Girl!Arthur and Girl!Eames: And When I Wake
And When I Wake
When you are six your mother wakes you up every morning to perform your kata. You hate it but you begged her to join the karate class and she's determined you see it through. She presses her hands into the pockets of the old robe and squints at the pink hints of sunlight peeking through the leaves of your apple tree. The wind howls through your worn pajamas, dying leaves scrape against your legs and you hate her passionately for the thirty minutes it takes you glide through your routine, hands slicing the wind in perfect arcs.
When you reach for the doorknob to slip back into the house, she threads her hand through your hair and drops a kiss to your forehead. Her smile sweet and amused even as you scowl.
Well past your red belt and the reach of your mother's kisses you'll think about how much she loved you. You'll remember the smell of peppermint tea, the soft scrape of her robe against your cheek and her calloused fingers lingering in your hair. Eames smiles the same smile and some days you think it will kill you. The way the quirk of her lips take you back to those childhood mornings--to a time when love was guaranteed and easy. Even when you had nothing to give in return, you knew you were everything.
Now your slip out from her playful caresses. Shy back from the soft touch of her eyes. You remind yourself that nothing about Eames is soft. And you try to fucking breathe.
You're mother's been dead for three years. At twenty-four, you're a fucking adult. This is not the time to come apart. But there's never been a time to come apart. It seems like you've been running forever.
. . .
When you're eight you join track. And like a million other things in your life you want to quit it after the first minute. Like a million other things it seemed like a good idea, in theory. You hate every part of it. The shaky stretch of your legs, the air deserting you in desperate gasps, the need to push yourself past everyone else on the track until your stomach caves, throat heaves and every piece of you wants to die.
You run track for ten fucking years. And your mother sits in the stand of every meet, local or away. She slips your feet into hot water as she eases them out of the new sneakers. She lets your chuck your trophies in the basement and doesn't say and word. She just smiles and smiles as your scowl grows deeper. As you rise to number one. As if she has the best joke in the world. There's not one photo of you in the newspaper where you're not bending over, holding your knees. Too many times the competition's still struggling to pass the line. It's not enough to beat them, you have to beat yourself. You are always running.
Eames smiles like she kno--well you can see where this is going. Safe to say, she wears your face and neatly pressed suit and tasteful shoes with a smile when she faces you in a dream. Lips quirking up as she tests your lips, the curve of your jaw. Eyes soft with the same--Well, You Can See Where This Is Going.
. . .
In some ways it's ironic that you've built a life on things you hate. A steady relentless competition--bred in you by someone who thought you never needed to compete at all. Winning is an itch that slipped in sometime between a cocky boy throwing a rope to his tree-house at five and hypothermia that almost creeps in while you wait for the fire-men with their ladders to get you off the ledge of the water-tower.
You remember the first time your mother pressed a knife into your hand and told you not to open the door. No matter what you heard. You remember her feet creeping towards the door, floorboards squeaking beneath. Thinking then that she would be killed but being so sure it was nothing.
And now wondering why you try so hard, work so hard, to be useless. Why you always lose the important things.
The first bullet leaves you cold. Face contorting into a grimace as you catch its echo. Eames' face is blank and cool. Disappointed. Cobb's voice brings you back--"I thought you said he wasn't militarized." Now is the only time you need to deal with. Ironic the only reality that matters is a dream.
And now the excuses come--you didn't know, you were distracted, you're still trying to manage your ghosts, there's too much at stake, the way Eames looks at you sometimes breaks your heart and you want her to know you are trying--trying for her--
And yes.
You were distracted.
It is inexcusable.
Eames doesn't even want to stick around. And Cobb's drops the final bombshell and you'll just have to make it work. Your mother always said that failure wasn't an option. But for you, you always knew it was inevitable.
'Not today, not today, not today.' That well-worn motto stuttering through you.
You've built a life on the things you hate. Blood, guns, violence, the cries of people you love and the moment they depend on you. Needing to run faster, to climb higher, to be more daring, to push yourself beyond what you want, beyond what makes sense to you day after day. You push yourself past your own uselessness so that today can be the day you come through, today can be the day you walk to the door and all your training finally, finally pays off.
"Goodnight Ms. Eames."
Failure is not an option. You're going to win if it kills you