehow he kept his voice calm as he asked, “You're saying that he was raped?”
He saw the doctor flinch back slightly, some of the anger he was feeling clearly showing through in his words, but somehow managed to meet his eyes as he continued. “By more than one individual and on possibly multiple occassions, yes.”
“I'm sorry,” he added, his tone remained sympathetic and Eames wondered how he could be so calm, so nice whilst describing something so horrific. “We have conducted a number of blood tests, in case of infection, however of course the symptoms of some may not be apparent for another three months.” It was obvious to what he was referring to and the forger felt sick at the thought.
There was nothing else really to say and Eames left the visitors room numbly, making his way towards Arthur's room, following the doctors quietly murmured directions. His heart almost stopped when he saw the point man lying there, looking so uncharacteristically small and vulnerable underneath all the bandages, the machinery and IV lines.
He pushed past Ariadne and Cobb, ignoring their questioning stares, heading up to the bedside and, after taking a few moments to really look at him, carefully brushed a lock of hair off his forehead where it had fallen down. “Oh love,” he murmered, pressing a kiss on his forhead where his hand had just been.
He left Arthur there, now he knew he was safe. Left him sleeping and went to get horrendously, horrifically drunk, anything to try and drown out the pain, the recriminations for what had happened. He knew he was running away from the problem and he vowed to return once the other man had woken up, to work through whatever issues came out the ordeal, to be there as and when needed. But not tonight, not when all he could think of was exactly how much pain he wanted to inflict on the them men responsible for this.
++++
He didn't go back to the hospital the next day, however, or the day after, or even the one after that. He tells himself its because there are loose ends to tie up, to make sure they are safe. He knows its a lie even as he says it down the phone when Cobb calls him a third time, asking he where he was. But then he'd never been very good at handling his own feelings, especially when it came to a certain point man.
As he watches, from a safe distance, the flames start to catch the warehouse, the final bits of evidence linking them, linking Arthur to what happened inside engulfed in the fire, he knew he was running out of excuses.
Cobb had obviously thought so too, the man was waiting for him in his room when he got back to the hotel, eyeing the many empty bottles strewn around the place with distaste. He looked tired, drawn, as if the past few days had aged him twenty years. Eames hadn't looked in the mirror recently, but he suspected his own face bore a similar testament to recent events.
“How is he?” The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them.
Cobb sighes, “In and out mostly, feverish, still working off the last of the hallucinogens they pumped him full of,” Eames nodded, he knew this already, he phoned the hospital regularly to check, “asking after you.”
Eames didn't know that, he flinched slightly then covered it up with a barely suppressed snort of disbelief.
“He needs you, even if he'll never admit it.” The words are low but with an intensity that carried then across the room.
This time Eames does nothing to suppress the laugh that wells up, a strained bitter sound, “Oh, I imagine I'm the last person he wants to see, after...” he trails off realising what he was about the say.
“After what Eames?” and Cobb is up now, in his face and the forger had to look away, going over to the half-emptied bottled of vodka and pouring himself a large measure. The silence was heavy between them.
“You know, I never took you for a fair-weather lover. Guess I was wrong about you.” Eames looks up at that into Cobbs glare and feels a surge of anger, because the other man has no right at all to be questioning him on this.
“And I never took you for a man to stick his nose into things that don't concern him.” he growled back.
“This is my best friend we're talking about, the man I consider to be a brother, of course this concerns me!” he shouted back before giving a disgusted sigh, “I always thought you were good for each other . He was happy with you, happier than I've ever seen him, you drew him out of himself, made him feel and I guess I imagined you loved him back. Seems I was wrong.” he turned to leave, disappointment radiating from his ever move.
The words, the implication took all the fight out of him and Eames felt himself slide down the wall he'd been leaning against, as if he legs couldn't stand to hold him anymore. “Don't...I... fuck” he stammered out, words for once failing him.
He could feel the pinprick of tears at the corners of eyes and he closed his eyes, his hand rubbing across his face in an attempt to clear them. When he opened them up Cobb was crouched in front of him, a concerned expression no doubt on his face but Eames didn't dare look him in the eye, instead focusing his gaze on the hotel wall behind him. “I just... I don't know how to fix this, I don't know how I can possibly make this better for him.” It was hard putting words to the sense of helplessness or impotence he felt. It was an unusual feeling for him and it scared him, not being able to do anything to change things.
Cobb gave him a small, sad smile, “In my experience, Arthur is pretty good at fixing himself. You just need to be there, to remind him its worth the effort.”
Eames nodded slowly at that turning the words over in his mind. As he did soft buzz permeated the room, and it took him a moment to realise it was Cobbs phone. The other man moved away from where he was crouched answered it quickly, and the forger woulc barely hear the soft conversation, only catching the final “we'll be right there” before he hung up.
He turned back to look down at the forger where he was sitting, still slumped against the wall.
“That was Ariadne, he's awake and lucid this time.” he started moving towards the door, looking back as Eames continued to stare at him as if in a daze. “You coming?” he asked and the forger could only nod in reply and pull himself up. Because after all, this was Arthur, and really what else could he do.
Part 6