Fic: Make It Mean (2/2)
Jan. 30th, 2012 09:39 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eternalsojournPart One
Vondelpark, Amsterdam, September 2003
They jogged steadily through the sleepy streets of Vondelpark, the morning air just cool enough to be comfortable. They paused briefly at the market, eyeing up some cheeses while their mark, Eric Buckley, briefly considered the frisee before saying something to the vendor and resuming his run.
Eames glanced at Arthur, at his steady gait, his casual focus. He showed no signs that he was anything other than cool and professional; Eames was impressed.
Arthur subtly flicked his gaze to where the mark was headed. Eames looked and he nodded slightly, picking up their pace. Buckley turned into the flower shop between 08:00 and 08:10, just as he did every second Friday morning.
Eames’d received a coded email from a contact about this job just before arriving in Washington State. He wasn’t going to take it; he couldn’t really be bothered flying to Amsterdam, especially after Washington proved to harbour such delightful distractions. But after asking some subtly leading questions of Arthur, then outright asking him if he’d be interested in making a hefty chunk of cash in exchange for assisting Eames, he’d responded to the client. As luck would have it, the job was still available.
While Eames was used to making his own preparations — and he never went into a potentially dangerous situation unprepared — Arthur was proving an invaluable partner. His work was impeccable, but most helpfully, Eames had much more time to get a bead on the mark himself.
A small bell tinkled as they walked in the door. There was a fresh green scent from all the flowers and a tall, prim woman behind the counter. She turned to smile politely, but when she saw Arthur, her face turned all business and she pointed with a glance towards the walk-in refrigerator. When Arthur nodded his appreciation, she walked briskly to the front door, locked it, and then exited out the back door. Eames raised his eyebrow at Arthur, who looked smug.
Arthur took his place behind a stand-up refrigeration unit and pulled his gun from his concealed holster, keeping an eye on the door. Eames stepped into the walk-in refrigerator.
His breath came in thick billowy gusts and his sweaty skin prickled up in firm gooseflesh. The smell was lessened by the cold, but the explosion of colour and texture was dazzling. Bundles of tulips and roses, clusters of freesia, a frothy burst of alstromeria all dazzled the eye. Eames spotted a section of sweetpeas, his favourite, and wondered idly what Arthur’s favourite was.
Eric looked up and smiled politely, going back to selecting bunches of roses. Eames had to give Eric this much at least: his longstanding affair with the Director of Marketing at least had Eric guilty enough to remember to treat his wife to flowers on a regular basis.
Eames lightly drew his finger along the delicate speckled petal of an alstromeria before looking up and saying, “Eric, right?”
Eric looked confused but smiled anyway. “Sorry, do I know you?”
“I don’t believe we’ve met, no. But I’m a friend of some members of your board of directors,” Eames responded in a perfectly modulated Midlands accent to match Eric’s. He watched as Eric both relaxed slightly at it, and frowned, trying to place some significance on any of what Eames was saying.
“Right. Well. You are...?” Eric’s half formed bundle of roses was still held ready in his left hand, as though he was trying to think of a way to brush off Eames in order to get back to his task.
“Perhaps it would be more helpful to tell you what I am, rather than who,” Eames said, absently drawing out the flower from the rest and stepping forward.
“All right then, what are you?” Eric said impatiently.
“I’m a settler of accounts. And it appears the books at Royal Dutch Shell are pretty drastically out of balance because of you.” Eames sauntered forward another few steps, bringing him a few feet away from Eric. Before he could continue properly, the door creaked open behind Eames.
“Just me,” Arthur said quickly so as not to alarm Eames. “Locked up tight.”
Eric’s eyes flashed with panic, then.
Eames recalled an incident Arthur had turned up in the research: a messy legal battle involving Eric summarily firing a man with AIDS. It had revealed a streak of homophobia in Eric that didn’t sit right with Eames; his predatory instincts flared and he decided he might have a bit of fun with Arthur there.
“You’re a star, my love,” Eames said, letting affection put a lilt in his voice while taking note of the twitch of muscle in Buckley’s jaw. “I was just letting Mr. Buckley here know who our employer is. I’m sure by now he’s figured out what brought this on, and what we’re here to do. Isn’t that right, Eric, darling?” Eames held out the flower over his shoulder, wiggling his finger in invitation to Arthur.
Arthur approached, plucked the flower from Eames’s fingers and slid his hand over Eames’s shoulder. Eric had begun to edge sideways and Arthur almost lazily pointed the gun at him.
“Stay put,” Arthur ordered.
Eames drew his own weapon and dared a look at Arthur’s profile, noting the bead of sweat rolling down Arthur’s neck. Arthur must’ve been as cold as Eames with their sweat cooling on their skin, but Arthur showed no sign of discomfort.
“I didn’t do anything anyone else wasn’t already doing,” Eric said defensively, desperately. “Look, whatever they’re paying you, I can pay you more.”
Eames puffed a derisive snort. “Oh, that’s such a disappointment. Millions embezzled and it couldn’t buy you any creativity or style. Or much in the way of brains, either. Even if you could pay us more — which a moment’s reflection would have told you is impossible now that they know what you’re up to — you think we’re stupid enough to turn on our employer, who’s shown no compunctions about having someone killed? No, I believe we’ll finish this and collect our fee. Then I thought we might take a holiday,” Eames used his free hand to stroke up Arthur’s ribs. “What do you say, darling? A romp in the Caymans? Make love on the beach like in an 80’s movie?”
Arthur huffed a laugh, but Eames heard the tightness of it. He was beginning to think of a way to get Arthur out of there, to finish off Eric while Arthur cleared out the till to make it look like a robbery. But before he could suggest it, Arthur touched Eames lightly on the shoulder.
“I want to do it,” Arthur said under his breath.
That wasn’t the plan. Arthur helped prepare, Eames finished the job. That was how it was supposed to go. But if Arthur wanted in... actually, Eames shouldn’t have been surprised. So far Arthur had been all-in about everything.
“All yours,” Eames said and stepped back. “You’ve finished out there?”
Arthur nodded.
“Good, because once that shot is fired, we leg it.”
Eric protested suddenly, loudly, but he got as far as, “Ple—” before Arthur shot him through the forehead, droplets of red spraying the yellow tulips, his body falling with an unceremonious thump to the floor. Arthur looked sick.
“We have to go,” Eames said and watched as Arthur clenched his jaw and straightened his stance. Ridiculously, Eames was proud, and despite their rush he leaned in and kissed Arthur fiercely, briefly, before tucking his gun away. “Right. Leg it.”
They slipped out the back, ran like buggery for two blocks before slowing to a jog by the canal, casual runners once more. By the time they got to their car a few streets down, a casual observer would have seen just a happy couple, smiling and chatting after a morning’s constitutional.
Toronto, Ontario, December 2003
“I’ll have the salad,” Arthur said, gently closing the menu and pushing it away.
Eames held Arthur in his gaze for a second before casually scanning the menu again.
“I’d’ve thought you’d be pretty hungry by now,” Eames commented mildly. Arthur’s eyes flicked to the menu. “I’m starting with the fois gras, and the entrôte grillée sauce poivre for a main. And I fully intend to eat dessert.” He closed his menu and looked up with a smile. “It’s an imaginary budget you’re watching. Order what you like.”
Arthur’s jaw clenched against some residual shame or guilt that he ought to have left behind with his old life. But the expression was gone in a moment as he pulled the menu to him. Eames didn’t smile in either satisfaction or pride, lest he appear condescending.
When they’d ordered, and Eames had selected a Chateauneuf du Pape — because fuck it, you only live once — he settled his chin on his palm and looked at Arthur expectantly.
Arthur had spent the last six days consuming information at a rate Eames could only marvel at, although he never said so. For some reason Arthur always assumed Eames was having a laugh when he complimented Arthur.
“Our guy, Lovell. He did fuck his partner over pretty thoroughly on this joint investment venture,” Arthur began, then fell silent as the water returned to pour the wine.
When they were alone once more, Eames said, “That’s hardly surprising, but good to know. Find anything we can use?”
“Yeah,” Arthur said dismissively, then, “I went back further, though. Eames, this guy. Back in 1994 he was one of the operational managers at the Coca Cola plant in Colombia. You ever hear what went on down there?”
Eames shrugged, taking a sip of his wine.
“The workers’ union asked for fair wages, and over the course of the next few years, five union leaders were murdered on the orders of the Coke managers. Lovell was top of the heap.” Arthur’s tone was even, making it difficult to tell what his point was.
“So Lovell ordered the assassinations?” Eames prompted.
“Over a five dollar a month raise,” Arthur said, then paused, considering his next words. “Have all your marks been like this?”
So that was what Arthur had been doing. He wanted to know who he was helping to kill. “Yes, pretty much,” Eames agreed. “The guys who can afford my services, and the people they want targeted, don’t generally get to the point of hiring someone like me without earning it.” Eames glanced around the room, but the low level bustle continued, oblivious to Arthur and Eames and their apparently casual conversation. “Whatever their stated reasons, political motivations... it all boils down to something personal. I haven’t come across a case yet where the mark and the client aren’t emotionally invested in each other.”
The first course arrived then, and both Arthur and Eames looked up with a polite nod.
Just before tucking in, Arthur leaned in on his elbows, fork in hand. “What about Eric? I thought that was the board getting rid of a threat to their investment value.”
“That was the chairman of the board getting his knickers in a twist over his old partner taking more than he did,” Eames replied.
Arthur nodded thoughtfully, then turned his attention to his food. “I’ve found enough to get the job done. The client wants a souvenir, right? He really has it out for his partner, wants him to suffer. I’ve found Lovell’s psychological records. I know you’re interested that sort of thing, so I thought you could use them.”
Eames put down his fork to slide his hand across the table, brushing his fingers against Arthur’s wrist. “You say the most romantic things,” he grinned.
Bridle Path, Toronto, January, 2004
“I’ll bet your father beat you,” Eames said, casual as you please, as if he was commenting on the weather. The man — Christopher Lovell’s nose flared rapidly, eyes wide and shining. “My father beat me, you know. Buckle end of the belt. Called me a pouf,” Eames slid his knife up under the length of material they’d used as a gag and sliced it cleanly away. Christopher tried gamely to keep still but he was vibrating with fear. Eames reached in between the man’s teeth gently and plucked out the sodden ball of cloth. “You’ll stay quiet, won’t you?” Christopher nodded frantically. “Relax, sunshine. We’re just having a little chat.”
“I’m just going to check the back door’s secure,” Arthur said, coming up behind Eames and sliding his hand gently up under Eames’s jacket.
“Thank you, darling,” Eames replied, turning to nudge his nose against Arthur’s cheek. “I’ve got this, you go ahead.” Arthur leaned in to brush his lips up Eames’s ear, tongue flicking out for the briefest of seconds.
“Be right back,” Arthur said lowly, and Eames turned his attention back to the man they had strapped to his own dining room chair.
“Where were we? Oh yes, my father. Nasty piece of work, that man. I was beaten to a pulp once, at school. Came home bloody, limping. ‘Everything happens for a reason,’ he’d said.” Eames pulled out one of the chairs and sat down, leaning one arm languidly on the table. “Do you believe that? That everything happens for a reason?”
The man licked his lips, trying to get some moisture back in his mouth. His eyes flicked to the doorway behind Eames as Arthur came back in. “Yes. I do,” he said, eyes tracking Arthur’s form into the room until Arthur pulled out a chair across the table and sat down with a glass of milk.
“Wrong,” Eames said, eyes flashing, voice suddenly steely. He softened again. “Nothing happens for a reason. Things happen. Events just are, you see, with no inherent meaning or purpose. But people. Now people are meaning-making machines. It’s how we’re built. We apply meaning to everything. That’s the bitch of it. And the beauty.” Eames looked at Christopher’s face, at the wrinkle between his brows, at the way his tongue kept trying to wet his dry lips. At the way Christopher was trying, even now in the midst of his fear, to reject the ideas Eames was explaining.
“You see,” Eames continued, “my father beat me and had no sympathy for the bullying I experienced. I made that mean, for a long time, that I wasn’t a real man. That I somehow didn’t measure up. I became tough, mean, brutish to prove otherwise. But what if it only meant that my father was a narrow-minded twat? What would I have become if I wasn’t defined by his view of me? And you,” Eames tipped the point of his blade towards Christopher, “what are you making this mean?”
Christopher shook his head.
“You could make this mean that I’m a cold, evil contract killer victimizing a poor, innocent civilian. It’s so unfair, isn’t it? Gone before your time, all that rubbish? ‘Why me,’ is what you’re thinking, right? Well. Aside from the fact that you were stupid enough to make an enemy of a very powerful person, that’s only one version. You could also make this mean — if you’re the religious sort, that is — that you’re about to meet your maker. Settle your cosmic debts. Go to heaven. Or hell, depending on the life you’ve lived. But that’s a fuckin’ fairy tale. If you’re making these events mean that story, I’m glad you’re dying.” Eames sat up and shifted his chair forward until he was almost knee to knee with Christopher, whose bottom lip was quivering uncontrollably. He eased the point of the knife between the buttons of Christopher’s shirt, gently scratching at the skin just below his ribcage. “You could also make this mean that despite all the wasted moments in your life, where you weren’t present, where you didn’t pay attention, you now have the opportunity to really experience something. All this fear, all the pain you’re about to go through, all of it. It will make you know you’re alive more than anything else you’ve ever experienced. I’ll bet you were one of those kids who was taught you were so special, yeah? One of those unique souls who could fulfill your dreams, do whatever you set your mind to. Well, I have news for you: you’re just like everyone else. There is one thing, though, that sets you apart. No one else who ever existed on Earth, or who ever will exist on Earth, can experience your own death. So don’t you fuckin’ waste it. Pay attention, now.”
Christopher’s body shuddered with silent sobs, lips split and twisted as he tried and failed to curl in on himself, pulling pitifully at his restraints.
“Is the kitchen ready?” Eames asked Arthur, who was now standing at his shoulder.
“Wrapped up water tight. Your rain gear is in there too.”
Christopher’s eyes went huge and he started shouting, but it was short lived before Eames jammed the cloth back in his mouth and replaced the gag. His shouting carried on, but wouldn’t even carry as far as the master bedroom, much less the next house over which was half an acre of wooded property away.
***
“This was always one of my favourite things. Jointing,” Eames said as he put a little weight behind the knife to slide it in between the bones of Christopher’s wrist.
“You were a cook?” Arthur asked, looking up from where he was holding Christopher still on the floor. He grunted as he pressed down against Christopher’s sudden full-body jerk. Both of them had to speak over Christopher’s wailing.
“A butcher, actually. Well, an apprentice, back in Essex. The man I worked for won awards for his sausages. Me, I couldn’t be arsed with the lot of it. I did always enjoy that feeling, though. The moment when you know you’ve put the knife just right and the bone just sort of...” Eames grimaced as he applied his weight to lever the knife. “...pops off.”
Christopher went silent and limp and Arthur started slapping his face. “Hey. Hey! He said pay attention.”
Christopher’s eyes fluttered open and he groaned loudly, head lolling and eyes shutting again. A few more slaps had him crying and squeezing his eyes shut stubbornly.
“Stay here,” Arthur gritted, giving Christopher’s shoulder a rough shake.
“I think he might be slipping away. He’s lost a lot of blood,” Eames said, sawing through the rest of the flesh on the wrist. “Perfect hands, don’t you agree?” Eames held up the part in question and examined the perfectly manicured fingernails before holding it closer to Arthur to see.
Arthur’s eyes sparkled with affection as he glanced at the fingers and then past them to Eames. “Sure, I guess. It’s not like he ever did a day’s work in his life.”
Eames examined the hand again, moving the fingers a little, smearing blood from his latex-covered hand all over the cuticles. “Stunning,” he murmured. Then he handed the hand to Arthur. “Be a love and wrap that for me, will you? It’s a beautiful specimen; I’ll sketch it when we get on the train.”
Arthur took it, wrapped several layers of plastic around it before putting it in a small lunch cooler for delivery to the client.
A buzzer sounded and both Eames and Arthur looked up sharply to the small screen by the door. It showed a Mercedes and a man leaning towards his open window, arm hanging casually out of the car.
Eames glanced up sharply at Arthur, who shook his head tersely, as confused as Eames. They just stared for a moment, but the man hit the buzzer a few more times, patient and insistent, evidently fully expecting Christopher to be home.
Eames closed his eyes for a moment, then cleared his throat. He pressed the intercom button.
“Yeah?” he said, his voice an impressive imitation of Christopher’s slightly higher, clearer tone than Eames’s own.
“Chris, open the gate. It’s Pete.”
Eames let go of the intercom, hearting beating fast in his throat.
“Peter Lovell, Chris’s brother,” Arthur said quietly, although there’s no way Peter would hear without the intercom. At Eames’s questioning expression, he said, “this wasn’t in his calendar. I don’t know what he’s doing here!”
Eames hit the intercom again, “Pete, shit, I’m sorry.” Eames put on a beleaguered timbre. “Look, I’ve got the flu or something. It’s not really a good time for a visit.” He let go of the intercom and noted Arthur’s flash of an impressed smirk, though he was tense as a drawn bow.
“What?” Peter said, voice tinny over the system. “Get the fuck out of town. You haven’t been sick in years.”
When Eames didn’t answer, Peter continued. “Right. Well. Wendy there to take care of you?”
“Girlfriend,” Arthur mouthed.
“No. Don’t want to spread this around. I’ll call you, all right?” Eames said.
“Yeah. Sure,” Pete said, sounding anything but sure. But he rolled up his window and after a second, backed the car up and turned around.
Eames glanced at Arthur, received a nod of understanding, and they both sprang to action. Eames moved to slice deeply and cleanly through Christopher’s throat while Arthur carefully gathered up the plastic sheets. They shed their sodden and slippery rain gear, dumping it in a garbage bag. They rolled Christopher up in the remaining sheet and together hefted him to Christopher’s own car in the garage.
Miles down the road, they dumped Christopher’s body, drove his car to the edge of town and changed back to their own vehicle.
It was only then, after the jitters had died down and they were headed out of town that Arthur spoke again, though it wasn’t what Eames expected.
“You never mentioned your dad before. Was that true?” Arthur asked.
“Not a word about my father, no. He left us when I was too young to remember. My mum raised me by herself, though she was enough. Very supportive, lovely woman. We can meet her if you like. She lives in Essex.”
Arthur barked out a laugh. “Maybe. And the rest? All that ‘making it mean something’ stuff?”
“It’s all just stuff to think about, isn’t it? I subscribe to nothing, really. Too limiting.” Eames removed his hand from the gearshift at Arthur’s prompting to lace their fingers together.
Tokyo, Japan, March, 2004
Arthur set a mug of tea on the table as Eames carefully applied a clear sheet to the finish off his Proclus security swipe card.
“These guys have had it in for each other for ages,” Arthur said. “I talked to that professor I was telling you about, the one in California. He said they approached him to do an extraction on Saito. He said he’d heard the team hired was a disaster.”
Eames froze, then looked up sharply at Arthur. “This professor. He’s involved in dreamshare?”
“Yeah,” said Arthur hesitantly. “I told you about him. Dom Cobb. He was a professor of architecture but he and his wife were working on dreamshare.”
“I know Dom,” Eames said, frowning. “From way back; we both lived in Paris at the time.” He turned back to his work, and when Arthur said no more, Eames continued as he trimmed the edges of the card. “They were just starting with their studies then — Mallorie Cobb’s father was pushing for architects to design dreams. Cobb thought a good con man would be an asset to extraction, tried to get me in on the ground floor. But by the time I’d finished my stretch at Manchester’s finest...”
“Mal died,” Arthur finished.
“Yeah,” Eames said tightly. While dreamshare had been an enticing possibility, the resistance to his participation to begin with was fierce. He wasn’t too sorry about losing out on the prospect of having to prove himself again and again to a bunch of academic and military types. But Mal. He hadn’t thought of her in a long time, and the mention of her brought her features to mind: the elegant curve of her neck, her piercing gaze, her naive assumption that Eames should and would be as accepted by the others as easily as she had accepted him. An unpleasant knot in his stomach had Eames shifting in his chair.
“That’s crazy, isn’t it?” Arthur asked, honestly amazed. “I mean, we probably would’ve met. This is beyond coincidental, don’t you think?”
“There’s nothing beyond coincidence,” Eames responded simply. He frowned down at his work. “Why’d you call Cobb?”
Arthur paused, sizing Eames up, then apparently opted to let the matter drop. “My research showed there might have been dreamshare activity. I thought Cobb might know something. The point is, this isn’t Cobol’s first attempt to take down Proclus.”
“That’s not surprising,” Eames mused.
“And I just wonder how much you trust our employer. There’s no word about what happened to the team that failed the extraction. They disappeared, which is normal, but there are rumours one of them was brought in by Cobol.”
“We have the one job to do. We go and do it, we collect, we get out.” Eames drew an exacto precisely along the edges of the card the pressed his thumb over the surface once more, examining his work. “We’ve already accepted the contract. There’s no turning back now; they’ll come after us just for knowing as much as we do by now. The best way forward is just to keep going.” He put down his work and noticed the tea for the first time. “Oh, thank you,” he said and took a grateful sip, as though he wasn’t just talking about how to avoid unidentified punishment by a ruthless corporation.
Arthur didn’t look pleased, but he nodded curtly and turned to go back to his computer. He didn’t get half a step before Eames tugged him down until he straddled Eames’s lap.
“There are certainly higher stakes here, more risks,” Eames said, tugging Arthur’s hips closer. “But it’s hardly beyond our capabilities.”
Still frowning, Arthur said, “We nearly got caught on the Christopher Lovell job and that was much simpler; he had less security. We never should have let him know what was going on and spent so much time in his house.”
“Yes, and we learned from that. Besides, every situation is different and we’ll have to adapt. I’m not saying it won’t be difficult, but it’s not impossible.” Eames’s thumb found a bit of skin at Arthur’s waist where his shirt was beginning to come untucked, and stroked it, his intent clear in his gaze.
“Okay. I’ve been thinking. We want to catch him out when he’s at his most vulnerable, right?” Arthur carried on talking while Eames gently rubbed his lips along Arthur’s jaw. “He’s in Dar Es Salaam in two weeks, talking to the government about building up their energy infrastructure, effectively scooping the business out from under Cobol, who haven’t made inroads into Tanzania yet. He won’t be bringing his full security team this time due to some unfortunately timed staff turnover.”
“Brilliant, absolutely brilliant,” Eames said into Arthur’s skin. “Keep on that line, find his itinerary. But do it tomorrow; you look tired. I think you need a break.”
“Eames, we have a job to do,” Arthur said sternly, although he didn’t move to leave. Eames couldn’t be bothered tamping down his self-satisfied amusement and pulled Arthur down for a deep, messy kiss.
In the bedroom, Eames had sunk slowly into Arthur and felt the delicate skin of Arthur’s ankle under his lips. Arthur’d greedily tugged Eames down, effectively folding himself in half for the sake of a kiss.
Afterwards, Arthur traced a tattoo on Eames’s shoulder idly. They were both loose and lazy, endorphin-drunk and tiredly happy. “You know, as far as I can tell, Saito isn’t exactly a monster,” he said quietly. “He’s cold, he’s a ruthless businessman, he’s ordered extractions of his own. But mostly it appears his crime is being more successful at his business than the other guys.”
Eames had suspected as much through his own research, though hearing Arthur voice it forced him to acknowledge to himself that this contract had given him pause. “It’s a big purse,” Eames pointed out. “And as I said before, there’s no turning back now.”
“No, you’re right. I’ll work on getting a full itinerary and addresses tomorrow,” Arthur said, dropping his hand.
Eames picked it up again, moving his lips back and forth across Arthur’s knuckles. “It’ll be fine. Onward and forward.” He arched up and caught Arthur’s mouth with his own, willing it to be true.
Dar Es Salaam, April 2004
The crosshairs swept across the bank of windows of a posh house on the waterfront, stopping on an empty, immaculate study. There was glare off the windows, but a clear view inside. From his vantage point in a guest house on the neighbouring property, Eames felt a warm breeze waft over the sweat on his forehead through the open window, refreshing. It would be less noticeable closed, but harder to aim through. Besides, this window faced away from any potential casual onlookers. The calming sound of the sea washed over Eames and he closed his eyes for a moment to take it in. He decided he quited liked it here.
Eames looked at his watch: 14:23.
“He’s due in around 2:45,” Arthur said, looking over Eames’s shoulder. “At 3:15 he has a conference call, which should go until about 3:30. After that he has nothing until dinner. That’s our window. It’ll be hours before anyone notices he’s missing.”
None of this was news, but it was reassuring to have Arthur taking care of the minute-to-minute planning. “I don’t think we’re going to get a better vantage point than this. Why don’t you go down make sure the boat is ready to go?”
“Sure. I’ve got a good view of the cottage and the house from the boat. I’ll text if I see anything unexpected.” Arthur stood to go and Eames turned from the scope to reach for Arthur’s hand.
“Watch out for security. They’re patrolling the grounds,” Eames said.
“And I’m just a pleasure boater tinkering on my craft,” Arthur smirked lightly.
Eames watched him slip out of the cottage through the back door, then turned back to the scope.
***
Eames glanced at his wrist. 15:08 .
Saito had arrived right on time, unpacked his things carefully in his room and settled in the study in front of the computer where he’d sat typing for the past fifteen minutes. Eames cracked his neck and then watched through the crosshairs again, waiting for Saito’s conference call to start, then finish, so he could do the job.
Angry shouting and a flurry of activity caught his eye and he swung his scope around, zeroing in on a closeup of three suited men dragging a struggling Arthur across the manicured lawn. Eames’s chest tightened and a yawning pit opened inside him. He looked without the scope, absurdly hoping to see something different, then back in it to watch as Arthur was dragged, struggling less and less as he realized the futility of his situation.
He watched as Arthur was taken through the kitchen, and as they disappeared between windows down the hallway to the study.
Just as Eames was pulling the rifle off the stand and frantically running through several scenarios for how to get Arthur out of there, the door slammed open with a crack and a bang and three more men stormed in. Eames didn’t even make it halfway to the front door before he was tackled to the ground, all the air rushing from his lungs as the full weight of one of the men landed on him.
Eames struggled, anger and frustration flooding his veins. But somewhere in his head he knew it was for show. They’d bring him in there with Arthur. That’s where he’d have to make his real move.
***
Arthur stood between two men, arms held, frowning fiercely but appearing otherwise unharmed. Saito sat at the end of a long table, looking as calm and put together as he had in all the photos in Eames’s file.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Eames,” Saito said, a knowing smile tugging at his lips.
Eames said nothing, mind racing, waiting for a clue, a change of situation, anything that would give he and Arthur enough wiggle room to get out of this mess.
“He knows,” Arthur muttered.
“That you are here to kill me?” Saito replied, glancing at Arthur before returning his unsettling gaze on Eames. “Yes. I also know that you managed to crack my security company’s files, as well as my personal agenda. No small feat, as I’m sure your associate here can attest to.” Saito nodded towards Arthur but kept his eyes on Eames. “And yet you failed to complete the job you came here to do.”
“So either you’ll kill us or Cobol will scoop us up. Do you have a point, Mr. Saito, or did you plan to sit us down for a tea party?” Eames asked, carefully neutral although all his senses were on alert, detecting any movement by those holding himself and Arthur while keeping his gaze steady on Saito.
“Straight to business; quite right, Mr. Eames. Tell me. What do you know of your employer?” Saito asked.
Eames looked over at Arthur who glared sidelong at him and shook his head minutely.
“We didn’t even meet him,” Eames said. “It was all through encoded emails. We were told enough to do this job, that’s it.”
At a glance from Saito, one of the men aimed his gun towards Arthur’s knee. Eames tore from his captors’ grip to lunge for the man threatening Arthur. The resulting scuffle had hands dragging at him, shouts in his ear, Arthur a blur of punches. A shot, a burst of dusty drywall.
Eames’s heart clenched but his eyes were on Arthur, who was still unharmed.
Eames was dragged to the other side of the table, breathing hard.
“That was not wise,” Saito said mildly. “Another incident like that and I will simply end this meeting.” He waited a beat before continuing. “Now I know you were lying. Your associate here uncovered information in his research. Information about Mr. Jacobs, Chairman of the Board at Cobol Engineering. It seems he’s been acquiring information from all of his competitors through illegal extractions.”
“I’m hardly in a position to pass judgement on my employer’s illegal activities. I don’t make a habit of concerning myself overmuch with the motivations of those who sign my paycheque,” Eames pointed out.
“You don’t need to care about the motivations. I simply need you to understand your position. You can give me all of the information you have discovered about Mr. Jacobs, and then return to finish him, earning double what they offered you. Or you can die here.”
“As soon as we’re out of here, Cobol will pick us up,” Eames replied, hedging.
“That does not concern me. If you are caught, I’ve lost nothing. If you succeed, then the world will be rid of one ruthless thief. As I said, you do have a choice.”
Eames looked searchingly at Arthur, whose nod was almost imperceptible but whose agreement was writ plain on his expression.
“Then we choose to leave,” Eames said, although there was no choice involved. They were backed into a corner, but clearly Saito enjoyed playing the magnanimous magnate, and Eames wasn’t about to deny him the pleasure if it meant an easier walk out of here in one piece.
***
Giddy from the near miss, Eames walked quickly away from the house with Arthur at his side, guards standing behind them at attention, and no doubt weapons aimed at their heads until they disappeared from view.
They said nothing until three blocks later when they were passing through a busy area of town, afternoon business bustling along without a care for the two shaken men walking in its midst.
“I didn’t have all the information on that flash drive,” Arthur said quietly, pitched so that only Eames could hear. “Some of it is in my notebook, and some of it I didn’t record anywhere.”
“I figured as much,” Eames said. “That’s hardly our main concern at the moment. I think we have a tail.”
“Where?” Arthur asked.
“Grey suit, blue tie, seven o’clock.”
Arthur didn’t look, just kept up their pace. “What should we do?”
“There’s a cafe three doors up on the right. We’ll duck in there. If he follows, well, we have some running to do.”
As much as they tried to maintain their pace, they managed to speed up every so slightly, muscles coiled and ready to sprint. But they made it to the cafe and stepped in, taking a seat at the first table they saw with empty seats.
Two men ran into the cafe, and though they lost points for subtlety, it gave Eames and Arthur barely enough time to scramble for the kitchen before bullets tore through the wall at their heads. Screams were swallowed by the door closing behind them as they tore through the kitchen, dodging angry cooks.
They burst through the back door and down the alleyway, through indignant, confused groups of people, careening off walls, the shouts behind them telling them how far away their pursuers were. Not nearly far enough.
Arthur was ahead, and though the blood thrummed through Eames’s veins and fear made him tight with worry, he was glad to have Arthur in his sights.
He could hear the thumping of feet close behind him, and Arthur dove to the left between two buildings, as if reading Eames’s mind.
A long thin line of light shone ahead, failing to illuminate the gloom of the passageway. Arthur slipped out the end into the broad daylight beyond, and a moment later when Eames approached, the walls inexplicably, maddeningly, narrowed. He turned sideways and hurled himself forward, and with a frustrated grunt, popped through to see Arthur stopped and turned towards him.
“Run!” Eames shouted, eyes drawn inexorably to the grey-suited man rounding the corner behind Arthur.
Eames reached futilely for his weapon — the one removed by Saito’s guards and never returned to him — and watched in horror as Arthur fell to the ground screaming and clutching his shoulder.
The man’s squirming body was on the ground under Eames before Eames even knew how he got there. A shot fired wildly as Eames tried to wrestle the gun from the man’s hand.
After a final punch, Eames had the gun in hand and didn’t hesitate to put a bullet in the man’s forehead before rushing to Arthur’s side.
“‘m fine,” Arthur grunted, moving to stand and faltering. “Eames!”
Eames turned and saw the second and third men rounding the far corner, evidently in attempt to box them in before realizing their colleague was down. The surprise barely registered on their faces, though, before Eames shot them both and dragged Arthur to his feet to push past the gathering of gormless onlookers not smart enough to clear off.
It was lucky they were there, though, because it made it easier for Eames to slip through and disappear while the presumably-merely-inured pursuers gathered their wits and resources about them once more.
A block away, Eames eased Arthur into a car that had its doors unlocked, hotwired it and drove off as fast as he dared, not wanting to bring the police down on them.
“You have pressure on it?” Eames asked, splitting his attention between Arthur and the road. His voice betrayed his worry, and he didn’t even want to think about the panic rising in his throat. He gripped the steering wheel to ground himself. It didn’t help.
“Yeah,” Arthur grunted. “I think it tore through my collarbone.” Arthur breathed wearily and was slumped slightly to the side, although he clearly couldn’t lean against the door on his injured side.
“We need to get you to a doctor,” Eames said as he tried to hold the car steady while easing out of his shirt to hand to Arthur. “Use that for now; it’s all I’ve got. Can you hang on?”
“Yeah,” Arthur said, though he must’ve known it made no difference. He had to hang on until they were out of harm’s way.
“I don’t see a tail. I think they probably only had those three on us to make sure the job was done. I’ll pull over when we get a little further on.”
Arthur nodded weakly. Eames’s nostrils flared in irrational, suppressed rage.
They obviously couldn’t see a regular doctor, and Eames had no contacts in Dar Es Salaam. But Yusuf... Yusuf could probably help and he was an eight hour drive away. If Arthur could be stabilized, and if Eames drove fast...
Eames glanced over at Arthur, who looked tired but was alert, staring out ahead of them. Eames dared to hope.
***
Scrub brush and sparse trees lined the road, alight in a golden halo from the setting sun.
Eames had managed to staunch the flow of blood from Arthur’s shoulder with a clean shirt from someone’s hanging laundry line. But the shirt, a dark plaid, was nearly soaked through now, and they weren’t close enough to Mombasa for Eames’s comfort.
“Talk to me,” Eames said, in both an attempt to keep Arthur alert, and to pull himself out of his own head which was on a loop of worrying thoughts.
“About what?” Arthur asked, smiling weakly.
“How about telling me where you want to go once we get out of this situation and collect our fee? Is there somewhere you always wanted to visit?”
Arthur took a deep, jagged breath and dropped his head backwards to the headrest. “When I was a kid I always thought I’d grow up to be an astronaut and go to the moon.”
A surprised bark of a laugh escaped Eames’s lips. Arthur started to laugh, then coughed painfully, a harsh rattle in his lungs.
“I’m guessing we won’t make enough to do that, though.” He spoke slowly, interrupted by pauses for breath. “No, when I was about eight, my mom was doing this puzzle. She loved puzzles. This one, though. It was huge, and mostly green, took her ages. It was of this castle in Scotland. I thought, ‘how can such a place be real?’ I gave up hope of actually going there. But I think I’d like to see that.”
Eames looked at Arthur’s cloth, soggy and dark and swallowed around the lump in his throat. But Arthur’s choice of words was encouraging: ‘I’d like to see that.’
“Simple enough to arrange. We can find a nice B&B, do a tour of a few castles. Drafty, awful things, but far be it from me to deny you,” Eames replied, taking care to keep his tone light. Arthur huffed, a breath that was too close to disbelief for Eames’s taste.
He pushed the accelerator harder, willing the road to unfold behind him.
Mombasa, April, 2004
Eames punched the wall, not even feeling it as his knuckles split open.
The vials of unidentified liquid surrounded him, orderly where his thought were chaos. Arthur was dropping off by the time they arrived at Yusuf’s. Yusuf was no doctor, but he did know someone he was able to bring in with blood for the transfusion. God knew where it came from or if it was even safe, but it had stabilized Arthur and that was all that mattered right now.
Eames’s hovering had driven them crazy, and they’d banished him to the lab, where he’d been pacing, thoughts grinding a groove he was finding it increasingly difficult to nudge himself free from. The punch was both out of frustration and an attempt to feel something else.
It didn’t work.
02:18, his watch said. The bloody knuckles said something else entirely.
***
“I can’t hide you here forever,” said Yusuf, fingering a vial of pale amber liquid, glinting in the dawn light shining through the window. “You’d be better off running. I have a contact in Johannesburg could get you to Australia, maybe. Thailand?”
“Arthur’s in no state for that kind of travel,” Eames replied tightly.
“Yusuf, could you give us a few minutes?” Arthur interrupted, ignoring Eames’s glare. After a moment of glancing back and forth between them, Yusuf stood.
“I’ll check on Abdul. Take your time.”
After Yusuf slipped away, Arthur finally acknowledged Eames’s stare, his skin sallow and sickly against the worn, striped coverlet on the flimsy bed Yusuf had brought up from the dream den. “You could still get away,” he said, a note of pleading in his voice. “We’d have a better chance if we split up.”
Eames chewed his lip, looking at Arthur but blankly, his thoughts returning to his discussion with Yusuf’s doctor friend. Arthur was weak, his recovery would be long. With Cobol on their tail, they wouldn’t last two days.
“They’ll catch us,” Eames said. “If I left you and tried to meet up with you somewhere else, that would be, what? A month down the road? Two? Six? Let’s say, best case scenario, you aren’t caught right here and you manage to travel to somewhere safe enough to recover. Let’s say I meet you there and then we run again. Maybe we find a country where we can stay hidden. We’ll always wonder.
“And how long could we keep it up? How long before the strain of running gets to us? Would we start to resent each other?
“And that’s the best case scenario. In all likelihood we would get caught somewhere between Phuket and Vientiane. Taken by one side, tried, convicted. Taken by the other, summarily executed. In either case, separated.
“Arthur,” Eames ducked his head to try to catch Arthur’s eyes from where they were fixed on his perpetually clasping and unclasping hands. “Arthur, I want a life with you. Not a short life, scraped out wherever we can get to. I want the life we could have had. If we weren’t these people.”
“We are these people, Eames,” Arthur said, looking up finally. “We can do this. Yusuf can help me find somewhere close by. You can run. You can do the job for Saito on your own and you can find me again.”
Maybe Eames could disappear, or do the contract for Saito, but on his own he couldn’t do both while leaving Arthur a sitting duck in Kenya. The escape plans, the endlessly morphing Plan Bs Eames usually has churning in the back of his mind to cover his own arse, all winked out with a second person to account for. Yet he couldn’t imagine going back to the way things were. “Or we can drop,” Eames’s voice was barely a whisper.
“For how long?” Arthur replied, voice measured but on the verge of cracking. “We can go under for what, 12 hours? Three days down there?”
“Deeper. Yusuf can put us down there, far enough to stretch it out. We could have years. Decades,” Eames reached across to take one of Arthur’s hands, their knees brushing softly together. “Arthur, we could —” Eames stopped, licked his lips. “We could be together. For good.”
Arthur gripped Eames hand, though whether that was to anchor them in reality, or in silent agreement to Eames’s plan, or simply to hang on, Eames wasn’t sure. Arthur’s expression was unreadable and fleeting before he leaned in and pressed his lips to Eames’s gently. Eames tried vainly to sense what it meant, but he could only wait. And it felt like an eternity of just lips on lips before Arthur smiled into it.
“Eames,” he said, eyes closed and still pressing his nose beside Eames’s. “Are you proposing?” His tone was teasing, but it threatened to break, something too raw behind it.
Eames laughed, a sorrowful, half-manic, desperate choke of a breath. “I suppose I am,” he got out when he could swallow down the lump in his throat. “Arthur, will you build a life with me?”
Arthur smiled, and though it reached his eyes, there was something haunted in his look.
“Do you think this was where we were going to end up anyway? If we’d met through Cobb. Do you think it was always going to end like this?” Arthur stroked the back of Eames’s hand with his thumb.
“This is the only reality I know, Arthur. There’s enough in this life to keep me guessing without worrying about fate. All I see is an opportunity to have the life we couldn’t have.” Eames stroked a thumb along Arthur’s neck, over the vulnerable softness at his throat, over the line of a vein, pulsing weakly. “You know, before I met you, I was fine. It wasn’t until after that week in Washington that I even knew I was lonely.” He cleared his throat. “The choice we have here: I run, and don’t know if I’ll see you again, or we drop and live a lifetime. I’ve made my choice clear. Are you going to answer me, or just sit there, infuriatingly put together?”
“Yes,” Arthur said simply, looking at Eames like Eames was the one who was injured. “Yes, you sentimental jerk. Of course I choose a life with you.”
***
Eames walked through the hard packed sand, the brisk salt air refreshing on his face. Arthur’s hand was warm in his, familiar. Comforting.
“I rearranged the bookshelf again,” Arthur said.
Eames smiled. He stopped being able to find his books years ago. He’d always have to ask Arthur anyway.
He paused, watching as the sun lowered, lighting the water in a trillion sparkling points. He pulled Arthur to him, kissing him softly, Arthur’s thin, papery skin like silk under the strokes of Eames’s thumb.
Arthur murmured something into Eames’s mouth. “‘ve you”, maybe.
Around them, the buildings began to crumble.
**End**
And a bonus, alternate title banner:
Make It Mean - Part Two
Vondelpark, Amsterdam, September 2003
They jogged steadily through the sleepy streets of Vondelpark, the morning air just cool enough to be comfortable. They paused briefly at the market, eyeing up some cheeses while their mark, Eric Buckley, briefly considered the frisee before saying something to the vendor and resuming his run.
Eames glanced at Arthur, at his steady gait, his casual focus. He showed no signs that he was anything other than cool and professional; Eames was impressed.
Arthur subtly flicked his gaze to where the mark was headed. Eames looked and he nodded slightly, picking up their pace. Buckley turned into the flower shop between 08:00 and 08:10, just as he did every second Friday morning.
Eames’d received a coded email from a contact about this job just before arriving in Washington State. He wasn’t going to take it; he couldn’t really be bothered flying to Amsterdam, especially after Washington proved to harbour such delightful distractions. But after asking some subtly leading questions of Arthur, then outright asking him if he’d be interested in making a hefty chunk of cash in exchange for assisting Eames, he’d responded to the client. As luck would have it, the job was still available.
While Eames was used to making his own preparations — and he never went into a potentially dangerous situation unprepared — Arthur was proving an invaluable partner. His work was impeccable, but most helpfully, Eames had much more time to get a bead on the mark himself.
A small bell tinkled as they walked in the door. There was a fresh green scent from all the flowers and a tall, prim woman behind the counter. She turned to smile politely, but when she saw Arthur, her face turned all business and she pointed with a glance towards the walk-in refrigerator. When Arthur nodded his appreciation, she walked briskly to the front door, locked it, and then exited out the back door. Eames raised his eyebrow at Arthur, who looked smug.
Arthur took his place behind a stand-up refrigeration unit and pulled his gun from his concealed holster, keeping an eye on the door. Eames stepped into the walk-in refrigerator.
His breath came in thick billowy gusts and his sweaty skin prickled up in firm gooseflesh. The smell was lessened by the cold, but the explosion of colour and texture was dazzling. Bundles of tulips and roses, clusters of freesia, a frothy burst of alstromeria all dazzled the eye. Eames spotted a section of sweetpeas, his favourite, and wondered idly what Arthur’s favourite was.
Eric looked up and smiled politely, going back to selecting bunches of roses. Eames had to give Eric this much at least: his longstanding affair with the Director of Marketing at least had Eric guilty enough to remember to treat his wife to flowers on a regular basis.
Eames lightly drew his finger along the delicate speckled petal of an alstromeria before looking up and saying, “Eric, right?”
Eric looked confused but smiled anyway. “Sorry, do I know you?”
“I don’t believe we’ve met, no. But I’m a friend of some members of your board of directors,” Eames responded in a perfectly modulated Midlands accent to match Eric’s. He watched as Eric both relaxed slightly at it, and frowned, trying to place some significance on any of what Eames was saying.
“Right. Well. You are...?” Eric’s half formed bundle of roses was still held ready in his left hand, as though he was trying to think of a way to brush off Eames in order to get back to his task.
“Perhaps it would be more helpful to tell you what I am, rather than who,” Eames said, absently drawing out the flower from the rest and stepping forward.
“All right then, what are you?” Eric said impatiently.
“I’m a settler of accounts. And it appears the books at Royal Dutch Shell are pretty drastically out of balance because of you.” Eames sauntered forward another few steps, bringing him a few feet away from Eric. Before he could continue properly, the door creaked open behind Eames.
“Just me,” Arthur said quickly so as not to alarm Eames. “Locked up tight.”
Eric’s eyes flashed with panic, then.
Eames recalled an incident Arthur had turned up in the research: a messy legal battle involving Eric summarily firing a man with AIDS. It had revealed a streak of homophobia in Eric that didn’t sit right with Eames; his predatory instincts flared and he decided he might have a bit of fun with Arthur there.
“You’re a star, my love,” Eames said, letting affection put a lilt in his voice while taking note of the twitch of muscle in Buckley’s jaw. “I was just letting Mr. Buckley here know who our employer is. I’m sure by now he’s figured out what brought this on, and what we’re here to do. Isn’t that right, Eric, darling?” Eames held out the flower over his shoulder, wiggling his finger in invitation to Arthur.
Arthur approached, plucked the flower from Eames’s fingers and slid his hand over Eames’s shoulder. Eric had begun to edge sideways and Arthur almost lazily pointed the gun at him.
“Stay put,” Arthur ordered.
Eames drew his own weapon and dared a look at Arthur’s profile, noting the bead of sweat rolling down Arthur’s neck. Arthur must’ve been as cold as Eames with their sweat cooling on their skin, but Arthur showed no sign of discomfort.
“I didn’t do anything anyone else wasn’t already doing,” Eric said defensively, desperately. “Look, whatever they’re paying you, I can pay you more.”
Eames puffed a derisive snort. “Oh, that’s such a disappointment. Millions embezzled and it couldn’t buy you any creativity or style. Or much in the way of brains, either. Even if you could pay us more — which a moment’s reflection would have told you is impossible now that they know what you’re up to — you think we’re stupid enough to turn on our employer, who’s shown no compunctions about having someone killed? No, I believe we’ll finish this and collect our fee. Then I thought we might take a holiday,” Eames used his free hand to stroke up Arthur’s ribs. “What do you say, darling? A romp in the Caymans? Make love on the beach like in an 80’s movie?”
Arthur huffed a laugh, but Eames heard the tightness of it. He was beginning to think of a way to get Arthur out of there, to finish off Eric while Arthur cleared out the till to make it look like a robbery. But before he could suggest it, Arthur touched Eames lightly on the shoulder.
“I want to do it,” Arthur said under his breath.
That wasn’t the plan. Arthur helped prepare, Eames finished the job. That was how it was supposed to go. But if Arthur wanted in... actually, Eames shouldn’t have been surprised. So far Arthur had been all-in about everything.
“All yours,” Eames said and stepped back. “You’ve finished out there?”
Arthur nodded.
“Good, because once that shot is fired, we leg it.”
Eric protested suddenly, loudly, but he got as far as, “Ple—” before Arthur shot him through the forehead, droplets of red spraying the yellow tulips, his body falling with an unceremonious thump to the floor. Arthur looked sick.
“We have to go,” Eames said and watched as Arthur clenched his jaw and straightened his stance. Ridiculously, Eames was proud, and despite their rush he leaned in and kissed Arthur fiercely, briefly, before tucking his gun away. “Right. Leg it.”
They slipped out the back, ran like buggery for two blocks before slowing to a jog by the canal, casual runners once more. By the time they got to their car a few streets down, a casual observer would have seen just a happy couple, smiling and chatting after a morning’s constitutional.
Toronto, Ontario, December 2003
“I’ll have the salad,” Arthur said, gently closing the menu and pushing it away.
Eames held Arthur in his gaze for a second before casually scanning the menu again.
“I’d’ve thought you’d be pretty hungry by now,” Eames commented mildly. Arthur’s eyes flicked to the menu. “I’m starting with the fois gras, and the entrôte grillée sauce poivre for a main. And I fully intend to eat dessert.” He closed his menu and looked up with a smile. “It’s an imaginary budget you’re watching. Order what you like.”
Arthur’s jaw clenched against some residual shame or guilt that he ought to have left behind with his old life. But the expression was gone in a moment as he pulled the menu to him. Eames didn’t smile in either satisfaction or pride, lest he appear condescending.
When they’d ordered, and Eames had selected a Chateauneuf du Pape — because fuck it, you only live once — he settled his chin on his palm and looked at Arthur expectantly.
Arthur had spent the last six days consuming information at a rate Eames could only marvel at, although he never said so. For some reason Arthur always assumed Eames was having a laugh when he complimented Arthur.
“Our guy, Lovell. He did fuck his partner over pretty thoroughly on this joint investment venture,” Arthur began, then fell silent as the water returned to pour the wine.
When they were alone once more, Eames said, “That’s hardly surprising, but good to know. Find anything we can use?”
“Yeah,” Arthur said dismissively, then, “I went back further, though. Eames, this guy. Back in 1994 he was one of the operational managers at the Coca Cola plant in Colombia. You ever hear what went on down there?”
Eames shrugged, taking a sip of his wine.
“The workers’ union asked for fair wages, and over the course of the next few years, five union leaders were murdered on the orders of the Coke managers. Lovell was top of the heap.” Arthur’s tone was even, making it difficult to tell what his point was.
“So Lovell ordered the assassinations?” Eames prompted.
“Over a five dollar a month raise,” Arthur said, then paused, considering his next words. “Have all your marks been like this?”
So that was what Arthur had been doing. He wanted to know who he was helping to kill. “Yes, pretty much,” Eames agreed. “The guys who can afford my services, and the people they want targeted, don’t generally get to the point of hiring someone like me without earning it.” Eames glanced around the room, but the low level bustle continued, oblivious to Arthur and Eames and their apparently casual conversation. “Whatever their stated reasons, political motivations... it all boils down to something personal. I haven’t come across a case yet where the mark and the client aren’t emotionally invested in each other.”
The first course arrived then, and both Arthur and Eames looked up with a polite nod.
Just before tucking in, Arthur leaned in on his elbows, fork in hand. “What about Eric? I thought that was the board getting rid of a threat to their investment value.”
“That was the chairman of the board getting his knickers in a twist over his old partner taking more than he did,” Eames replied.
Arthur nodded thoughtfully, then turned his attention to his food. “I’ve found enough to get the job done. The client wants a souvenir, right? He really has it out for his partner, wants him to suffer. I’ve found Lovell’s psychological records. I know you’re interested that sort of thing, so I thought you could use them.”
Eames put down his fork to slide his hand across the table, brushing his fingers against Arthur’s wrist. “You say the most romantic things,” he grinned.
Bridle Path, Toronto, January, 2004
“I’ll bet your father beat you,” Eames said, casual as you please, as if he was commenting on the weather. The man — Christopher Lovell’s nose flared rapidly, eyes wide and shining. “My father beat me, you know. Buckle end of the belt. Called me a pouf,” Eames slid his knife up under the length of material they’d used as a gag and sliced it cleanly away. Christopher tried gamely to keep still but he was vibrating with fear. Eames reached in between the man’s teeth gently and plucked out the sodden ball of cloth. “You’ll stay quiet, won’t you?” Christopher nodded frantically. “Relax, sunshine. We’re just having a little chat.”
“I’m just going to check the back door’s secure,” Arthur said, coming up behind Eames and sliding his hand gently up under Eames’s jacket.
“Thank you, darling,” Eames replied, turning to nudge his nose against Arthur’s cheek. “I’ve got this, you go ahead.” Arthur leaned in to brush his lips up Eames’s ear, tongue flicking out for the briefest of seconds.
“Be right back,” Arthur said lowly, and Eames turned his attention back to the man they had strapped to his own dining room chair.
“Where were we? Oh yes, my father. Nasty piece of work, that man. I was beaten to a pulp once, at school. Came home bloody, limping. ‘Everything happens for a reason,’ he’d said.” Eames pulled out one of the chairs and sat down, leaning one arm languidly on the table. “Do you believe that? That everything happens for a reason?”
The man licked his lips, trying to get some moisture back in his mouth. His eyes flicked to the doorway behind Eames as Arthur came back in. “Yes. I do,” he said, eyes tracking Arthur’s form into the room until Arthur pulled out a chair across the table and sat down with a glass of milk.
“Wrong,” Eames said, eyes flashing, voice suddenly steely. He softened again. “Nothing happens for a reason. Things happen. Events just are, you see, with no inherent meaning or purpose. But people. Now people are meaning-making machines. It’s how we’re built. We apply meaning to everything. That’s the bitch of it. And the beauty.” Eames looked at Christopher’s face, at the wrinkle between his brows, at the way his tongue kept trying to wet his dry lips. At the way Christopher was trying, even now in the midst of his fear, to reject the ideas Eames was explaining.
“You see,” Eames continued, “my father beat me and had no sympathy for the bullying I experienced. I made that mean, for a long time, that I wasn’t a real man. That I somehow didn’t measure up. I became tough, mean, brutish to prove otherwise. But what if it only meant that my father was a narrow-minded twat? What would I have become if I wasn’t defined by his view of me? And you,” Eames tipped the point of his blade towards Christopher, “what are you making this mean?”
Christopher shook his head.
“You could make this mean that I’m a cold, evil contract killer victimizing a poor, innocent civilian. It’s so unfair, isn’t it? Gone before your time, all that rubbish? ‘Why me,’ is what you’re thinking, right? Well. Aside from the fact that you were stupid enough to make an enemy of a very powerful person, that’s only one version. You could also make this mean — if you’re the religious sort, that is — that you’re about to meet your maker. Settle your cosmic debts. Go to heaven. Or hell, depending on the life you’ve lived. But that’s a fuckin’ fairy tale. If you’re making these events mean that story, I’m glad you’re dying.” Eames sat up and shifted his chair forward until he was almost knee to knee with Christopher, whose bottom lip was quivering uncontrollably. He eased the point of the knife between the buttons of Christopher’s shirt, gently scratching at the skin just below his ribcage. “You could also make this mean that despite all the wasted moments in your life, where you weren’t present, where you didn’t pay attention, you now have the opportunity to really experience something. All this fear, all the pain you’re about to go through, all of it. It will make you know you’re alive more than anything else you’ve ever experienced. I’ll bet you were one of those kids who was taught you were so special, yeah? One of those unique souls who could fulfill your dreams, do whatever you set your mind to. Well, I have news for you: you’re just like everyone else. There is one thing, though, that sets you apart. No one else who ever existed on Earth, or who ever will exist on Earth, can experience your own death. So don’t you fuckin’ waste it. Pay attention, now.”
Christopher’s body shuddered with silent sobs, lips split and twisted as he tried and failed to curl in on himself, pulling pitifully at his restraints.
“Is the kitchen ready?” Eames asked Arthur, who was now standing at his shoulder.
“Wrapped up water tight. Your rain gear is in there too.”
Christopher’s eyes went huge and he started shouting, but it was short lived before Eames jammed the cloth back in his mouth and replaced the gag. His shouting carried on, but wouldn’t even carry as far as the master bedroom, much less the next house over which was half an acre of wooded property away.
***
“This was always one of my favourite things. Jointing,” Eames said as he put a little weight behind the knife to slide it in between the bones of Christopher’s wrist.
“You were a cook?” Arthur asked, looking up from where he was holding Christopher still on the floor. He grunted as he pressed down against Christopher’s sudden full-body jerk. Both of them had to speak over Christopher’s wailing.
“A butcher, actually. Well, an apprentice, back in Essex. The man I worked for won awards for his sausages. Me, I couldn’t be arsed with the lot of it. I did always enjoy that feeling, though. The moment when you know you’ve put the knife just right and the bone just sort of...” Eames grimaced as he applied his weight to lever the knife. “...pops off.”
Christopher went silent and limp and Arthur started slapping his face. “Hey. Hey! He said pay attention.”
Christopher’s eyes fluttered open and he groaned loudly, head lolling and eyes shutting again. A few more slaps had him crying and squeezing his eyes shut stubbornly.
“Stay here,” Arthur gritted, giving Christopher’s shoulder a rough shake.
“I think he might be slipping away. He’s lost a lot of blood,” Eames said, sawing through the rest of the flesh on the wrist. “Perfect hands, don’t you agree?” Eames held up the part in question and examined the perfectly manicured fingernails before holding it closer to Arthur to see.
Arthur’s eyes sparkled with affection as he glanced at the fingers and then past them to Eames. “Sure, I guess. It’s not like he ever did a day’s work in his life.”
Eames examined the hand again, moving the fingers a little, smearing blood from his latex-covered hand all over the cuticles. “Stunning,” he murmured. Then he handed the hand to Arthur. “Be a love and wrap that for me, will you? It’s a beautiful specimen; I’ll sketch it when we get on the train.”
Arthur took it, wrapped several layers of plastic around it before putting it in a small lunch cooler for delivery to the client.
A buzzer sounded and both Eames and Arthur looked up sharply to the small screen by the door. It showed a Mercedes and a man leaning towards his open window, arm hanging casually out of the car.
Eames glanced up sharply at Arthur, who shook his head tersely, as confused as Eames. They just stared for a moment, but the man hit the buzzer a few more times, patient and insistent, evidently fully expecting Christopher to be home.
Eames closed his eyes for a moment, then cleared his throat. He pressed the intercom button.
“Yeah?” he said, his voice an impressive imitation of Christopher’s slightly higher, clearer tone than Eames’s own.
“Chris, open the gate. It’s Pete.”
Eames let go of the intercom, hearting beating fast in his throat.
“Peter Lovell, Chris’s brother,” Arthur said quietly, although there’s no way Peter would hear without the intercom. At Eames’s questioning expression, he said, “this wasn’t in his calendar. I don’t know what he’s doing here!”
Eames hit the intercom again, “Pete, shit, I’m sorry.” Eames put on a beleaguered timbre. “Look, I’ve got the flu or something. It’s not really a good time for a visit.” He let go of the intercom and noted Arthur’s flash of an impressed smirk, though he was tense as a drawn bow.
“What?” Peter said, voice tinny over the system. “Get the fuck out of town. You haven’t been sick in years.”
When Eames didn’t answer, Peter continued. “Right. Well. Wendy there to take care of you?”
“Girlfriend,” Arthur mouthed.
“No. Don’t want to spread this around. I’ll call you, all right?” Eames said.
“Yeah. Sure,” Pete said, sounding anything but sure. But he rolled up his window and after a second, backed the car up and turned around.
Eames glanced at Arthur, received a nod of understanding, and they both sprang to action. Eames moved to slice deeply and cleanly through Christopher’s throat while Arthur carefully gathered up the plastic sheets. They shed their sodden and slippery rain gear, dumping it in a garbage bag. They rolled Christopher up in the remaining sheet and together hefted him to Christopher’s own car in the garage.
Miles down the road, they dumped Christopher’s body, drove his car to the edge of town and changed back to their own vehicle.
It was only then, after the jitters had died down and they were headed out of town that Arthur spoke again, though it wasn’t what Eames expected.
“You never mentioned your dad before. Was that true?” Arthur asked.
“Not a word about my father, no. He left us when I was too young to remember. My mum raised me by herself, though she was enough. Very supportive, lovely woman. We can meet her if you like. She lives in Essex.”
Arthur barked out a laugh. “Maybe. And the rest? All that ‘making it mean something’ stuff?”
“It’s all just stuff to think about, isn’t it? I subscribe to nothing, really. Too limiting.” Eames removed his hand from the gearshift at Arthur’s prompting to lace their fingers together.
Tokyo, Japan, March, 2004
Arthur set a mug of tea on the table as Eames carefully applied a clear sheet to the finish off his Proclus security swipe card.
“These guys have had it in for each other for ages,” Arthur said. “I talked to that professor I was telling you about, the one in California. He said they approached him to do an extraction on Saito. He said he’d heard the team hired was a disaster.”
Eames froze, then looked up sharply at Arthur. “This professor. He’s involved in dreamshare?”
“Yeah,” said Arthur hesitantly. “I told you about him. Dom Cobb. He was a professor of architecture but he and his wife were working on dreamshare.”
“I know Dom,” Eames said, frowning. “From way back; we both lived in Paris at the time.” He turned back to his work, and when Arthur said no more, Eames continued as he trimmed the edges of the card. “They were just starting with their studies then — Mallorie Cobb’s father was pushing for architects to design dreams. Cobb thought a good con man would be an asset to extraction, tried to get me in on the ground floor. But by the time I’d finished my stretch at Manchester’s finest...”
“Mal died,” Arthur finished.
“Yeah,” Eames said tightly. While dreamshare had been an enticing possibility, the resistance to his participation to begin with was fierce. He wasn’t too sorry about losing out on the prospect of having to prove himself again and again to a bunch of academic and military types. But Mal. He hadn’t thought of her in a long time, and the mention of her brought her features to mind: the elegant curve of her neck, her piercing gaze, her naive assumption that Eames should and would be as accepted by the others as easily as she had accepted him. An unpleasant knot in his stomach had Eames shifting in his chair.
“That’s crazy, isn’t it?” Arthur asked, honestly amazed. “I mean, we probably would’ve met. This is beyond coincidental, don’t you think?”
“There’s nothing beyond coincidence,” Eames responded simply. He frowned down at his work. “Why’d you call Cobb?”
Arthur paused, sizing Eames up, then apparently opted to let the matter drop. “My research showed there might have been dreamshare activity. I thought Cobb might know something. The point is, this isn’t Cobol’s first attempt to take down Proclus.”
“That’s not surprising,” Eames mused.
“And I just wonder how much you trust our employer. There’s no word about what happened to the team that failed the extraction. They disappeared, which is normal, but there are rumours one of them was brought in by Cobol.”
“We have the one job to do. We go and do it, we collect, we get out.” Eames drew an exacto precisely along the edges of the card the pressed his thumb over the surface once more, examining his work. “We’ve already accepted the contract. There’s no turning back now; they’ll come after us just for knowing as much as we do by now. The best way forward is just to keep going.” He put down his work and noticed the tea for the first time. “Oh, thank you,” he said and took a grateful sip, as though he wasn’t just talking about how to avoid unidentified punishment by a ruthless corporation.
Arthur didn’t look pleased, but he nodded curtly and turned to go back to his computer. He didn’t get half a step before Eames tugged him down until he straddled Eames’s lap.
“There are certainly higher stakes here, more risks,” Eames said, tugging Arthur’s hips closer. “But it’s hardly beyond our capabilities.”
Still frowning, Arthur said, “We nearly got caught on the Christopher Lovell job and that was much simpler; he had less security. We never should have let him know what was going on and spent so much time in his house.”
“Yes, and we learned from that. Besides, every situation is different and we’ll have to adapt. I’m not saying it won’t be difficult, but it’s not impossible.” Eames’s thumb found a bit of skin at Arthur’s waist where his shirt was beginning to come untucked, and stroked it, his intent clear in his gaze.
“Okay. I’ve been thinking. We want to catch him out when he’s at his most vulnerable, right?” Arthur carried on talking while Eames gently rubbed his lips along Arthur’s jaw. “He’s in Dar Es Salaam in two weeks, talking to the government about building up their energy infrastructure, effectively scooping the business out from under Cobol, who haven’t made inroads into Tanzania yet. He won’t be bringing his full security team this time due to some unfortunately timed staff turnover.”
“Brilliant, absolutely brilliant,” Eames said into Arthur’s skin. “Keep on that line, find his itinerary. But do it tomorrow; you look tired. I think you need a break.”
“Eames, we have a job to do,” Arthur said sternly, although he didn’t move to leave. Eames couldn’t be bothered tamping down his self-satisfied amusement and pulled Arthur down for a deep, messy kiss.
In the bedroom, Eames had sunk slowly into Arthur and felt the delicate skin of Arthur’s ankle under his lips. Arthur’d greedily tugged Eames down, effectively folding himself in half for the sake of a kiss.
Afterwards, Arthur traced a tattoo on Eames’s shoulder idly. They were both loose and lazy, endorphin-drunk and tiredly happy. “You know, as far as I can tell, Saito isn’t exactly a monster,” he said quietly. “He’s cold, he’s a ruthless businessman, he’s ordered extractions of his own. But mostly it appears his crime is being more successful at his business than the other guys.”
Eames had suspected as much through his own research, though hearing Arthur voice it forced him to acknowledge to himself that this contract had given him pause. “It’s a big purse,” Eames pointed out. “And as I said before, there’s no turning back now.”
“No, you’re right. I’ll work on getting a full itinerary and addresses tomorrow,” Arthur said, dropping his hand.
Eames picked it up again, moving his lips back and forth across Arthur’s knuckles. “It’ll be fine. Onward and forward.” He arched up and caught Arthur’s mouth with his own, willing it to be true.
Dar Es Salaam, April 2004
The crosshairs swept across the bank of windows of a posh house on the waterfront, stopping on an empty, immaculate study. There was glare off the windows, but a clear view inside. From his vantage point in a guest house on the neighbouring property, Eames felt a warm breeze waft over the sweat on his forehead through the open window, refreshing. It would be less noticeable closed, but harder to aim through. Besides, this window faced away from any potential casual onlookers. The calming sound of the sea washed over Eames and he closed his eyes for a moment to take it in. He decided he quited liked it here.
Eames looked at his watch: 14:23.
“He’s due in around 2:45,” Arthur said, looking over Eames’s shoulder. “At 3:15 he has a conference call, which should go until about 3:30. After that he has nothing until dinner. That’s our window. It’ll be hours before anyone notices he’s missing.”
None of this was news, but it was reassuring to have Arthur taking care of the minute-to-minute planning. “I don’t think we’re going to get a better vantage point than this. Why don’t you go down make sure the boat is ready to go?”
“Sure. I’ve got a good view of the cottage and the house from the boat. I’ll text if I see anything unexpected.” Arthur stood to go and Eames turned from the scope to reach for Arthur’s hand.
“Watch out for security. They’re patrolling the grounds,” Eames said.
“And I’m just a pleasure boater tinkering on my craft,” Arthur smirked lightly.
Eames watched him slip out of the cottage through the back door, then turned back to the scope.
***
Eames glanced at his wrist. 15:08 .
Saito had arrived right on time, unpacked his things carefully in his room and settled in the study in front of the computer where he’d sat typing for the past fifteen minutes. Eames cracked his neck and then watched through the crosshairs again, waiting for Saito’s conference call to start, then finish, so he could do the job.
Angry shouting and a flurry of activity caught his eye and he swung his scope around, zeroing in on a closeup of three suited men dragging a struggling Arthur across the manicured lawn. Eames’s chest tightened and a yawning pit opened inside him. He looked without the scope, absurdly hoping to see something different, then back in it to watch as Arthur was dragged, struggling less and less as he realized the futility of his situation.
He watched as Arthur was taken through the kitchen, and as they disappeared between windows down the hallway to the study.
Just as Eames was pulling the rifle off the stand and frantically running through several scenarios for how to get Arthur out of there, the door slammed open with a crack and a bang and three more men stormed in. Eames didn’t even make it halfway to the front door before he was tackled to the ground, all the air rushing from his lungs as the full weight of one of the men landed on him.
Eames struggled, anger and frustration flooding his veins. But somewhere in his head he knew it was for show. They’d bring him in there with Arthur. That’s where he’d have to make his real move.
***
Arthur stood between two men, arms held, frowning fiercely but appearing otherwise unharmed. Saito sat at the end of a long table, looking as calm and put together as he had in all the photos in Eames’s file.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Eames,” Saito said, a knowing smile tugging at his lips.
Eames said nothing, mind racing, waiting for a clue, a change of situation, anything that would give he and Arthur enough wiggle room to get out of this mess.
“He knows,” Arthur muttered.
“That you are here to kill me?” Saito replied, glancing at Arthur before returning his unsettling gaze on Eames. “Yes. I also know that you managed to crack my security company’s files, as well as my personal agenda. No small feat, as I’m sure your associate here can attest to.” Saito nodded towards Arthur but kept his eyes on Eames. “And yet you failed to complete the job you came here to do.”
“So either you’ll kill us or Cobol will scoop us up. Do you have a point, Mr. Saito, or did you plan to sit us down for a tea party?” Eames asked, carefully neutral although all his senses were on alert, detecting any movement by those holding himself and Arthur while keeping his gaze steady on Saito.
“Straight to business; quite right, Mr. Eames. Tell me. What do you know of your employer?” Saito asked.
Eames looked over at Arthur who glared sidelong at him and shook his head minutely.
“We didn’t even meet him,” Eames said. “It was all through encoded emails. We were told enough to do this job, that’s it.”
At a glance from Saito, one of the men aimed his gun towards Arthur’s knee. Eames tore from his captors’ grip to lunge for the man threatening Arthur. The resulting scuffle had hands dragging at him, shouts in his ear, Arthur a blur of punches. A shot, a burst of dusty drywall.
Eames’s heart clenched but his eyes were on Arthur, who was still unharmed.
Eames was dragged to the other side of the table, breathing hard.
“That was not wise,” Saito said mildly. “Another incident like that and I will simply end this meeting.” He waited a beat before continuing. “Now I know you were lying. Your associate here uncovered information in his research. Information about Mr. Jacobs, Chairman of the Board at Cobol Engineering. It seems he’s been acquiring information from all of his competitors through illegal extractions.”
“I’m hardly in a position to pass judgement on my employer’s illegal activities. I don’t make a habit of concerning myself overmuch with the motivations of those who sign my paycheque,” Eames pointed out.
“You don’t need to care about the motivations. I simply need you to understand your position. You can give me all of the information you have discovered about Mr. Jacobs, and then return to finish him, earning double what they offered you. Or you can die here.”
“As soon as we’re out of here, Cobol will pick us up,” Eames replied, hedging.
“That does not concern me. If you are caught, I’ve lost nothing. If you succeed, then the world will be rid of one ruthless thief. As I said, you do have a choice.”
Eames looked searchingly at Arthur, whose nod was almost imperceptible but whose agreement was writ plain on his expression.
“Then we choose to leave,” Eames said, although there was no choice involved. They were backed into a corner, but clearly Saito enjoyed playing the magnanimous magnate, and Eames wasn’t about to deny him the pleasure if it meant an easier walk out of here in one piece.
***
Giddy from the near miss, Eames walked quickly away from the house with Arthur at his side, guards standing behind them at attention, and no doubt weapons aimed at their heads until they disappeared from view.
They said nothing until three blocks later when they were passing through a busy area of town, afternoon business bustling along without a care for the two shaken men walking in its midst.
“I didn’t have all the information on that flash drive,” Arthur said quietly, pitched so that only Eames could hear. “Some of it is in my notebook, and some of it I didn’t record anywhere.”
“I figured as much,” Eames said. “That’s hardly our main concern at the moment. I think we have a tail.”
“Where?” Arthur asked.
“Grey suit, blue tie, seven o’clock.”
Arthur didn’t look, just kept up their pace. “What should we do?”
“There’s a cafe three doors up on the right. We’ll duck in there. If he follows, well, we have some running to do.”
As much as they tried to maintain their pace, they managed to speed up every so slightly, muscles coiled and ready to sprint. But they made it to the cafe and stepped in, taking a seat at the first table they saw with empty seats.
Two men ran into the cafe, and though they lost points for subtlety, it gave Eames and Arthur barely enough time to scramble for the kitchen before bullets tore through the wall at their heads. Screams were swallowed by the door closing behind them as they tore through the kitchen, dodging angry cooks.
They burst through the back door and down the alleyway, through indignant, confused groups of people, careening off walls, the shouts behind them telling them how far away their pursuers were. Not nearly far enough.
Arthur was ahead, and though the blood thrummed through Eames’s veins and fear made him tight with worry, he was glad to have Arthur in his sights.
He could hear the thumping of feet close behind him, and Arthur dove to the left between two buildings, as if reading Eames’s mind.
A long thin line of light shone ahead, failing to illuminate the gloom of the passageway. Arthur slipped out the end into the broad daylight beyond, and a moment later when Eames approached, the walls inexplicably, maddeningly, narrowed. He turned sideways and hurled himself forward, and with a frustrated grunt, popped through to see Arthur stopped and turned towards him.
“Run!” Eames shouted, eyes drawn inexorably to the grey-suited man rounding the corner behind Arthur.
Eames reached futilely for his weapon — the one removed by Saito’s guards and never returned to him — and watched in horror as Arthur fell to the ground screaming and clutching his shoulder.
The man’s squirming body was on the ground under Eames before Eames even knew how he got there. A shot fired wildly as Eames tried to wrestle the gun from the man’s hand.
After a final punch, Eames had the gun in hand and didn’t hesitate to put a bullet in the man’s forehead before rushing to Arthur’s side.
“‘m fine,” Arthur grunted, moving to stand and faltering. “Eames!”
Eames turned and saw the second and third men rounding the far corner, evidently in attempt to box them in before realizing their colleague was down. The surprise barely registered on their faces, though, before Eames shot them both and dragged Arthur to his feet to push past the gathering of gormless onlookers not smart enough to clear off.
It was lucky they were there, though, because it made it easier for Eames to slip through and disappear while the presumably-merely-inured pursuers gathered their wits and resources about them once more.
A block away, Eames eased Arthur into a car that had its doors unlocked, hotwired it and drove off as fast as he dared, not wanting to bring the police down on them.
“You have pressure on it?” Eames asked, splitting his attention between Arthur and the road. His voice betrayed his worry, and he didn’t even want to think about the panic rising in his throat. He gripped the steering wheel to ground himself. It didn’t help.
“Yeah,” Arthur grunted. “I think it tore through my collarbone.” Arthur breathed wearily and was slumped slightly to the side, although he clearly couldn’t lean against the door on his injured side.
“We need to get you to a doctor,” Eames said as he tried to hold the car steady while easing out of his shirt to hand to Arthur. “Use that for now; it’s all I’ve got. Can you hang on?”
“Yeah,” Arthur said, though he must’ve known it made no difference. He had to hang on until they were out of harm’s way.
“I don’t see a tail. I think they probably only had those three on us to make sure the job was done. I’ll pull over when we get a little further on.”
Arthur nodded weakly. Eames’s nostrils flared in irrational, suppressed rage.
They obviously couldn’t see a regular doctor, and Eames had no contacts in Dar Es Salaam. But Yusuf... Yusuf could probably help and he was an eight hour drive away. If Arthur could be stabilized, and if Eames drove fast...
Eames glanced over at Arthur, who looked tired but was alert, staring out ahead of them. Eames dared to hope.
***
Scrub brush and sparse trees lined the road, alight in a golden halo from the setting sun.
Eames had managed to staunch the flow of blood from Arthur’s shoulder with a clean shirt from someone’s hanging laundry line. But the shirt, a dark plaid, was nearly soaked through now, and they weren’t close enough to Mombasa for Eames’s comfort.
“Talk to me,” Eames said, in both an attempt to keep Arthur alert, and to pull himself out of his own head which was on a loop of worrying thoughts.
“About what?” Arthur asked, smiling weakly.
“How about telling me where you want to go once we get out of this situation and collect our fee? Is there somewhere you always wanted to visit?”
Arthur took a deep, jagged breath and dropped his head backwards to the headrest. “When I was a kid I always thought I’d grow up to be an astronaut and go to the moon.”
A surprised bark of a laugh escaped Eames’s lips. Arthur started to laugh, then coughed painfully, a harsh rattle in his lungs.
“I’m guessing we won’t make enough to do that, though.” He spoke slowly, interrupted by pauses for breath. “No, when I was about eight, my mom was doing this puzzle. She loved puzzles. This one, though. It was huge, and mostly green, took her ages. It was of this castle in Scotland. I thought, ‘how can such a place be real?’ I gave up hope of actually going there. But I think I’d like to see that.”
Eames looked at Arthur’s cloth, soggy and dark and swallowed around the lump in his throat. But Arthur’s choice of words was encouraging: ‘I’d like to see that.’
“Simple enough to arrange. We can find a nice B&B, do a tour of a few castles. Drafty, awful things, but far be it from me to deny you,” Eames replied, taking care to keep his tone light. Arthur huffed, a breath that was too close to disbelief for Eames’s taste.
He pushed the accelerator harder, willing the road to unfold behind him.
Mombasa, April, 2004
Eames punched the wall, not even feeling it as his knuckles split open.
The vials of unidentified liquid surrounded him, orderly where his thought were chaos. Arthur was dropping off by the time they arrived at Yusuf’s. Yusuf was no doctor, but he did know someone he was able to bring in with blood for the transfusion. God knew where it came from or if it was even safe, but it had stabilized Arthur and that was all that mattered right now.
Eames’s hovering had driven them crazy, and they’d banished him to the lab, where he’d been pacing, thoughts grinding a groove he was finding it increasingly difficult to nudge himself free from. The punch was both out of frustration and an attempt to feel something else.
It didn’t work.
02:18, his watch said. The bloody knuckles said something else entirely.
***
“I can’t hide you here forever,” said Yusuf, fingering a vial of pale amber liquid, glinting in the dawn light shining through the window. “You’d be better off running. I have a contact in Johannesburg could get you to Australia, maybe. Thailand?”
“Arthur’s in no state for that kind of travel,” Eames replied tightly.
“Yusuf, could you give us a few minutes?” Arthur interrupted, ignoring Eames’s glare. After a moment of glancing back and forth between them, Yusuf stood.
“I’ll check on Abdul. Take your time.”
After Yusuf slipped away, Arthur finally acknowledged Eames’s stare, his skin sallow and sickly against the worn, striped coverlet on the flimsy bed Yusuf had brought up from the dream den. “You could still get away,” he said, a note of pleading in his voice. “We’d have a better chance if we split up.”
Eames chewed his lip, looking at Arthur but blankly, his thoughts returning to his discussion with Yusuf’s doctor friend. Arthur was weak, his recovery would be long. With Cobol on their tail, they wouldn’t last two days.
“They’ll catch us,” Eames said. “If I left you and tried to meet up with you somewhere else, that would be, what? A month down the road? Two? Six? Let’s say, best case scenario, you aren’t caught right here and you manage to travel to somewhere safe enough to recover. Let’s say I meet you there and then we run again. Maybe we find a country where we can stay hidden. We’ll always wonder.
“And how long could we keep it up? How long before the strain of running gets to us? Would we start to resent each other?
“And that’s the best case scenario. In all likelihood we would get caught somewhere between Phuket and Vientiane. Taken by one side, tried, convicted. Taken by the other, summarily executed. In either case, separated.
“Arthur,” Eames ducked his head to try to catch Arthur’s eyes from where they were fixed on his perpetually clasping and unclasping hands. “Arthur, I want a life with you. Not a short life, scraped out wherever we can get to. I want the life we could have had. If we weren’t these people.”
“We are these people, Eames,” Arthur said, looking up finally. “We can do this. Yusuf can help me find somewhere close by. You can run. You can do the job for Saito on your own and you can find me again.”
Maybe Eames could disappear, or do the contract for Saito, but on his own he couldn’t do both while leaving Arthur a sitting duck in Kenya. The escape plans, the endlessly morphing Plan Bs Eames usually has churning in the back of his mind to cover his own arse, all winked out with a second person to account for. Yet he couldn’t imagine going back to the way things were. “Or we can drop,” Eames’s voice was barely a whisper.
“For how long?” Arthur replied, voice measured but on the verge of cracking. “We can go under for what, 12 hours? Three days down there?”
“Deeper. Yusuf can put us down there, far enough to stretch it out. We could have years. Decades,” Eames reached across to take one of Arthur’s hands, their knees brushing softly together. “Arthur, we could —” Eames stopped, licked his lips. “We could be together. For good.”
Arthur gripped Eames hand, though whether that was to anchor them in reality, or in silent agreement to Eames’s plan, or simply to hang on, Eames wasn’t sure. Arthur’s expression was unreadable and fleeting before he leaned in and pressed his lips to Eames’s gently. Eames tried vainly to sense what it meant, but he could only wait. And it felt like an eternity of just lips on lips before Arthur smiled into it.
“Eames,” he said, eyes closed and still pressing his nose beside Eames’s. “Are you proposing?” His tone was teasing, but it threatened to break, something too raw behind it.
Eames laughed, a sorrowful, half-manic, desperate choke of a breath. “I suppose I am,” he got out when he could swallow down the lump in his throat. “Arthur, will you build a life with me?”
Arthur smiled, and though it reached his eyes, there was something haunted in his look.
“Do you think this was where we were going to end up anyway? If we’d met through Cobb. Do you think it was always going to end like this?” Arthur stroked the back of Eames’s hand with his thumb.
“This is the only reality I know, Arthur. There’s enough in this life to keep me guessing without worrying about fate. All I see is an opportunity to have the life we couldn’t have.” Eames stroked a thumb along Arthur’s neck, over the vulnerable softness at his throat, over the line of a vein, pulsing weakly. “You know, before I met you, I was fine. It wasn’t until after that week in Washington that I even knew I was lonely.” He cleared his throat. “The choice we have here: I run, and don’t know if I’ll see you again, or we drop and live a lifetime. I’ve made my choice clear. Are you going to answer me, or just sit there, infuriatingly put together?”
“Yes,” Arthur said simply, looking at Eames like Eames was the one who was injured. “Yes, you sentimental jerk. Of course I choose a life with you.”
***
Eames walked through the hard packed sand, the brisk salt air refreshing on his face. Arthur’s hand was warm in his, familiar. Comforting.
“I rearranged the bookshelf again,” Arthur said.
Eames smiled. He stopped being able to find his books years ago. He’d always have to ask Arthur anyway.
He paused, watching as the sun lowered, lighting the water in a trillion sparkling points. He pulled Arthur to him, kissing him softly, Arthur’s thin, papery skin like silk under the strokes of Eames’s thumb.
Arthur murmured something into Eames’s mouth. “‘ve you”, maybe.
Around them, the buildings began to crumble.
**End**
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