Plenty Of Good Thieves Ch. 3
Mar. 3rd, 2011 01:35 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tabi_essentiallyOkay, so here are some of the suggestions I got, including ones I wasn't able to use last time. I'll just post them until I'm able to include them, yeah? :D
General suggestions:
Well, most of you agreed with the stop in Kazan, and vanilla as a scent. Will try to get vanilla, as well as some of the other scents (wood smoke, burning hair, brake pads, incense, all of which could really fit in here,) in later. :D
Here are a few from last time:
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astheytick - Arthur says to Eames "Just wait. Wait for me."
mydeerfriend AND Ectotherm!Arthur being warmed up by Eames
orion_nightbane - people lurking outside their door would be interesting?
twisted_ream there's this huge spider on eames' back and he can't get it off and arthur just laughs
efcia a broken mirror, possibly a small one. I can see the shattered glass, maybe even a small amount of blood on them?
New ones:
gelbwax made a sexytimes suggestion that... well you know what, you'll see. :D Also, wirrrn and sparrow_hubris had a suggestion that I had to write into here, too. :) Hehe.
quixyjie and twilightthief - wanted Eames smoking a cigar. I will get to that soon. :D
towel_master suggests Supernatural or mindfuckery. , LOVE IT.
renton6echo says, Michelle has the potential for being an interesting character in the story, someone so observant would certainly seem to help Arthur by unintentionally giving him some intel on Dinclusin. Love that idea!
sparrow_hubris had this awesome idea: I want the rest of Dinclusin's gang to hover around Arthur while Dinclusin tries to kind of take away Eames for some reason. Like they're blocking for Dinclusin and Arthur gets super bad vibes and vague eerie non-verbal non-gestured just emotional warnings from them.
sweetsigh suggested Mr. Pinstripe Suit as a song to play suggests train surfing!
twilightthief suggests, I'd like to see either Arthur or Eames like lightly stroke/massage the back of the other's neck like when they're seated or maybe the back of their calf in a: "I'm letting you know I'm here" warm gesture... which makes me feel a little melty myself. :D
Re: Dinclusin. This turned out interesting.twilightthief says, Id like to see something from Eames' past come up (maybe from Dinclusin or that Dromalius chick). Like they know something about Eames that even Eames or Arthur doesnt know which can play back into the card game that they played on the train when they first met. The "they don't realize they know him" idea is supported by skyvehicle who says, And I'm thinking there's a reason Dinclusin is on the train, and it goes beyond just wanting to see the sights. And efcia who says, I have this vague feeling that he knows something more about Eames, something Arthur isn't aware of. Also, xkatchy offers, I think he should know more about Arthur and/or Eames than he really should. Like, knows them from previous but they don't know him.
Love these! Thanks so much, this is fun! ^_^ So here we go!
** ** ** **
Chapter Three – Dust In Your Garden
The world raced by outside the window, a cold blur. Eames could just about make out the scenery if he really tried to: bridge, water, trees, snow. It was hard to look at it, though, with Arthur so beautifully in the way. His boyishly smooth skin was a graceful plane as he leaned back against Eames's legs, one hand braced against the cold window, and the stupidly attractive hat the only item of clothing on him. Eames held onto his hips, bruising him. Arthur lost the hat when he gasped, cried out, and tipped his head back. The grey morning colored him pale, muted the flush across his cheeks and shoulders.
When Eames was able to reason again, after a few minutes of trying to catch his breath, he thought maybe Arthur looked a little washed out, maybe a little tired. Of course, waking up at 6 AM to have hat-wearing train sex could do that, too.
Arthur looked down at him. "You're staring at me."
Eames lifted one shoulder and smiled. "Thinking of new ways to fetishize you, I suppose."
Arthur swung his leg over and stood up, fastidious though still covered in a sheen of sweat. "Let me know if you come up with anything else. Because, honestly." He grabbed his hat from where it had fallen on the bed. "This is pretty weird."
"You'll never succeed in shaming me," Eames said, smiling.
"Shame isn't really in my repertoire."
"It shouldn't be. You're beautiful."
Arthur's normal reaction to this was to roll his eyes. When he did this, along with his protestations that he was really nothing special, he actually meant it. He honestly believed that Eames liked him for other reasons. Well, he did, and he would probably love to work with Arthur even if he was hideous in some way. Might even still want to sleep with him, because he was so interesting under his many layers. But in all likelihood, he probably wouldn't sleep with him so regularly, and definitely not in so many interesting ways. He guessed he did fetishize him in some way, but it was with respect and fondness.
Arthur didn't mind about his looks one way or another most of the time and he often dismissed Eames's comments about them as frivolous. Occasionally he got huffy and insisted that Eames was the good-looking one anyway, as if only one of them got to be.
But this morning on the train, he just stared down at him, considering.
"Which is not to say," Eames went on, to fill the silence, "that you should be ashamed if you weren't attractive."
"Then when should a person feel shame?"
Eames shrugged again. He was entirely not in the mood for this kind of conversation so early in the morning, so sleepy, and so well-fucked. "Dunno. I suppose when they do something bad, or hurt another person. One who doesn't have it coming," he added, because he had a feeling that Arthur was in A Mood about this all of a sudden.
"Who gets to say when someone has it coming?" Arthur asked as he pulled some clothes out of his suitcase.
Christ, Eames thought. He was right, it was going to be one of those conversations. "When someone shoots at you, Arthur, they have it coming. Honestly. Do you ever shoot first?"
"Am I Han Solo, is what you're asking?" When he turned around, clothes in hand, he was smiling. He leaned over and kissed Eames, slow and warm. When he pulled away, the smile was gone again.
"What's troubling you?" Eames asked.
"Honestly, nothing. I just don't have any illusions about myself. I'm aware of what I am."
"I'm aware of what you are too, Arthur," Eames said. "At least as much as you've shown me, which I flatter myself is more than you've shown most. And my opinion of you remains stellar. I hope that's worth something."
"I rode you while wearing a fedora at your request on a train in Russia at six AM," Arthur pointed out. "It's kind of not something I do on most days. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to have a quick shower before we have to get up and go, you know. Out there, where it's fucking cold."
Eames sat up and reached for the bottle of water next to his bed. "Arthur, I hope you brought your heaviest coat, because..."
"Why is your hand shaking?" Arthur asked. He now had his Concerned Face on as he nodded to where Eames was reaching for the bottle.
Eames followed his eyes. His hand was indeed shaking, hovering over the water bottle. He hadn't felt anything odd about it. "Must have leaned on a nerve, I guess."
But Arthur came in close and checked his eyes. They both knew that certain compounds of Somnacin, or its derivatives, could cause tremors that sometimes led to worse conditions. "Look right and left," Arthur said.
Eames did as he was told. "No dizziness, no headaches. I haven't gone under in more than a month. Honestly, it's nothing." He held his hand up, and the tremor was gone. Who knew what position he'd gotten his arm into earlier? It wasn't like he'd been keeping track of his elbows while holding onto Arthur's hips or anything.
"Right," Arthur said. "You'll let me know if it happens again."
"Of course." Which he would. They'd learned over the years not to keep things like this from your team.
But Eames was pretty sure it was nothing, anyway.
** ** ** **
Kazan was cold, painfully cold. Arthur had, in fact, brought his heaviest coat. He could deal with the cold when he was working, concentrating, trying to survive, or seeing a job to the end. He could deal with extremes on a stake out. It was a mindset, where he could shut everything else out and focus.
It wasn't a mindset he kept himself wrapped in when he was not working, and the cold today seeped through his long, wool coat, through the matching scarf, through the gloves, under his skin and into his bones.
"Fuck," he said, trying to bury his nose into his scarf. "It's beautiful here," he added, because he didn't want to complain, and it really was beautiful.
"Thought you'd like it," Eames said. "I came here about five years ago on a job, and I thought 'What would Arthur think of the architecture?' Knew you'd love to see it up close."
Arthur did want to see it up close, the fortress, the incredible cathedral domes. It's just that his eyeballs felt like they were frozen. He was pretty sure he'd heard stories about people shivering so hard it turned into a seizure.
A handful of other people in the tour seemed as cold as he felt. The very few young couples huddled together into each other's coats. Arthur eyed Eames's coat. It was his usual winter one, an olive green peacoat that really did a great job accentuating his shoulders and waist, but didn't look anywhere near as warm as than Arthur's own coat, which went to his ankles. How did Eames just not feel the cold?
And why did this have to be a walking tour? Or a tour in the first place? He and Eames, while not the richest men he knew, were well off enough that they could have done a trip of their own. Like maybe from a bus.
He knew he was being ridiculous, because the train had actually been his idea (he was over it, the train drama that Dom had shared with him. He'd loved trains as a child and it was time to get that back.) And because there was no way their schedules would have matched up in the spring or summer. It had to be this.
"Bogoyavlensky church," Eames said, pointing to the blue and gold domes they could see in the distance. "This one went through a lot of changes but it's been around, in various forms, since 1687," Eames said. "Which is older than me, even."
"Incredible," Arthur said.
"You're freezing, aren't you?" Eames asked.
"It's gorgeous," Arthur said, "I wish I could construct something like that. Maybe I'll try."
He felt Eames's arm across his shoulders, and for a second, siphoned a little of his heat. But then he remembered how he hated coddling, especially in public.
"Quit pulling away," Eames said. "I will eventually make you put your hands inside my coat."
"I don't do the public thing, Eames. It sets people's teeth on edge and calls too much attention to us."
"Arthur, honestly." Eames turned to him. It started to snow; a few flakes landed on the shoulders of his green coat. "First of all, we're not working. No one is gunning for us here. We staked this out well enough and we're fine. Second of all, I said your hands in my coat, not your legs over my shoulders or something."
"Jesus," Arthur said.
"There's a cafe across from the church," Eames said. "Let's go in, yeah? Before you die tragically. Which would you like? Coffee or chocolate?"
"What's good here?"
"Chocolate. I'd like to grope you right now."
"Please don't."
But Eames did anyway, subtly. Arthur rolled his eyes. He couldn't be pissed off though, not really. It'd had been months since they'd been together for any amount of time, and it was nice—alien, but nice—to be one of the regular people for a while.
They broke away from the crowd and made their way to the cafe, which was also bustling with tourists, some from their train, some not. Arthur saw the girl Michelle, with her mother and father. The parents were sniping to each other about something, and she was listening to her iPod. Which was a shame, really, because she was probably missing a lot of good info on the world around her. He thought back to when he was a kid. He hadn't carried his walkman everywhere. Well, he couldn't, because even back then he always had his eyes and ears open, hitting on all eights, constantly. Walkmans had been for kids who didn't have to worry about who was behind them.
What made me that way? he wondered. Because he knew that he'd been vigilant like that even before any major shit went down in his life. Hypervigilant, maybe. His mother hadn't bothered to watch out for him, but plenty of kids had grown up the same way.
He tore his attention away from the small family and looked for Eames, who somehow managed to get himself to the front of the line and still everyone was smiling at him, thinking he was charming. One lady thanked him for picking up her wallet that she had "dropped" and she kindly let him go in front of her. He made two orders in Russian and soon came back to Arthur.
"You're so smooth it worries me," Arthur said, taking the cup from Eames's hand. The warmth made him shiver.
"Everything worries you."
And Arthur really, really thought about that one for a few minutes. He was watchful, sure, even on a non-working trip. ('Vacation,' his mind supplied, and he had been the one to suggest it, too.) But worried? Did he really worry that much? He didn't feel stressful, just in control.
"I don't really think that I..."
Arthur looked around, but Eames wasn't standing beside him anymore.
In his place was the blond woman from that group who had asked Eames to play cards. Jack's friend. Or whatever she was.
"Arthur, isn't it?" she said, holding out her hand.
Confused, but never rude, Arthur took it politely. "Yeah, that's right."
"Ann," she said, smiling. "Such a pleasure to meet you, finally."
"Where's..."
"Your friend?" She pointed to the door, where Eames was leaving with Jack, looking over his shoulder at Arthur as if he was trying to extract himself politely from the situation.
The last thing either of them needed to do was make a scene, call any kind of attention to themselves. More than that, nothing really terrible was going on. People were talking to them. This was no cause for worry, just mild annoyance.
"Excuse me," Arthur said, "I have to..."
Two men flanked him, the others in Jack's group. "Oy, you're Arthur, Tommy's friend!" one of them said. "Giles, pleased to know you." He jubilantly shook Arthur's hand.
The other guy stood in front of him and shook his hand too. "Kenzie's what I'm called, mate," he said. "Jackie says you're from California."
"That's right," Arthur said.
"How's the gold rush over there?"
The two men laughed uproariously and Ann gave a disapproving shake of her head as if these were her unruly children.
"You meet anyone famous?" Giles asked. "Any starlets or Hollywood types?"
"I don't spend a lot of time there," Arthur said. "I'm sorry, I've really got to..."
"Ahh, a traveler then," Kenzie said. "That's the life, innit? Taking to the air, the sea, or the rails, seeing the beautiful world." He clapped Arthur on the back like they were old pals. "That's what life's all about. Hey, how long you known Tommy?"
Arthur fought not to scowl at the use of Eames's first name, even though it wasn't his real one. And now it seemed like they were hustling him out the door, or maybe that was just the crowd trying to push their way around them. They were all kind of blocking the entrance and exit. Anyway, suddenly Arthur wanted fresh air, and he wanted to see which way Eames had gone with Jack. Outside, somewhere.
Once they stepped outside, he braced against the cold and took a look around. Eames was nowhere in sight.
"Shit, forgot my order!" Kenzie said. "Giles, come on then. Lend me a hand."
Kenzie and Giles went back into the cafe, leaving Arthur standing outside with Ann.
She looped her arm through his and looked up at him with very blue, slightly teasing eyes. "What an amazing country," she said. "The architecture and... why look, the wildlife as well." She pointed to the sky.
A great, golden eagle with a wingspan as wide as Arthur's arms swooped to land on one of the domes. It cried in its grating, raptor voice, getting the attention of the tourists. Hundreds of cameras came out of pockets as the chatter rose in amazement.
"Bit of you right there, that eagle," Ann said, looking at him.
"What?"
"Watchful."
He pulled his arm away from hers, because at this point, she was the one being intrusive.
"You're a military man?" she said. "No? A detective, or FBI? CIA? Behavioral analysis? One of those types, anyway."
Arthur did not deign to answer. There was no answer, anyway.
"It'll be looking for its mate," she went on, glancing back up at the eagle, still perched on the dome. "Making a nest, then. I know it seems so cold, but it's almost spring for them. They look after their young so beautifully, did you know that? All animals do. Sometimes a female chick will kill her male sibling in the nest. How cruel, isn't it?"
"Nature isn't cruel," Arthur said. "It just is."
"That is true. In all animals." She nodded in the direction of the cafe door, where Michelle and her parents were exiting.
Michelle's mother was scolding her, pulling the earbuds out of her ears and huffing about how she didn't appreciate anything. Her father looked disapproving, but said nothing. Michelle just looked miserable and put-upon. She also looked embarrassed.
It was difficult for Arthur to forget the adolescent girls that he had known, in the school he'd gone to. They weren't like this one. They hadn't understood embarrassment or shame.
"Parents must always scold their young," Ann said. "That's the way of the world. Young must be taught lessons if they're to survive, and thrive. Sometimes the lessons must be harsh. But there's beauty in punishment, too, isn't there? In suffering for something, and in learning from it."
"No," Arthur said. "I don't think there is anything beautiful about suffering."
She waited until he looked back at her before smiling up at him. "I don't believe you mean that."
The whole thing felt so surreal that Arthur stuck his hand into his pocket and fished around for the die. To really get a feel for it, he'd have to remove his glove. But she was watching his hand now, and he felt conspicuous.
"Well," she said, her voice light and airy, "it was my pleasure to talk to you. Enjoy the rest of your day, Arthur." She touched his arm again before she turned to leave.
"You too," he said. When she was out of sight, he did take off his glove, and reached into his pocket for the die. He wasn't going to roll it, but sometimes just feeling it was enough to let him know that he wasn't in someone else's dream. When it felt right, he didn't know if he was relieved or not.
"Hey," Michelle said at his side, startling him. "If you're looking for your boyfriend, he's over there." She pointed to the door of the church, where Eames stood with Jack, shifting his weight impatiently.
"He's not my... Whatever. What are you doing away from your folks?"
"I can't take them for long periods of time," she said. "So, what, that woman is trying to get with you? Or was she just making sure you weren't going to cockblock her brother?"
"He's her brother? Then she must be married, she has a different last name." Arthur looked down at her. "Jesus, what are you talking about? How is any of this your business?"
"I'm really bored on this trip," she said. "Watching people do things and listening to them is my only entertainment."
"Then you should put down the iPod and really listen."
"Shut up," she told him. "It's okay to not be spying all the time. Here, I want you to listen to something."
She held up one earbud of her iPod. Her eyes suddenly looked shy, as if he would tell her to scram, kid, and stop bothering the big people. He actually kind of wanted to. Then he remembered himself as a child, and how dangerous it was when people didn't listen to him. Reluctantly, he took the speaker and had a listen. It was swing music, a guy singing about a man in a pin stripe suit.
"This song is totally about you," she said.
"I'm not even wearing pinstripes."
"That's not the point. You're still this guy. It's a vibe I get off you."
"You have no business getting vibes off me," Arthur said, sort of joking, but still sort of serious. He didn't have a problem with kids, but he didn't like people in his business. And kids were just another thing he felt like he needed to look after. He didn't like them too close to him, in case anything should suddenly start to go down.
She just stared at him, confused and now slightly wary. "Umm. Okay. I took French up till eleventh grade."
The sudden turn in the conversation confused him and he gave her a look probably similar to the one she was giving him. "Good for you," he said. "It's a great language." Then he felt like maybe he understood where she was going with this. Kids had no attention span. "But Russia's really interesting, too. I have a phrase book if you want to see it."
"Whoa, whoa," she said. "That's way out of my realm of understanding. Why are we doing this? Is this, like, a lesson or something? Je ne comprends pas."
Arthur felt the die in his pocket again. This conversation was way too dreamlike, but it felt like someone else's dream, not his. He had more control over his dreams than this. He couldn't know unless he actually rolled the die, but in his fingers it felt normal.
"A lesson in what?" Arthur asked.
She huffed an exasperated sigh. "Stop speaking French!"
Arthur opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it again. He felt colder than he had before. "I'm not," he said.
"Oui, you are," she said. "And now you're starting to piss me off."
"I'm sorry," he said, "I'm speaking English." In his head, in his ears, it sounded like English. In his mouth, the consonants and vowels felt different. A soft J, sibilant S, a letters that he hadn't even said. He tried again. "I'm. I'm. I'm." It sounded right, but felt wrong. He put his fingers on his lips and said, "I'm speaking English. English." His lips formed different sounds than the ones he heard.
He felt sick, dizzy and afraid.
"Oh, shit," Michelle said. "I think you need a doctor. Do you have seizures?"
"No, no, I don't," he said. He looked over at Eames, who suddenly seemed far away. Afraid to speak, he just pointed, breathless.
"Okay," Michelle said. She grabbed his arm and started pulling him. "Okay, it's cool, I got this. I'm not even scared." She sounded like she was. "My Dad's a doctor. Come on."
"No," Arthur said. "Eames. Please." He pointed to where Eames was standing. As if he felt eyes on him, Eames turned to look across the street at him. Jack, who was standing beside him, turned to look, too.
Arthur turned away. He didn't want that guy looking at him. He groped for his cell phone. He would text, that's what he would do. He would text to see if his brain was functioning, if he could still write.
"What are you doing?" Michelle asked. "Do you have meds or something?"
Arthur shook his head, pulling out his cell. His hands shook. He dialed Eames. His recognition of numbers still worked. He looked at the letters and didn't know what to write.
But Eames crossed the street, finally, and took him by the arm. "What's the matter?" he asked.
Arthur opened his mouth to speak but was afraid of what would come out.
Michelle answered for him. "He can't stop speaking French. He thinks it's English, though. I think he's having a seizure or a stroke or something. My Dad's a doctor, he can..."
"Arthur, look at me," Eames said. He checked Arthur's eyes the same way Arthur had done to him earlier. "Go on, say something."
"I'm speaking English," he said. "Is this English?"
"Yes, it's English," Eames said.
"That was," Michelle said. "But before, I swear to you, I'm not making it up. It was French. I'm not even kidding."
"She's right," Arthur said. "I felt it, it felt like French but it sounded like English. Am I speaking English now?"
"Yes," they both told him.
"Fuck," Arthur said.
"That's English, too," Michelle said. "Seriously. You need to see my Dad. He's a dick sometimes but he's still good."
Eames regarded Arthur carefully, waiting for his decision. He clearly considered it as an option.
"No, no doctors," Arthur said. "Thank you. But no. I'm fine now."
"You, uhh, don't look fine," she said.
"No, you don't," Eames agreed. "Let's go back to the train, shall we?"
"No. I'm all right. I really am. We're good to go on. I don't want to miss this."
"Russia will still be here another time," Eames said.
"I'm good." And he was. He felt good. A little shaken, but more or less normal. It wasn't the first time he'd had some weird little brain glitch, even awake. He'd been dreaming for years and they were still finding random side effects, most of which were benign.
"Umm," Michelle said, "I hate to interrupt, but that blond guy was totally just staring at the two of you. He's gone now though. If it was me he was staring at, I'd think it was a little creepy."
Finally, Eames looked at her, his eyebrows raised as if he was surprised that she had been standing there, talking to them the whole time.
"This is Michelle," Arthur said. "We played cards the other night. Michelle, Mr. Eames."
"Hey," she said. Arthur watched Eames shake her slender hand. She wore rings on each finger, most of them cheap, as if even her jewelry was rebelling against her parents' riches.
As if he'd thought them into existence, her mother came out of the cafe, her eyes darting all over the street, over the heads of the tourists. She was annoyed, really irritated and Michelle was probably going to hear about it. But Arthur sensed, or saw, even from a distance, that she was worried, too. Her fledgling had wandered off. He thought of the eagle again, and thought of Ann telling him that siblings sometimes killed each other in the nest.
Michelle looked over her shoulder, as if she sensed her mother's eyes on her. Then she turned back to Arthur. "Great," she said. "Time for the performance."
"Good god," Michelle's mother said as she strode up to them. "What are you thinking of, wandering off like that? Your father and I were in a fit, thinking you'd been kidnapped or murdered, or sold into the sex trade business."
"Jesus, Mom!" Michelle's cheeks turned pink; she tried to hide it with exasperation.
"I'm so sorry she's bothered you," the mother said to both of them.
"She didn't," Arthur said. "She just came to... I just felt a little dizzy from the train and she said her Dad was a doctor. She was just trying to help."
The mother eyed him, watchful but not impolite. He got it. Strange man around my adolescent daughter.
"You played cards with her the other night," the mother said.
"Yes, that's right." Arthur knew he needed to defuse this one. He offered his hand, and a smile which he knew could disarm most people, but could never disarm a parent. Or at least, one who paid any attention. When she shook his hand he said, "And this is my partner, Mr. Eames." He purposely allowed her to make of that whatever would put her mind at rest and he hoped it was, 'I'm with this man here, and I have no interest in your pubescent daughter so lower your hackles.'
"Nice to meet you both," she said. "I'm Helen and my daughter is a pest."
"Mom!"
"But she's a gentle pest and if you are still feeling ill my husband can have a look at you."
"I'm all right," Arthur said. "Thanks. But I'll keep it in mind."
Helen gave them both a quick nod and then pulled Michelle away from both of them.
Once alone together in the street, Eames said, "Tell me again what just happened," at the same time that Arthur said, "What did that guy want with you?"
"You first," Eames said. "Much more important."
"I told you what happened. I don't have an explanation. We're still discovering side effects to our work, strange things happen all the time. If it keeps up I'll see someone about it. Your turn."
Eames didn't look convinced, but knew Arthur too well to push any further. "He babbled to me about architecture and history," Eames said. "What people say isn't important. How they act is. He acts familiar with me, as if we go way back. But I've never met this man in my life. I feel like he wants something."
"He definitely wants something," Arthur murmured. Before Eames could respond to that, Arthur asked, "Did he mention anything about kids, or parents, or any weird thing like punishment and suffering?"
Eames frowned. "No. Nothing like that. Why would he?"
"Because his lady-friend Ann sort of accosted me and said a bunch of weird shit like that. About how parents had to punish their children for their own good, and suffering was beautiful."
"And then you started randomly speaking French," Eames said. With that, he pulled the cup of hot chocolate out of Arthur's hand. He opened the lid, looked inside, sniffed it.
"She wouldn't have had the chance," Arthur said.
Eames gave him his most level stare. "There's always someone better."
He went to put the cover back on, but the entire cup slipped from his fingers and splattered on the ground.
** ** ** **
They finished out the tour, though Eames could tell that Arthur had already checked out. His mind was elsewhere. He looked at the buildings that Eames wanted to show him, but he didn't actually see them. He kept glancing at Eames's right hand. He did this until the headache got bad enough that he mostly walked with his eyes down.
By evening, Arthur was almost totally silent. Eames, without the distractions of the city and the people around them, felt the beginnings of an unfamiliar dread. He took a shower with hands that were trembling slightly, the right more than the left.
When he came back into the room, Arthur was kneeling on the floor beside his bed, tossing the die and watching it land on three.
Eames sat on the bed, and Arthur, still on the floor, leaned back as he pocketed the die. He curled his hand around Eames's calf and cleared his throat.
"So," he said, his voice hoarse, "my concern is that something might be going on that doesn't have to do with... with anything on the outside. You know what I mean?"
"Yeah." Eames's own voice sounded just as unsure. He ran his fingers through Arthur's hair, dug them lightly into his scalp until Arthur grunted in pleasure and let his head drop against Eames's thigh. "That headache?" Eames asked. He dreaded the answer.
"A little better."
"It doesn't necessarily mean anything."
"No. But here's the thing. What if something was going on that we couldn't shoot back at? Something not done to us, and we can't fight it with tricks, C4, bullets, and we can't run from it because it's on the inside. If it was just plain old mundane sickness. We're both in our 30s and we've been putting chemicals into ourselves and messing with our brains since our early 20s. I'm just thinking... Stroke, brain damage, cancer, disease." Arthur never shied away from saying what needed to be said, and Eames loved and hated that about him at the moment. "If someone tried to hurt you, I would... But if it's not a someone? I don't know what we'd do then."
"We would keep calm and carry on," Eames said. "As always."
Arthur sighed, half a laugh, and ran his hand up and down Eames's calf.
"I mean it, though," Eames said. "What else could we do? We would just face it, yeah? And see what could be done for it." He moved his fingers across Arthur's scalp, and Arthur dropped his head forward.
"When I've thought about dying," Arthur said, "I always thought of it as someone finally ending me. I'd have a chance to run. Plus, I'd prefer to be kind of old. Like anyone, I guess. But if it was something on the inside, if it was my own body... You know?"
"We don't have to jump to that conclusion just yet," Eames said. But couldn't fight down the sick feeling that he was in denial. "Let's be logical about it. Yeah, we both started with the dreaming at around the same time. Most people did, but a few started before us. If there was some long-term side effect that was surfacing now, we'd probably have heard of it. Cobb would have contacted you. Also, what are the chances that we would both come down with a neurological symptom on the same exact day? Very, very slim."
Arthur turned his head to look up at him. His eyes were bloodshot and looked hazy, as if his headache wasn't exactly 'a little better.' He said, "That's true," with caution in his voice.
"Over the years, we've hardly had the same dosages of various chemicals and we've definitely not spent an even amount of time under, and we've certainly done different things with our work. So it seems very unlikely that a disease would manifest on the exact same day."
"Right," Arthur said. "Particularly when we're in the same place, sharing a room, eating the same things, drinking the same water... And those flowers. I only checked for explosive trace elements. There's no way to check for anything else that might have been on them. That's really far-fetched, I know. I'm not saying it's true. It could be anything. But honestly, I don't like to skirt the issue. We could still be sick." He turned away and rested his head on Eames's knee again.
"So we have a few options," Eames said, because he and Arthur both liked options above all else. "We could actually go and talk to the young lady's father and get his opinion. Of course, as with any doctor he'll have to cover his ass and he'll tell us to get off the train and get an MRI done right away. That's our second option: we could leave. Third, we take Dinclusin under and see if he's done anything, or knows of anything. Of course, going under without knowing what's going on... that's risky. Drugging him would be risky, but we could manage it. I need you to tell me, Arthur. How bad is it with you? If you need to get off the train and get back to the states, we can go tomorrow and see a doctor immediately."
"No," Arthur said. "I'm not in denial, I'm just trying to use my head. Us getting the symptoms of a neurological disease on the same day isn't logical. Something happened, something here, on the train. And I think we should at least try to find out what it is before we leave, and lose track of these people forever."
"Then that's what we'll do," Eames said.
The train moved through the night. Eames gently stroked his fingers across the back of Arthur's neck, toying with the curls there. He used his left hand, because his right one had begun to spasm every few minutes.
** ** ** **
Ugh, that last part was hard to write.
So I'm not sure if anyone out there is getting a clue about who these people are supposed to be. :D I'm actually not entirely sure myself if that's what I'm really meaning to say. I like the idea of supernatural stuff, but that at the end of the day, there's an unexpected reason for it.
What do you guys think? I feel like something needs to happen to Eames, because as I've said before, I tend to use Arthur as my whipping boy just to watch him bounce back and kick double the ass in half the time. The pattern I seem to have always written is that something bad happens to Arthur but then something dangerous happens to Eames and Arthur has to overcome whatever's going on with him and rescue his partner. What do you guys think if I switch that scenario up?
What would you like to see happen?
Also, give me a scene, a visual with either or both of them that I can attempt to write.
I've got a line for Arthur to say to Eames (haven't gotten to that yet but I will try to,) how about a line for Eames to say to Arthur? Anything you'd like to hear, and I'll give it my best shot.
There are still some suggestions I haven't gotten to yet, but I'm still going to get them in there somehow. ^_^
INCEPT ME.
4: Poison In Your Mind
General suggestions:
Well, most of you agreed with the stop in Kazan, and vanilla as a scent. Will try to get vanilla, as well as some of the other scents (wood smoke, burning hair, brake pads, incense, all of which could really fit in here,) in later. :D
Here are a few from last time:
astheytick - Arthur says to Eames "Just wait. Wait for me."mydeerfriend AND Ectotherm!Arthur being warmed up by Eamesorion_nightbane - people lurking outside their door would be interesting?twisted_ream there's this huge spider on eames' back and he can't get it off and arthur just laughs efcia a broken mirror, possibly a small one. I can see the shattered glass, maybe even a small amount of blood on them?New ones:
gelbwax made a sexytimes suggestion that... well you know what, you'll see. :D Also, wirrrn and sparrow_hubris had a suggestion that I had to write into here, too. :) Hehe.quixyjie and twilightthief - wanted Eames smoking a cigar. I will get to that soon. :D towel_master suggests Supernatural or mindfuckery. , LOVE IT.renton6echo says, Michelle has the potential for being an interesting character in the story, someone so observant would certainly seem to help Arthur by unintentionally giving him some intel on Dinclusin. Love that idea!sparrow_hubris had this awesome idea: I want the rest of Dinclusin's gang to hover around Arthur while Dinclusin tries to kind of take away Eames for some reason. Like they're blocking for Dinclusin and Arthur gets super bad vibes and vague eerie non-verbal non-gestured just emotional warnings from them. sweetsigh suggested Mr. Pinstripe Suit as a song to play suggests train surfing!twilightthief suggests, I'd like to see either Arthur or Eames like lightly stroke/massage the back of the other's neck like when they're seated or maybe the back of their calf in a: "I'm letting you know I'm here" warm gesture... which makes me feel a little melty myself. :DRe: Dinclusin. This turned out interesting.
twilightthief says, Id like to see something from Eames' past come up (maybe from Dinclusin or that Dromalius chick). Like they know something about Eames that even Eames or Arthur doesnt know which can play back into the card game that they played on the train when they first met. The "they don't realize they know him" idea is supported by skyvehicle who says, And I'm thinking there's a reason Dinclusin is on the train, and it goes beyond just wanting to see the sights. And efcia who says, I have this vague feeling that he knows something more about Eames, something Arthur isn't aware of. Also, xkatchy offers, I think he should know more about Arthur and/or Eames than he really should. Like, knows them from previous but they don't know him.Love these! Thanks so much, this is fun! ^_^ So here we go!
** ** ** **
Chapter Three – Dust In Your Garden
The world raced by outside the window, a cold blur. Eames could just about make out the scenery if he really tried to: bridge, water, trees, snow. It was hard to look at it, though, with Arthur so beautifully in the way. His boyishly smooth skin was a graceful plane as he leaned back against Eames's legs, one hand braced against the cold window, and the stupidly attractive hat the only item of clothing on him. Eames held onto his hips, bruising him. Arthur lost the hat when he gasped, cried out, and tipped his head back. The grey morning colored him pale, muted the flush across his cheeks and shoulders.
When Eames was able to reason again, after a few minutes of trying to catch his breath, he thought maybe Arthur looked a little washed out, maybe a little tired. Of course, waking up at 6 AM to have hat-wearing train sex could do that, too.
Arthur looked down at him. "You're staring at me."
Eames lifted one shoulder and smiled. "Thinking of new ways to fetishize you, I suppose."
Arthur swung his leg over and stood up, fastidious though still covered in a sheen of sweat. "Let me know if you come up with anything else. Because, honestly." He grabbed his hat from where it had fallen on the bed. "This is pretty weird."
"You'll never succeed in shaming me," Eames said, smiling.
"Shame isn't really in my repertoire."
"It shouldn't be. You're beautiful."
Arthur's normal reaction to this was to roll his eyes. When he did this, along with his protestations that he was really nothing special, he actually meant it. He honestly believed that Eames liked him for other reasons. Well, he did, and he would probably love to work with Arthur even if he was hideous in some way. Might even still want to sleep with him, because he was so interesting under his many layers. But in all likelihood, he probably wouldn't sleep with him so regularly, and definitely not in so many interesting ways. He guessed he did fetishize him in some way, but it was with respect and fondness.
Arthur didn't mind about his looks one way or another most of the time and he often dismissed Eames's comments about them as frivolous. Occasionally he got huffy and insisted that Eames was the good-looking one anyway, as if only one of them got to be.
But this morning on the train, he just stared down at him, considering.
"Which is not to say," Eames went on, to fill the silence, "that you should be ashamed if you weren't attractive."
"Then when should a person feel shame?"
Eames shrugged again. He was entirely not in the mood for this kind of conversation so early in the morning, so sleepy, and so well-fucked. "Dunno. I suppose when they do something bad, or hurt another person. One who doesn't have it coming," he added, because he had a feeling that Arthur was in A Mood about this all of a sudden.
"Who gets to say when someone has it coming?" Arthur asked as he pulled some clothes out of his suitcase.
Christ, Eames thought. He was right, it was going to be one of those conversations. "When someone shoots at you, Arthur, they have it coming. Honestly. Do you ever shoot first?"
"Am I Han Solo, is what you're asking?" When he turned around, clothes in hand, he was smiling. He leaned over and kissed Eames, slow and warm. When he pulled away, the smile was gone again.
"What's troubling you?" Eames asked.
"Honestly, nothing. I just don't have any illusions about myself. I'm aware of what I am."
"I'm aware of what you are too, Arthur," Eames said. "At least as much as you've shown me, which I flatter myself is more than you've shown most. And my opinion of you remains stellar. I hope that's worth something."
"I rode you while wearing a fedora at your request on a train in Russia at six AM," Arthur pointed out. "It's kind of not something I do on most days. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to have a quick shower before we have to get up and go, you know. Out there, where it's fucking cold."
Eames sat up and reached for the bottle of water next to his bed. "Arthur, I hope you brought your heaviest coat, because..."
"Why is your hand shaking?" Arthur asked. He now had his Concerned Face on as he nodded to where Eames was reaching for the bottle.
Eames followed his eyes. His hand was indeed shaking, hovering over the water bottle. He hadn't felt anything odd about it. "Must have leaned on a nerve, I guess."
But Arthur came in close and checked his eyes. They both knew that certain compounds of Somnacin, or its derivatives, could cause tremors that sometimes led to worse conditions. "Look right and left," Arthur said.
Eames did as he was told. "No dizziness, no headaches. I haven't gone under in more than a month. Honestly, it's nothing." He held his hand up, and the tremor was gone. Who knew what position he'd gotten his arm into earlier? It wasn't like he'd been keeping track of his elbows while holding onto Arthur's hips or anything.
"Right," Arthur said. "You'll let me know if it happens again."
"Of course." Which he would. They'd learned over the years not to keep things like this from your team.
But Eames was pretty sure it was nothing, anyway.
** ** ** **
Kazan was cold, painfully cold. Arthur had, in fact, brought his heaviest coat. He could deal with the cold when he was working, concentrating, trying to survive, or seeing a job to the end. He could deal with extremes on a stake out. It was a mindset, where he could shut everything else out and focus.
It wasn't a mindset he kept himself wrapped in when he was not working, and the cold today seeped through his long, wool coat, through the matching scarf, through the gloves, under his skin and into his bones.
"Fuck," he said, trying to bury his nose into his scarf. "It's beautiful here," he added, because he didn't want to complain, and it really was beautiful.
"Thought you'd like it," Eames said. "I came here about five years ago on a job, and I thought 'What would Arthur think of the architecture?' Knew you'd love to see it up close."
Arthur did want to see it up close, the fortress, the incredible cathedral domes. It's just that his eyeballs felt like they were frozen. He was pretty sure he'd heard stories about people shivering so hard it turned into a seizure.
A handful of other people in the tour seemed as cold as he felt. The very few young couples huddled together into each other's coats. Arthur eyed Eames's coat. It was his usual winter one, an olive green peacoat that really did a great job accentuating his shoulders and waist, but didn't look anywhere near as warm as than Arthur's own coat, which went to his ankles. How did Eames just not feel the cold?
And why did this have to be a walking tour? Or a tour in the first place? He and Eames, while not the richest men he knew, were well off enough that they could have done a trip of their own. Like maybe from a bus.
He knew he was being ridiculous, because the train had actually been his idea (he was over it, the train drama that Dom had shared with him. He'd loved trains as a child and it was time to get that back.) And because there was no way their schedules would have matched up in the spring or summer. It had to be this.
"Bogoyavlensky church," Eames said, pointing to the blue and gold domes they could see in the distance. "This one went through a lot of changes but it's been around, in various forms, since 1687," Eames said. "Which is older than me, even."
"Incredible," Arthur said.
"You're freezing, aren't you?" Eames asked.
"It's gorgeous," Arthur said, "I wish I could construct something like that. Maybe I'll try."
He felt Eames's arm across his shoulders, and for a second, siphoned a little of his heat. But then he remembered how he hated coddling, especially in public.
"Quit pulling away," Eames said. "I will eventually make you put your hands inside my coat."
"I don't do the public thing, Eames. It sets people's teeth on edge and calls too much attention to us."
"Arthur, honestly." Eames turned to him. It started to snow; a few flakes landed on the shoulders of his green coat. "First of all, we're not working. No one is gunning for us here. We staked this out well enough and we're fine. Second of all, I said your hands in my coat, not your legs over my shoulders or something."
"Jesus," Arthur said.
"There's a cafe across from the church," Eames said. "Let's go in, yeah? Before you die tragically. Which would you like? Coffee or chocolate?"
"What's good here?"
"Chocolate. I'd like to grope you right now."
"Please don't."
But Eames did anyway, subtly. Arthur rolled his eyes. He couldn't be pissed off though, not really. It'd had been months since they'd been together for any amount of time, and it was nice—alien, but nice—to be one of the regular people for a while.
They broke away from the crowd and made their way to the cafe, which was also bustling with tourists, some from their train, some not. Arthur saw the girl Michelle, with her mother and father. The parents were sniping to each other about something, and she was listening to her iPod. Which was a shame, really, because she was probably missing a lot of good info on the world around her. He thought back to when he was a kid. He hadn't carried his walkman everywhere. Well, he couldn't, because even back then he always had his eyes and ears open, hitting on all eights, constantly. Walkmans had been for kids who didn't have to worry about who was behind them.
What made me that way? he wondered. Because he knew that he'd been vigilant like that even before any major shit went down in his life. Hypervigilant, maybe. His mother hadn't bothered to watch out for him, but plenty of kids had grown up the same way.
He tore his attention away from the small family and looked for Eames, who somehow managed to get himself to the front of the line and still everyone was smiling at him, thinking he was charming. One lady thanked him for picking up her wallet that she had "dropped" and she kindly let him go in front of her. He made two orders in Russian and soon came back to Arthur.
"You're so smooth it worries me," Arthur said, taking the cup from Eames's hand. The warmth made him shiver.
"Everything worries you."
And Arthur really, really thought about that one for a few minutes. He was watchful, sure, even on a non-working trip. ('Vacation,' his mind supplied, and he had been the one to suggest it, too.) But worried? Did he really worry that much? He didn't feel stressful, just in control.
"I don't really think that I..."
Arthur looked around, but Eames wasn't standing beside him anymore.
In his place was the blond woman from that group who had asked Eames to play cards. Jack's friend. Or whatever she was.
"Arthur, isn't it?" she said, holding out her hand.
Confused, but never rude, Arthur took it politely. "Yeah, that's right."
"Ann," she said, smiling. "Such a pleasure to meet you, finally."
"Where's..."
"Your friend?" She pointed to the door, where Eames was leaving with Jack, looking over his shoulder at Arthur as if he was trying to extract himself politely from the situation.
The last thing either of them needed to do was make a scene, call any kind of attention to themselves. More than that, nothing really terrible was going on. People were talking to them. This was no cause for worry, just mild annoyance.
"Excuse me," Arthur said, "I have to..."
Two men flanked him, the others in Jack's group. "Oy, you're Arthur, Tommy's friend!" one of them said. "Giles, pleased to know you." He jubilantly shook Arthur's hand.
The other guy stood in front of him and shook his hand too. "Kenzie's what I'm called, mate," he said. "Jackie says you're from California."
"That's right," Arthur said.
"How's the gold rush over there?"
The two men laughed uproariously and Ann gave a disapproving shake of her head as if these were her unruly children.
"You meet anyone famous?" Giles asked. "Any starlets or Hollywood types?"
"I don't spend a lot of time there," Arthur said. "I'm sorry, I've really got to..."
"Ahh, a traveler then," Kenzie said. "That's the life, innit? Taking to the air, the sea, or the rails, seeing the beautiful world." He clapped Arthur on the back like they were old pals. "That's what life's all about. Hey, how long you known Tommy?"
Arthur fought not to scowl at the use of Eames's first name, even though it wasn't his real one. And now it seemed like they were hustling him out the door, or maybe that was just the crowd trying to push their way around them. They were all kind of blocking the entrance and exit. Anyway, suddenly Arthur wanted fresh air, and he wanted to see which way Eames had gone with Jack. Outside, somewhere.
Once they stepped outside, he braced against the cold and took a look around. Eames was nowhere in sight.
"Shit, forgot my order!" Kenzie said. "Giles, come on then. Lend me a hand."
Kenzie and Giles went back into the cafe, leaving Arthur standing outside with Ann.
She looped her arm through his and looked up at him with very blue, slightly teasing eyes. "What an amazing country," she said. "The architecture and... why look, the wildlife as well." She pointed to the sky.
A great, golden eagle with a wingspan as wide as Arthur's arms swooped to land on one of the domes. It cried in its grating, raptor voice, getting the attention of the tourists. Hundreds of cameras came out of pockets as the chatter rose in amazement.
"Bit of you right there, that eagle," Ann said, looking at him.
"What?"
"Watchful."
He pulled his arm away from hers, because at this point, she was the one being intrusive.
"You're a military man?" she said. "No? A detective, or FBI? CIA? Behavioral analysis? One of those types, anyway."
Arthur did not deign to answer. There was no answer, anyway.
"It'll be looking for its mate," she went on, glancing back up at the eagle, still perched on the dome. "Making a nest, then. I know it seems so cold, but it's almost spring for them. They look after their young so beautifully, did you know that? All animals do. Sometimes a female chick will kill her male sibling in the nest. How cruel, isn't it?"
"Nature isn't cruel," Arthur said. "It just is."
"That is true. In all animals." She nodded in the direction of the cafe door, where Michelle and her parents were exiting.
Michelle's mother was scolding her, pulling the earbuds out of her ears and huffing about how she didn't appreciate anything. Her father looked disapproving, but said nothing. Michelle just looked miserable and put-upon. She also looked embarrassed.
It was difficult for Arthur to forget the adolescent girls that he had known, in the school he'd gone to. They weren't like this one. They hadn't understood embarrassment or shame.
"Parents must always scold their young," Ann said. "That's the way of the world. Young must be taught lessons if they're to survive, and thrive. Sometimes the lessons must be harsh. But there's beauty in punishment, too, isn't there? In suffering for something, and in learning from it."
"No," Arthur said. "I don't think there is anything beautiful about suffering."
She waited until he looked back at her before smiling up at him. "I don't believe you mean that."
The whole thing felt so surreal that Arthur stuck his hand into his pocket and fished around for the die. To really get a feel for it, he'd have to remove his glove. But she was watching his hand now, and he felt conspicuous.
"Well," she said, her voice light and airy, "it was my pleasure to talk to you. Enjoy the rest of your day, Arthur." She touched his arm again before she turned to leave.
"You too," he said. When she was out of sight, he did take off his glove, and reached into his pocket for the die. He wasn't going to roll it, but sometimes just feeling it was enough to let him know that he wasn't in someone else's dream. When it felt right, he didn't know if he was relieved or not.
"Hey," Michelle said at his side, startling him. "If you're looking for your boyfriend, he's over there." She pointed to the door of the church, where Eames stood with Jack, shifting his weight impatiently.
"He's not my... Whatever. What are you doing away from your folks?"
"I can't take them for long periods of time," she said. "So, what, that woman is trying to get with you? Or was she just making sure you weren't going to cockblock her brother?"
"He's her brother? Then she must be married, she has a different last name." Arthur looked down at her. "Jesus, what are you talking about? How is any of this your business?"
"I'm really bored on this trip," she said. "Watching people do things and listening to them is my only entertainment."
"Then you should put down the iPod and really listen."
"Shut up," she told him. "It's okay to not be spying all the time. Here, I want you to listen to something."
She held up one earbud of her iPod. Her eyes suddenly looked shy, as if he would tell her to scram, kid, and stop bothering the big people. He actually kind of wanted to. Then he remembered himself as a child, and how dangerous it was when people didn't listen to him. Reluctantly, he took the speaker and had a listen. It was swing music, a guy singing about a man in a pin stripe suit.
"This song is totally about you," she said.
"I'm not even wearing pinstripes."
"That's not the point. You're still this guy. It's a vibe I get off you."
"You have no business getting vibes off me," Arthur said, sort of joking, but still sort of serious. He didn't have a problem with kids, but he didn't like people in his business. And kids were just another thing he felt like he needed to look after. He didn't like them too close to him, in case anything should suddenly start to go down.
She just stared at him, confused and now slightly wary. "Umm. Okay. I took French up till eleventh grade."
The sudden turn in the conversation confused him and he gave her a look probably similar to the one she was giving him. "Good for you," he said. "It's a great language." Then he felt like maybe he understood where she was going with this. Kids had no attention span. "But Russia's really interesting, too. I have a phrase book if you want to see it."
"Whoa, whoa," she said. "That's way out of my realm of understanding. Why are we doing this? Is this, like, a lesson or something? Je ne comprends pas."
Arthur felt the die in his pocket again. This conversation was way too dreamlike, but it felt like someone else's dream, not his. He had more control over his dreams than this. He couldn't know unless he actually rolled the die, but in his fingers it felt normal.
"A lesson in what?" Arthur asked.
She huffed an exasperated sigh. "Stop speaking French!"
Arthur opened his mouth to speak, and then shut it again. He felt colder than he had before. "I'm not," he said.
"Oui, you are," she said. "And now you're starting to piss me off."
"I'm sorry," he said, "I'm speaking English." In his head, in his ears, it sounded like English. In his mouth, the consonants and vowels felt different. A soft J, sibilant S, a letters that he hadn't even said. He tried again. "I'm. I'm. I'm." It sounded right, but felt wrong. He put his fingers on his lips and said, "I'm speaking English. English." His lips formed different sounds than the ones he heard.
He felt sick, dizzy and afraid.
"Oh, shit," Michelle said. "I think you need a doctor. Do you have seizures?"
"No, no, I don't," he said. He looked over at Eames, who suddenly seemed far away. Afraid to speak, he just pointed, breathless.
"Okay," Michelle said. She grabbed his arm and started pulling him. "Okay, it's cool, I got this. I'm not even scared." She sounded like she was. "My Dad's a doctor. Come on."
"No," Arthur said. "Eames. Please." He pointed to where Eames was standing. As if he felt eyes on him, Eames turned to look across the street at him. Jack, who was standing beside him, turned to look, too.
Arthur turned away. He didn't want that guy looking at him. He groped for his cell phone. He would text, that's what he would do. He would text to see if his brain was functioning, if he could still write.
"What are you doing?" Michelle asked. "Do you have meds or something?"
Arthur shook his head, pulling out his cell. His hands shook. He dialed Eames. His recognition of numbers still worked. He looked at the letters and didn't know what to write.
But Eames crossed the street, finally, and took him by the arm. "What's the matter?" he asked.
Arthur opened his mouth to speak but was afraid of what would come out.
Michelle answered for him. "He can't stop speaking French. He thinks it's English, though. I think he's having a seizure or a stroke or something. My Dad's a doctor, he can..."
"Arthur, look at me," Eames said. He checked Arthur's eyes the same way Arthur had done to him earlier. "Go on, say something."
"I'm speaking English," he said. "Is this English?"
"Yes, it's English," Eames said.
"That was," Michelle said. "But before, I swear to you, I'm not making it up. It was French. I'm not even kidding."
"She's right," Arthur said. "I felt it, it felt like French but it sounded like English. Am I speaking English now?"
"Yes," they both told him.
"Fuck," Arthur said.
"That's English, too," Michelle said. "Seriously. You need to see my Dad. He's a dick sometimes but he's still good."
Eames regarded Arthur carefully, waiting for his decision. He clearly considered it as an option.
"No, no doctors," Arthur said. "Thank you. But no. I'm fine now."
"You, uhh, don't look fine," she said.
"No, you don't," Eames agreed. "Let's go back to the train, shall we?"
"No. I'm all right. I really am. We're good to go on. I don't want to miss this."
"Russia will still be here another time," Eames said.
"I'm good." And he was. He felt good. A little shaken, but more or less normal. It wasn't the first time he'd had some weird little brain glitch, even awake. He'd been dreaming for years and they were still finding random side effects, most of which were benign.
"Umm," Michelle said, "I hate to interrupt, but that blond guy was totally just staring at the two of you. He's gone now though. If it was me he was staring at, I'd think it was a little creepy."
Finally, Eames looked at her, his eyebrows raised as if he was surprised that she had been standing there, talking to them the whole time.
"This is Michelle," Arthur said. "We played cards the other night. Michelle, Mr. Eames."
"Hey," she said. Arthur watched Eames shake her slender hand. She wore rings on each finger, most of them cheap, as if even her jewelry was rebelling against her parents' riches.
As if he'd thought them into existence, her mother came out of the cafe, her eyes darting all over the street, over the heads of the tourists. She was annoyed, really irritated and Michelle was probably going to hear about it. But Arthur sensed, or saw, even from a distance, that she was worried, too. Her fledgling had wandered off. He thought of the eagle again, and thought of Ann telling him that siblings sometimes killed each other in the nest.
Michelle looked over her shoulder, as if she sensed her mother's eyes on her. Then she turned back to Arthur. "Great," she said. "Time for the performance."
"Good god," Michelle's mother said as she strode up to them. "What are you thinking of, wandering off like that? Your father and I were in a fit, thinking you'd been kidnapped or murdered, or sold into the sex trade business."
"Jesus, Mom!" Michelle's cheeks turned pink; she tried to hide it with exasperation.
"I'm so sorry she's bothered you," the mother said to both of them.
"She didn't," Arthur said. "She just came to... I just felt a little dizzy from the train and she said her Dad was a doctor. She was just trying to help."
The mother eyed him, watchful but not impolite. He got it. Strange man around my adolescent daughter.
"You played cards with her the other night," the mother said.
"Yes, that's right." Arthur knew he needed to defuse this one. He offered his hand, and a smile which he knew could disarm most people, but could never disarm a parent. Or at least, one who paid any attention. When she shook his hand he said, "And this is my partner, Mr. Eames." He purposely allowed her to make of that whatever would put her mind at rest and he hoped it was, 'I'm with this man here, and I have no interest in your pubescent daughter so lower your hackles.'
"Nice to meet you both," she said. "I'm Helen and my daughter is a pest."
"Mom!"
"But she's a gentle pest and if you are still feeling ill my husband can have a look at you."
"I'm all right," Arthur said. "Thanks. But I'll keep it in mind."
Helen gave them both a quick nod and then pulled Michelle away from both of them.
Once alone together in the street, Eames said, "Tell me again what just happened," at the same time that Arthur said, "What did that guy want with you?"
"You first," Eames said. "Much more important."
"I told you what happened. I don't have an explanation. We're still discovering side effects to our work, strange things happen all the time. If it keeps up I'll see someone about it. Your turn."
Eames didn't look convinced, but knew Arthur too well to push any further. "He babbled to me about architecture and history," Eames said. "What people say isn't important. How they act is. He acts familiar with me, as if we go way back. But I've never met this man in my life. I feel like he wants something."
"He definitely wants something," Arthur murmured. Before Eames could respond to that, Arthur asked, "Did he mention anything about kids, or parents, or any weird thing like punishment and suffering?"
Eames frowned. "No. Nothing like that. Why would he?"
"Because his lady-friend Ann sort of accosted me and said a bunch of weird shit like that. About how parents had to punish their children for their own good, and suffering was beautiful."
"And then you started randomly speaking French," Eames said. With that, he pulled the cup of hot chocolate out of Arthur's hand. He opened the lid, looked inside, sniffed it.
"She wouldn't have had the chance," Arthur said.
Eames gave him his most level stare. "There's always someone better."
He went to put the cover back on, but the entire cup slipped from his fingers and splattered on the ground.
** ** ** **
They finished out the tour, though Eames could tell that Arthur had already checked out. His mind was elsewhere. He looked at the buildings that Eames wanted to show him, but he didn't actually see them. He kept glancing at Eames's right hand. He did this until the headache got bad enough that he mostly walked with his eyes down.
By evening, Arthur was almost totally silent. Eames, without the distractions of the city and the people around them, felt the beginnings of an unfamiliar dread. He took a shower with hands that were trembling slightly, the right more than the left.
When he came back into the room, Arthur was kneeling on the floor beside his bed, tossing the die and watching it land on three.
Eames sat on the bed, and Arthur, still on the floor, leaned back as he pocketed the die. He curled his hand around Eames's calf and cleared his throat.
"So," he said, his voice hoarse, "my concern is that something might be going on that doesn't have to do with... with anything on the outside. You know what I mean?"
"Yeah." Eames's own voice sounded just as unsure. He ran his fingers through Arthur's hair, dug them lightly into his scalp until Arthur grunted in pleasure and let his head drop against Eames's thigh. "That headache?" Eames asked. He dreaded the answer.
"A little better."
"It doesn't necessarily mean anything."
"No. But here's the thing. What if something was going on that we couldn't shoot back at? Something not done to us, and we can't fight it with tricks, C4, bullets, and we can't run from it because it's on the inside. If it was just plain old mundane sickness. We're both in our 30s and we've been putting chemicals into ourselves and messing with our brains since our early 20s. I'm just thinking... Stroke, brain damage, cancer, disease." Arthur never shied away from saying what needed to be said, and Eames loved and hated that about him at the moment. "If someone tried to hurt you, I would... But if it's not a someone? I don't know what we'd do then."
"We would keep calm and carry on," Eames said. "As always."
Arthur sighed, half a laugh, and ran his hand up and down Eames's calf.
"I mean it, though," Eames said. "What else could we do? We would just face it, yeah? And see what could be done for it." He moved his fingers across Arthur's scalp, and Arthur dropped his head forward.
"When I've thought about dying," Arthur said, "I always thought of it as someone finally ending me. I'd have a chance to run. Plus, I'd prefer to be kind of old. Like anyone, I guess. But if it was something on the inside, if it was my own body... You know?"
"We don't have to jump to that conclusion just yet," Eames said. But couldn't fight down the sick feeling that he was in denial. "Let's be logical about it. Yeah, we both started with the dreaming at around the same time. Most people did, but a few started before us. If there was some long-term side effect that was surfacing now, we'd probably have heard of it. Cobb would have contacted you. Also, what are the chances that we would both come down with a neurological symptom on the same exact day? Very, very slim."
Arthur turned his head to look up at him. His eyes were bloodshot and looked hazy, as if his headache wasn't exactly 'a little better.' He said, "That's true," with caution in his voice.
"Over the years, we've hardly had the same dosages of various chemicals and we've definitely not spent an even amount of time under, and we've certainly done different things with our work. So it seems very unlikely that a disease would manifest on the exact same day."
"Right," Arthur said. "Particularly when we're in the same place, sharing a room, eating the same things, drinking the same water... And those flowers. I only checked for explosive trace elements. There's no way to check for anything else that might have been on them. That's really far-fetched, I know. I'm not saying it's true. It could be anything. But honestly, I don't like to skirt the issue. We could still be sick." He turned away and rested his head on Eames's knee again.
"So we have a few options," Eames said, because he and Arthur both liked options above all else. "We could actually go and talk to the young lady's father and get his opinion. Of course, as with any doctor he'll have to cover his ass and he'll tell us to get off the train and get an MRI done right away. That's our second option: we could leave. Third, we take Dinclusin under and see if he's done anything, or knows of anything. Of course, going under without knowing what's going on... that's risky. Drugging him would be risky, but we could manage it. I need you to tell me, Arthur. How bad is it with you? If you need to get off the train and get back to the states, we can go tomorrow and see a doctor immediately."
"No," Arthur said. "I'm not in denial, I'm just trying to use my head. Us getting the symptoms of a neurological disease on the same day isn't logical. Something happened, something here, on the train. And I think we should at least try to find out what it is before we leave, and lose track of these people forever."
"Then that's what we'll do," Eames said.
The train moved through the night. Eames gently stroked his fingers across the back of Arthur's neck, toying with the curls there. He used his left hand, because his right one had begun to spasm every few minutes.
** ** ** **
Ugh, that last part was hard to write.
So I'm not sure if anyone out there is getting a clue about who these people are supposed to be. :D I'm actually not entirely sure myself if that's what I'm really meaning to say. I like the idea of supernatural stuff, but that at the end of the day, there's an unexpected reason for it.
What do you guys think? I feel like something needs to happen to Eames, because as I've said before, I tend to use Arthur as my whipping boy just to watch him bounce back and kick double the ass in half the time. The pattern I seem to have always written is that something bad happens to Arthur but then something dangerous happens to Eames and Arthur has to overcome whatever's going on with him and rescue his partner. What do you guys think if I switch that scenario up?
What would you like to see happen?
Also, give me a scene, a visual with either or both of them that I can attempt to write.
I've got a line for Arthur to say to Eames (haven't gotten to that yet but I will try to,) how about a line for Eames to say to Arthur? Anything you'd like to hear, and I'll give it my best shot.
There are still some suggestions I haven't gotten to yet, but I'm still going to get them in there somehow. ^_^
INCEPT ME.
4: Poison In Your Mind
