(no subject)
Title: Panicked, part 15
Pairing: Eventual Arthur/Eames
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence, memory loss, and deals with non-con - this chapter also deals with drug use and possible attempted non-con more graphically
Summary: Eames is kidnapped in Mombasa and only starts to remember what happened after seeing Arthur a few weeks later… (Based off of this prompt from the inceptionkink meme).
Word Count: Around 6,300
Disclaimer/Author's note: Beta'd by fitz_y, who was even more amazing and helpful than usual! As always, none of the characters, machines, or situations you recognise are mine.
Past Parts:
Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven, Part Twelve, Part Thirteen, & Part Fourteen.
I know the delay has been really long for this one - sorry about that, and thanks to anyone who is still reading. There is only one part left, and I'm hoping to have it up this week, so we are truly in the home stretch. Thanks, as always, to everyone who comments. I really appreciate hearing what you think.
Part Fifteen
His hand was broken.
'So tell me, how did you break it again?'
Eames liked Yusuf for three reasons: he was an amazing chemist; he had about the same moral compass as Eames - not much of one - which often made nights out an adventure; and he never asked questions. Eames was going to have to reconsider their entire friendship if that last one disappeared.
'I told you,' he said, his voice steady, calm. 'It was part of a job.'
'I didn't know you were back on jobs,' Yusuf said, in an exaggeratedly dry, surprised tone.
'Yeah, well, that's why I've been out of Mombasa and haven't seen you, as I told you,' Eames lied, and it came off effortlessly, sounded natural. He suspected Yusuf wouldn't buy it, but that wouldn't be because of Eames' bad performance.
They were mercifully interrupted when Yusuf's friend - a so-called doctor known for specialising in people who didn't want to go to hospitals - came back into the room with the supplies he needed. Eames' arm was set and wrapped tightly in a matter of minutes.
They went out drinking to celebrate.
---
Three days later, lifting a gin and tonic to his mouth, Eames realised he hadn't really been sober since seeing the doctor, immediately after getting off the first plane out of Paris. He froze for a moment, drink suspended in the air, and considered this. His eyes fell on his left hand, still bandaged and sore, and he downed his drink, deciding he was just saving money on pain medication. He nodded at the bartender at the nearly empty bar, before heading back to the roulette table.
---
Several days later (two? No, three?) Eames found himself in a swanky hotel deep in the touristy area of Mombasa. He usually stayed well clear of this particular hotel - after fleecing a few too many unsuspecting tourists a year or so back, Eames had learned the hard way that the hotel security guards were a little too chummy with the local police - and couldn't remember exactly how he had gotten there. He could recall enough flashes of the evening, however, to know that had more to do with the amount of alcohol in his system and nothing to do with dreaming.
Just in case, he played with the poker chip in his trouser pocket, just long enough to make sure it was exactly how he remembered it. It was. Still awake. Fantastic.
This much he did know: The guy who was closing the door behind him - Marcos? Carlos? Something like that, something Spanish or Italian and posh, Marcos sounded right - had impressive amounts of cash to throw around and had happily been throwing it at Eames all evening. He'd supplied Eames with all the top-shelf alcohol he'd wanted and had been lapping up Eames' lazy shite attempts at flirtation like they were the sexist lines he'd ever heard. And Eames knew that going back to his room had sounded like a brilliant idea just a few minutes - hours? - ago.
Eames didn't usually do this sort of thing these days. He didn't usually follow rich strangers around just because they hit on him brazenly in a casino - he didn't even let anyone buy him a drink anymore if he thought he had an ulterior motive - and Marcos definitely had an ulterior motive. But - fuck it - things with Arthur might have gone badly, but Eames knew that something must have been fixed in all that had happened. And Marcos was attractive, Eames had to give him that - tall and muscular, with short dark hair.
Most importantly, Marcos was not almost exactly Eames' height, he was not skinny with surprising muscles hidden under expensive suits, he did not wear his dark hair long and gelled back, and he didn't speak with an annoyingly straightforward American accent.
'So what do you think of the room, James?' Eames was torn back into the present by Marcos addressing him. Eames had given him the name James because it was the most unremarkable English alias he had. Marcos had gotten a kick out of finding an English man in Mombasa, and Eames hadn't seen any reason not to play into that.
'James,' Marcos said again, and Eames tried to get his mind to cooperate, to focus on what Marcos had asked him. All the drinks he'd had, over the past few hours and over the past few days, were clouding his sense, dulling his reactions and making any sort of conversation hard to follow.
'Its great,' Eames said vaguely, hoping this answered his question. The room was impressive - it was a suite, an expensive one, and they were standing in the main room, a sitting room with a mini-kitchen. There were three doors at the end of a short hallway and Eames knew at least one of them must lead to an equally impressive bedroom. The thought hit him that he would see it soon, and he suddenly felt the tiniest bit more sober.
Stamping down a brief rise of nerves, he cleared his throat. He was not going to do this, not going to talk himself into another panic attack like the embarrassing act he'd had with Arthur. He couldn't help but take a step away from Marcos, however, as he tried to look natural and cool. 'Do you have anything more to drink?'
'Not really,' Marcos said, sounding apologetic. Eames was about to argue this - surely a room this nice had a well-stocked refrigerator or cupboard somewhere - when Marcos offered an alternative.
Taking a pouch of white powder from a bag on the counter in front of him, Marcos shook it for Eames to see. 'Will this do?' he asked, smiling.
Eames only hesitated for a second, before nodding. Sure.
Marcos didn't take long in laying the drug out in lines on the counter, obviously not new at this. He plucked a straw from a cup full of them on the counter - Eames had a drunken thought that the hotel must get a lot of drug users if all rooms came equipped with such a large collection of straws - and graciously offered the first taste to Eames, holding out the straw.
Eames took it, leaned over, and closed his eyes as he snorted the thick line. Fuck, he'd forgotten how much this part sucked. He stood back up after taking the line, rubbing his nose and throwing his head back. His eyes watered and he felt like he was choking for a second, as he tried not to cough. The pain faded after a few seconds, replaced by the buzz of the drug hitting him harder than any drink he'd had in the past week.
Marcos hadn't taken his own line yet, but was watching Eames, with an expectant smile on his face. Eames was reminded, just for a second, why this sort of thing was not his normal m.o. - Eames liked sex, or had liked sex, had been all about sex and hookups at bars with attractive people. But he was safe - there were security concerns to think about, concerns that normal people not involved in as many illegal activities as Eames didn't have to worry about, and Eames had never been so rash before this as to go home with someone who had made such a spectacle of himself earlier, throwing money around like it was rubbish. He'd never taken drugs first when offered, never taken coke off some stranger.
His concern faded slightly as Marcos leaned down to snort his own line, but Eames was still aware of the situation he had put himself in, even as he could feel the spread of the cocaine in his blood, making him feel hot and content all at once. He'd always been so careful, but hadn't thought about security at all the last few days. Hadn't thought of anything, really, as long as he could help it.
Marcos recovered from the drugs more quickly than Eames had, obviously used to snorting the powder, and he was standing in front of Eames, the drug forgotten on the counter behind him, before Eames' brain had caught up with his movement. He leaned in closer, and Eames felt another jolt of panic. He stopped Marcos quickly, putting a hand on his shoulder and trying not to shrink back from that touch alone. He wasn't stalling, he wasn't, but he could feel the coke kicking in and he hadn't done anything like this in ages - he just wanted to enjoy the high for a few more seconds.
Marcos looked perplexed at Eames' rebuffing, but stopped, still so close to Eames they were almost touching.
'This is… this is good stuff,' Eames said dully. He could feel the cocaine spread through his bloodstream, feel it hitting all the new parts of his body one by one. It was intoxicating in every sense of the word - his heart was beating quickly, his brain suddenly much clearer, and Eames wanted more. After days filled with the sluggishness of alcohol, this was a welcome change.
Marcos was smiling, watching Eames. 'Straight from Cordoba,' he said, his accent seeming more pronounced. 'Only the best. Another line?'
Eames couldn't agree fast enough, leaning over with his straw as Marcos stepped back to watch him.
It burned just as much this time as the last line had, but Eames didn't care. He rubbed at his nose, taking deep breaths through his mouth.
He felt like a fucking rockstar. Everything suddenly seemed a lot clearer - this was how he should feel all the time. Fuck Arthur. Fuck everything that happened and fuck all the worry Eames had felt for the past few days - fuck, for the past few months. He'd won - he'd killed Murray and it didn't matter how much stupid shit he'd done to him in some stupid dream. Murray was dead in real life and that's what mattered.
Eames wasn't entirely too far gone to realise this new attitude probably had something to do with the coke, but he decided this didn't matter. He laughed to himself, suddenly almost amused by the entire situation.
Marcos stood up from finishing his own line. 'Why so happy, James?' he asked after a moment, stepping back so he was almost touching Eames.
'Nothing,' Eames said, getting a hold of himself but unable to lose the smile on his face. 'I just… this is good stuff,' he repeated. He tried to concentrate on Marcos, who laughed at his complement, but Eames could feel everything in ways he'd forgotten coke did to him. His body felt alive, like all of his skin was extra sensitive, and so when Marcos touched his shoulder a second later, it was an entirely new sensation and not an entirely unpleasant one.
Marcos leaned in, catching Eames' lips in an open-mouthed kiss, and Eames kissed back automatically. His mind, however, flashed to Paris.
The coke was making everything seem clear, as if Eames was seeing everything in some sort of hyper-focus. He was reminded of how he had felt this way, on adrenaline alone, when he was kissing Arthur and almost laughed again, although he didn't find any of it amusing, all of a sudden. Eames' life was going in circles, going nowhere and keeping him in the same damn place. He broke the kiss, shaking his head and blinking his eyes quickly. He wasn't making sense, not even to himself. Too much... everything.
Marcos looked confused, but not undeterred; his fingers, still on Eames' shoulder, tightened, not uncomfortably, as he leaned in again to continue the kiss.
Eames stepped back, dodging Marcos's lips and breaking his hold on his shoulder.
He couldn't do this. He couldn't do this again.
He was fucked up in some hotel room and suddenly, through the buzz of the cocaine in his system, Eames could only think of how stupid this all was. Sex aside, Eames had enemies - that much had been made clear in the past few months. He shouldn't be there, shouldn't have let himself get in such a stupid situation, even if he was fairly sure Marcos was harmless.
It didn't have anything to do with thinking about Arthur and Paris. It was just a stupid situation to be in, and somehow the cocaine was cutting through the clutter of alcohol in Eames' mind to let him see that. His mind was still skipping, careening - thinking of circles and how Eames was stuck and nothing had changed, nothing had really - but Eames struggled to hold onto his thoughts, to find a way out of this stupid situation he had put himself in.
He had a sudden strike of paranoia as he looked at Marcos, who was once again watching him, seeming confused. 'I…' he began, but stopped. He blinked again, striving to keep his mind clear, before saying, 'I can't - I'm sorry, I have to go.'
'What?' Marcos said, the furrowed lines on his forehead deepening.
'I'm sorry,' Eames said again, taking a step back and glancing towards the door. 'It's been lovely, darling, but I'm afraid I have to end the evening here.'
'What the fuck,' Marcos growled. He didn't move, but his jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed as he studied Eames. 'You think you can tease me all evening, take my alcohol and drugs, and then leave?'
Eames wasn't impressed. 'Yes,' he said simply. He turned to head for the door, but Marcos moved more quickly and got there before him.
'I don't think so,' he said. His tone was dark, and Eames felt a bolt of fear, but Marcos adjusted it quickly. 'Don't be coy, James, come to bed with me,' he said, his voice light again, flirtatious.
Eames wouldn't usually be as nervous as he suddenly was. He knew how to take care of himself, he always had, and he'd been in too many fights to count, both in the real world and in dreams, fights with people a lot harder than this rich cokehead. But Eames was also aware of how drunk he was, that the two lines of cocaine had hit him a lot harder than they had Marcos, and he was painfully aware of all the muscle he'd lost in the past few months. Marcos was a lot bigger than he was, taller too, and Eames struggled not to take a step back, instead meeting Marcos's glare from his place in front of the door.
'I'm sorry,' Eames said, trying a slightly different tactic. 'It's --' he was cut off by Marcos grabbing his wrist. His grasp wasn't tight, not really, but it was all the provocation Eames needed. He didn't want anyone touching him when he didn't want it, not even if he was the one stupid enough to be in this situation in the first place. He didn't think, just struck out blindly, connecting with Marcos' face with his bandaged hand.
The punch was messier than anything, and although Marcos cried out, obviously surprised, it was Eames that bent forward, cradling his hand. The pain erupting from it was white hot and enough to make Eames dizzy.
He was struggling to stay conscious, trying to ignore the growing black dots in front of his eyes, when Marcos grabbed him and attempted to make him stand, to face him. Eames wasn't ready for it, wasn't ready for any of this - he wasn't supposed to be high and drunk and generally fucked up in some hotel room with some guy who turned out to be kind of an asshole and Eames really didn't want him manhandling him like that.
His anger - at Marcos, at himself, at the situation in general - made the pain in his hand fade somewhat, and Eames stood up, trying to shrug Marcos's hands off. 'Don't fucking touch me,' he said, as Marcos's hands lingered, and when he didn't move them fast enough, Eames went to hit him again.
Marcos was expecting it this time, however, and blocked Eames easily, bringing his other hand up to jab Eames in the face. Eames couldn't help but cry out as he stumbled back - he just couldn't dominate this fight as he knew he usually would. He was too high, too tired, and Marcos was too big. They tussled, but to Eames' mind it was slow, as if underwater.
It was only a few minutes later - although it felt like hours, kind of, and also like no time at all, Eames couldn't wrap his head around anything and getting punched in the face certainly wasn't helping - that Marcos completely got the upper hand on Eames. He shoved him, hard, throwing him to the ground. Eames' shoulder hit the edge of a table on the way, still near the door, and he grunted as he lost his breath.
They were both bleeding, Eames could realise that much, and he felt like he was dying for a second before he got air back into his lungs. He was still gasping slightly as he became more aware of the scene - he was on his back, half against the wall next to the door, and Marcos was leaning over him and holy fuck, this was exactly like the dream. Everything went black for a second, just a flash, as Eames felt his hands, his whole body shaking. It was just the same - he was beat up, thrown to the ground, someone leaning over him, trying to force him to do something and Christ, even his hand was injured in the same way.
Eames fought to clear his mind, not to think about whatever this reminded him of, struggling to remain in the present, in that same goddamn posh hotel room. He was only half-aware of his surroundings when Marcos stood back somewhat, apparently convinced Eames had given up.
Eames hadn't. He saw his chance and took it. He struggled to his knees and lunged forward, using his momentum to grab Marcos around the waist and force him to land hard on the floor a few feet from the door.
He wasn't sure how much time passed. It couldn't have been long, but the first thing Eames became aware of again was suddenly how much his shoulder hurt, how it was already sore from his weaker arm, his right arm, pulling back and pounding Marcos, again and again.
He paused, finally stopping as realisation hit him.
Eames was straddling Marcos's chest, and he must have hit him twenty times for his face to be that bloody, to look that bad. Eames felt sick as he realised Marcos wasn't just bleeding, he was unconscious, and Eames jumped back, trying not to vomit as he looked at the blood coating his hands.
Eames was frozen, unsure of what to do, when Marcos stirred. Eames felt a rush of relief - he couldn't have been as hurt as Eames originally thought, because it only took a second for Marcos to raise his head, gingerly, and to direct his gaze - his face bloody, parts of it already swollen - to Eames, just a few feet away. He fought to sit up as Eames stepped back - not sure what he was more afraid of, Marcos being able to recuperate somehow and attack him again or losing control and hitting Marcos more.
Marcos snarled, bringing a hand up to his freely bleeding nose. 'Get out,' he howled, his voice muffled and hoarse. 'Get out, you fucking psycho.'
Eames' thoughts were a mess, between the adrenaline and the fear and the coke and the alcohol, but he recognised the command. He turned, fumbled to unlock the door, and fled the suite.
He made it through the hotel lobby without anyone stopping him, even though Eames knew he must have looked a mess. He knew he should find a bathroom, clean up the blood he could feel on his face and hands, should do something to make him look less like the fucking criminal he was, but he just wanted to be home, wanted to be away from all the stupid mistakes he kept making.
Any euphoria Eames had felt from the coke was gone, and instead he felt sick, like his skin was too tight and everyone knew what was wrong with him, what he'd done.
He blindly walked for a few streets, the fresh air doing nothing to clear his head, and he had no thoughts about where he was headed. He stopped in an alleyway when he felt he was far enough away from the hotel, when he thought if he walked anymore he would pass out. He sagged against a wall, his forehead against the filthy bricks, and tried to get his vision to clear, to top his head spinning.
His stomach jumped suddenly and he leaned over farther, vomiting against the wall. He was surprised he had anything in his stomach to bring up, he couldn't remember the last time he had eaten anything like a proper meal. He struggled to slow his breathing when he was done, closing his eyes for a minute. Okay. He had to get home. That was all. Anything beyond that - any thoughts beyond getting the fuck back to his flat - could wait.
Bringing up a hand to wipe his mouth, Eames stopped at the last second, realising his hands were still red with blood. He didn't know if it was his - he was pretty sure his nose was bleeding and he had a cut on his cheek - or Marcos'. His thoughts flashed back to Murray, to his blood on his shirt, and he swallowed, trying not to be sick again.
He wasn't supposed to be like this. None of this was supposed to be like this, but Eames - Eames wasn't supposed to… He wasn't - he was good at what he did, fuck, he was the best, and he wasn't supposed to be in a fucking alleyway like a fucking homeless man. He wasn't supposed to beat up innocent albeit jerky guys, he wasn't supposed to have blood marking him, not Marcos's and not Murray's. Eames had never been the greatest guy, but he was supposed to be one of the good guys. He didn't know what the fuck had happened that he no longer knew if he was.
No. He did know what had happened, that much was fucking clear, and Eames felt a flooding surge of hot anger. This was not his fault - well, it was, so much of it was, but he hadn't started this. He had been nothing but a fucking pawn in some asshole's vendetta against Arthur, a pawn that both of them had considered expendable.
Suddenly Eames was shaking again, but not from fear or feeling ill - from rage. His life had gone off the rails, had been effectively fucking destroyed and this was all - all - because of Arthur.
Eames wiped his hands, still shaking, on his trousers, no longer thinking of the blood on them. He knew what he had to do, all of a sudden, knew what would make this better. He fumbled in his pockets as he stumbled out of the alleyway, pausing at its entrance, and managed to get his mobile out of his pocket.
It took some squinting and concentrating to get his phone to dial Arthur's number, but he managed, ignoring the blood and mess on his phone from his hands.
Eames leaned against the wall of whatever building he was beside, the street still empty in front of him, as the phone rang on Arthur's end. It didn't take him long to answer. Eames' pulse raced as he heard Arthur pick up and say his name in greeting.
Eames didn't let him say anything else. 'This is your fault, Arthur,' he jumped in immediately, his tone so biting and rushed that his words came out slurred, messy. He heard Arthur make a noise, the start of a reply, but Eames rushed on, concentrating on making his speech more intelligible. 'I - my life - everything is so fucking messed up and you - this is your fault, all your fucking fault.' Eames paused only long enough to swallow, to take a breath, acutely aware of the heat of tears in his eyes. 'I hate you, I hate that you did this to me - they kidnapped me and fucked me up because of you, because of us, and I don't even know who I am anymore, I don't know what I'm doing - I, I almost fucking killed someone and I'm so fucked up right now and --' Eames broke off, unable to talk through the lump in his throat, afraid he would break into sobs. He dropped his phone to his side, clenching his jaw as he slammed his head back, hitting the brick wall and concentrating on the dull pain it created.
He took a deep breath before he brought the phone back up to his ear - still angry, still fucking livid, but back together, such as it was.
'-- tell me where you are, okay, Eames, just tell me that - are you at home? Are you --' Arthur was pronouncing every word carefully, but Eames hadn't called him to listen.
'Shut up, I'm not --' Eames stopped, unsure of what to say. He was aware that the tears he had tried to stop were falling freely down his face, and he wiped at them. His hand came back slightly red, his nose still trickling blood, and Eames felt another wave of revulsion. He struggled not to let his voice break as he said blankly, 'I can't do this, Arthur, its not fucking fair, I can't do this.' He didn't know what he meant, was aware enough of what was going on to understand that he wasn't making sense, but he paused, hoping Arthur would say something, magically be able to fix what Eames was pretty sure was too fucking messed up to be fixable.
'Eames, listen, okay? Can you get home? Wherever you are - are you safe, where are you? - just get home, okay?'
Eames was coherent enough, barely, to realise he shouldn't tell Arthur he was standing on a street he didn't recognise, a few metres away from an alleyway he'd just been sick in. He stayed silent.
'Do you need someone to come get you? Just - give me a minute, I can get Yusuf to get you. Do you know where you are or --'
Eames cut him off. 'I'm going home,' he mumbled, and picking a direction, he started walking slowly, stumbling every few steps, keeping the phone to his ear like a lifeline.
'Okay, good,' Arthur said, and for the first time Eames noticed how panicked Arthur sounded, how his voice was uneven and hurried. 'Eames - listen, you need to get out of Mombasa. I'll come get you, just get home --'
'I don't need you to come get me, I'm not a fucking baby,' Eames said and couldn't keep the petulant tone out of his voice.
There was a split second pause before Arthur spoke again. 'Okay, okay - look, you need to be away from Mombasa right now, away from everything that's dragging you down, and with - with people who can take care of you.' Eames opened his mouth to argue, but Arthur hurried on. 'I know you're angry at me, and you're right to be, but I'm scheduling a flight for you right now - you're coming to Los Angeles, I can get you a plane ready to leave Mombasa in a few hours --'
'You're not fucking listening, Arthur!' Eames spit out and anger coursed through him again, making him feel even more nauseous and sick. He wiped at his nose again, his face wet with either blood or tears.
'I am. I am, Eames.' Arthur's tone was soft, sad, and that - more than anything that had happened that night, that broke Eames. He stopped walking again, suddenly unable to propel himself forward, and closed his eyes as he struggled not to cry. He took in deep gulps of air, trying to stay together as much as possible.
'Eames - can you get home okay? Can you tell me where you are?'
Eames gathered himself together enough to keep walking. He just had to get home. 'I can get home,' he said to Arthur, his tone messy and slurred again. He was tired, so fucking tired, all of a sudden, but he recognised a landmark at the upcoming intersection and was relieved to see he wasn't as far from his apartment building as he'd anticipated.
'Okay, good - stay on the line with me until you're there, okay? You can yell at me - I know you're angry, Eames, I know that you are - but just keep talking to me.'
Eames dutifully kept the phone to his ear, but was too tired to do anymore yelling. All the adrenaline he had been running on for days had left him, seemingly all at once, and it was taking all his energy to keep walking, to get back to his flat.
'…Eames? You still there?' Arthur said after a second, his pitch higher than normal, worry once again permeating his words.
Eames made a faint positive sound, and kept walking.
'Okay, good - listen, I'm getting you a plane right now. I'm gonna call in a favour and I'll have a plane for you at the airport in like…' there was a short pause and Eames could hear typing on the other line. 'In like 5 hours, okay? It will go straight to LA, you just need to get to the airport and get on it. Eames, can you do that?' There was another pause, but Eames said nothing. 'Eames? You have to answer me - can you do that?'
'Yeah,' Eames slurred, unsure what he was agreeing to.
'Eames, Jesus - please just tell me where you are,' Arthur said again, and even in his stupor Eames could hear his exasperation.
'I'm home. I'll be - I'm almost home,' Eames said, concentrating to make his voice clearer. He wasn't lying - he was only a block or so from the street that his flat was on, and when his apartment building finally came into view, Eames had never been so happy to see it in his life.
Arthur was still talking to him, undoubtedly asking him questions that Eames couldn't be bothered with, and he stopped outside his apartment building, catching his breath again before attempting the two flights of stairs to his flat.
'I'm home,' he interrupted, taking the stairs slowly. All his anger at Arthur had faded - it seemed too exhausting to keep it up - and Eames was tired of the conversation. He just want to go to sleep, he didn't want to talk to Arthur or think about him or what he had done to him - he just wanted to sleep.
'Good.' There was a pause. 'Listen, Eames, I'm going to get --'
'A plane, I heard you,' Eames said, as he struggled over the last few steps to his floor.
'No - I mean, yes, I've got you a plane that will be there in five hours - but I'm going to --'
'I'm home now, Arthur,' Eames said, struggling to get his keys out of his pocket and keep the phone to his ear. He didn't look at his hands as he fumbled with the keyring, didn't want to see the blood he knew was still on them. 'I'm going - I'm going to sleep, I can't - I'm sorry. I --' he managed to open his door and staggered inside, closing it and slumping against it.
'Eames, listen - I'm glad you called, don't --'
'Let's talk tomorrow, yeah?' Eames interrupted. He didn't care what Arthur was telling him, what he was saying, and when Arthur didn't stop talking right away, Eames interrupted him again. 'I'm going to sleep, okay? You can - we can talk tomorrow.'
'Eames, for fuck's sake, listen to --'
Eames hung up, too tired to argue anymore. There were tears on his cheeks again, mingling with the blood still there, and Eames didn't know why - he had too many reasons to cry, too many stupid reasons and too many things he'd fucked up. He blearily walked over to his couch, dropping his phone near the table in front of it, and tried to concentrate enough to remember his anger at Arthur, to remember their conversation. He vaguely felt ill again, but he collapsed backward on the couch and was asleep or passed out before he could move.
---
Eames could hear someone saying his name, could feel someone slapping at his face, and he reached a hand out without being fully conscious of the movement, trying to stop them from touching him again.
'Come on, Eames, wake up.'
Eames heard himself make a noise, but his eyes stayed closed.
'Eames. Come on.'
There was a blissful moment of silence before Eames felt someone pawing at his chest. It was too much and his eyes opened slowly, his vision hazy even when they were fully open.
Yusuf was in front of him, bending over him and, from what Eames could blearily see, was trying to get a hold of Eames enough to help him to sit up. Eames jerked away from his hands, suddenly much more awake, and sat up after a second, his head spinning at the movement.
'What - how did you - why are you in my flat?' he said, his voice still garbled, slurred. He swallowed and sat up straighter, but the movement was too much and he winced, grabbing his head and bending forward.
'Shit, Eames, what are you on?' Yusuf's tone was accusatory, but Eames was too tired to be angry. He didn't answer, however, and stayed bent forward, his eyes screwed shut.
'I broke in,' Eames heard Yusuf answer after another moment of silence. 'About twenty minutes ago - you certainly took your time waking up, what are you on?'
'Nothing,' Eames said finally, dropping his hands and looking at Yusuf, standing over him. 'I'm not on anything. Right now.' He looked around - his flat was a mess, with bottles and cans and half-empty take out containers from the last few days scattered around, and if Eames had been in any other mood he would have been at least vaguely embarrassed. As it was, he was just confused about how Yusuf had gotten in. 'What time is it?' he said, noting that it was lighter than it had been when he'd walked home, from what he remembered.
His heart sunk at the thought of his walk home, what little he remembered of it and his conversation with Arthur. 'Shit,' he said before Yusuf could respond, closing his eyes again briefly.
'Its sixish,' Yusuf answered, and Eames opened his eyes in time to see Yusuf attempt to hand him a glass of water. Eames ignored it, and Yusuf placed it on the table in front of him. 'You're leaving in two hours, wake up.'
'What - what are you on about?' Eames asked, the bone-deep exhaustion he felt evident in the slow drawl of his voice.
He heard Yusuf answer, or at least heard him talking, but Eames faded out as his eyes drifted shut again on their own accord. He slumped forward, not quite asleep but not entirely conscious.
His eyes sprung open a second later when Yusuf shook him, his hands on Eames' shoulders. 'Eames!' His voice was sharp, painful to Eames' head. 'If you fall back asleep I'm taking you to a bloody hospital, so wake up.'
'G'off,' Eames slurred, trying to shrug Yusuf off. Yusuf let go of his shoulders, but sat down beside him, too close for Eames' comfort.
'Eames,' he said, his voice stern and humour-less, so unlike Yusuf's usual tone that Eames blinked, forcing his eyes open to look at him. 'If you don't start listening to me and conversing in a reasonable way, if you don't drink some bloody water and get up, I'm taking you to the hospital, do you understand?'
Eames shook his head, trying to make his mind clearer. He was confused, but not so confused that he didn't realise the gravity of Yusuf's ultimatum. 'I'm conversing,' he articulated the word, making sure it wasn't slurred. 'I just - how did you get in? Why did you get in?'
Yusuf rolled his eyes. 'Listen, we can have this conversation another time, right now you need to get up and drink some water, eat something if you can, and take a shower. I don't know whose blood is all over you, but its rather distracting.'
Eames looked down at himself, moving slowly, as if through jelly, and saw that there was blood on his trousers, his shirt, his jacket. He got a flash of the night before - of him straddling a figure in the posh hotel room, hitting him - and felt acid rise in his throat.
Yusuf had obviously been expecting something like this, because as soon as Eames started to gag, he handed him a trash bin. Eames bent forward, coughing and choking into the bin, and trying not to think about blood.
'That should wake you up a bit more.' Eames heard Yusuf say after he'd managed to calm his retching. Eames stayed bent over, head down, as Yusuf took the bin from his grasp and walked away for a minute. More and more of the night before was rushing back to Eames, and his head was swimming with it.
'Come on, Eames,' Yusuf said a few moments later, and once again he reached under Eames' arms, trying to force him up. Eames let him help him, swaying slightly with the movement as he stood, leaning heavily on Yusuf. 'You're getting a shower and then you have a plane to catch. Arthur will cut my balls off if you miss this, and I can't say I'd blame him.'
Part Sixteen
Pairing: Eventual Arthur/Eames
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence, memory loss, and deals with non-con - this chapter also deals with drug use and possible attempted non-con more graphically
Summary: Eames is kidnapped in Mombasa and only starts to remember what happened after seeing Arthur a few weeks later… (Based off of this prompt from the inceptionkink meme).
Word Count: Around 6,300
Disclaimer/Author's note: Beta'd by fitz_y, who was even more amazing and helpful than usual! As always, none of the characters, machines, or situations you recognise are mine.
Past Parts:
Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Four, Part Five, Part Six Part Seven, Part Eight, Part Nine, Part Ten, Part Eleven, Part Twelve, Part Thirteen, & Part Fourteen.
I know the delay has been really long for this one - sorry about that, and thanks to anyone who is still reading. There is only one part left, and I'm hoping to have it up this week, so we are truly in the home stretch. Thanks, as always, to everyone who comments. I really appreciate hearing what you think.
Part Fifteen
His hand was broken.
'So tell me, how did you break it again?'
Eames liked Yusuf for three reasons: he was an amazing chemist; he had about the same moral compass as Eames - not much of one - which often made nights out an adventure; and he never asked questions. Eames was going to have to reconsider their entire friendship if that last one disappeared.
'I told you,' he said, his voice steady, calm. 'It was part of a job.'
'I didn't know you were back on jobs,' Yusuf said, in an exaggeratedly dry, surprised tone.
'Yeah, well, that's why I've been out of Mombasa and haven't seen you, as I told you,' Eames lied, and it came off effortlessly, sounded natural. He suspected Yusuf wouldn't buy it, but that wouldn't be because of Eames' bad performance.
They were mercifully interrupted when Yusuf's friend - a so-called doctor known for specialising in people who didn't want to go to hospitals - came back into the room with the supplies he needed. Eames' arm was set and wrapped tightly in a matter of minutes.
They went out drinking to celebrate.
---
Three days later, lifting a gin and tonic to his mouth, Eames realised he hadn't really been sober since seeing the doctor, immediately after getting off the first plane out of Paris. He froze for a moment, drink suspended in the air, and considered this. His eyes fell on his left hand, still bandaged and sore, and he downed his drink, deciding he was just saving money on pain medication. He nodded at the bartender at the nearly empty bar, before heading back to the roulette table.
---
Several days later (two? No, three?) Eames found himself in a swanky hotel deep in the touristy area of Mombasa. He usually stayed well clear of this particular hotel - after fleecing a few too many unsuspecting tourists a year or so back, Eames had learned the hard way that the hotel security guards were a little too chummy with the local police - and couldn't remember exactly how he had gotten there. He could recall enough flashes of the evening, however, to know that had more to do with the amount of alcohol in his system and nothing to do with dreaming.
Just in case, he played with the poker chip in his trouser pocket, just long enough to make sure it was exactly how he remembered it. It was. Still awake. Fantastic.
This much he did know: The guy who was closing the door behind him - Marcos? Carlos? Something like that, something Spanish or Italian and posh, Marcos sounded right - had impressive amounts of cash to throw around and had happily been throwing it at Eames all evening. He'd supplied Eames with all the top-shelf alcohol he'd wanted and had been lapping up Eames' lazy shite attempts at flirtation like they were the sexist lines he'd ever heard. And Eames knew that going back to his room had sounded like a brilliant idea just a few minutes - hours? - ago.
Eames didn't usually do this sort of thing these days. He didn't usually follow rich strangers around just because they hit on him brazenly in a casino - he didn't even let anyone buy him a drink anymore if he thought he had an ulterior motive - and Marcos definitely had an ulterior motive. But - fuck it - things with Arthur might have gone badly, but Eames knew that something must have been fixed in all that had happened. And Marcos was attractive, Eames had to give him that - tall and muscular, with short dark hair.
Most importantly, Marcos was not almost exactly Eames' height, he was not skinny with surprising muscles hidden under expensive suits, he did not wear his dark hair long and gelled back, and he didn't speak with an annoyingly straightforward American accent.
'So what do you think of the room, James?' Eames was torn back into the present by Marcos addressing him. Eames had given him the name James because it was the most unremarkable English alias he had. Marcos had gotten a kick out of finding an English man in Mombasa, and Eames hadn't seen any reason not to play into that.
'James,' Marcos said again, and Eames tried to get his mind to cooperate, to focus on what Marcos had asked him. All the drinks he'd had, over the past few hours and over the past few days, were clouding his sense, dulling his reactions and making any sort of conversation hard to follow.
'Its great,' Eames said vaguely, hoping this answered his question. The room was impressive - it was a suite, an expensive one, and they were standing in the main room, a sitting room with a mini-kitchen. There were three doors at the end of a short hallway and Eames knew at least one of them must lead to an equally impressive bedroom. The thought hit him that he would see it soon, and he suddenly felt the tiniest bit more sober.
Stamping down a brief rise of nerves, he cleared his throat. He was not going to do this, not going to talk himself into another panic attack like the embarrassing act he'd had with Arthur. He couldn't help but take a step away from Marcos, however, as he tried to look natural and cool. 'Do you have anything more to drink?'
'Not really,' Marcos said, sounding apologetic. Eames was about to argue this - surely a room this nice had a well-stocked refrigerator or cupboard somewhere - when Marcos offered an alternative.
Taking a pouch of white powder from a bag on the counter in front of him, Marcos shook it for Eames to see. 'Will this do?' he asked, smiling.
Eames only hesitated for a second, before nodding. Sure.
Marcos didn't take long in laying the drug out in lines on the counter, obviously not new at this. He plucked a straw from a cup full of them on the counter - Eames had a drunken thought that the hotel must get a lot of drug users if all rooms came equipped with such a large collection of straws - and graciously offered the first taste to Eames, holding out the straw.
Eames took it, leaned over, and closed his eyes as he snorted the thick line. Fuck, he'd forgotten how much this part sucked. He stood back up after taking the line, rubbing his nose and throwing his head back. His eyes watered and he felt like he was choking for a second, as he tried not to cough. The pain faded after a few seconds, replaced by the buzz of the drug hitting him harder than any drink he'd had in the past week.
Marcos hadn't taken his own line yet, but was watching Eames, with an expectant smile on his face. Eames was reminded, just for a second, why this sort of thing was not his normal m.o. - Eames liked sex, or had liked sex, had been all about sex and hookups at bars with attractive people. But he was safe - there were security concerns to think about, concerns that normal people not involved in as many illegal activities as Eames didn't have to worry about, and Eames had never been so rash before this as to go home with someone who had made such a spectacle of himself earlier, throwing money around like it was rubbish. He'd never taken drugs first when offered, never taken coke off some stranger.
His concern faded slightly as Marcos leaned down to snort his own line, but Eames was still aware of the situation he had put himself in, even as he could feel the spread of the cocaine in his blood, making him feel hot and content all at once. He'd always been so careful, but hadn't thought about security at all the last few days. Hadn't thought of anything, really, as long as he could help it.
Marcos recovered from the drugs more quickly than Eames had, obviously used to snorting the powder, and he was standing in front of Eames, the drug forgotten on the counter behind him, before Eames' brain had caught up with his movement. He leaned in closer, and Eames felt another jolt of panic. He stopped Marcos quickly, putting a hand on his shoulder and trying not to shrink back from that touch alone. He wasn't stalling, he wasn't, but he could feel the coke kicking in and he hadn't done anything like this in ages - he just wanted to enjoy the high for a few more seconds.
Marcos looked perplexed at Eames' rebuffing, but stopped, still so close to Eames they were almost touching.
'This is… this is good stuff,' Eames said dully. He could feel the cocaine spread through his bloodstream, feel it hitting all the new parts of his body one by one. It was intoxicating in every sense of the word - his heart was beating quickly, his brain suddenly much clearer, and Eames wanted more. After days filled with the sluggishness of alcohol, this was a welcome change.
Marcos was smiling, watching Eames. 'Straight from Cordoba,' he said, his accent seeming more pronounced. 'Only the best. Another line?'
Eames couldn't agree fast enough, leaning over with his straw as Marcos stepped back to watch him.
It burned just as much this time as the last line had, but Eames didn't care. He rubbed at his nose, taking deep breaths through his mouth.
He felt like a fucking rockstar. Everything suddenly seemed a lot clearer - this was how he should feel all the time. Fuck Arthur. Fuck everything that happened and fuck all the worry Eames had felt for the past few days - fuck, for the past few months. He'd won - he'd killed Murray and it didn't matter how much stupid shit he'd done to him in some stupid dream. Murray was dead in real life and that's what mattered.
Eames wasn't entirely too far gone to realise this new attitude probably had something to do with the coke, but he decided this didn't matter. He laughed to himself, suddenly almost amused by the entire situation.
Marcos stood up from finishing his own line. 'Why so happy, James?' he asked after a moment, stepping back so he was almost touching Eames.
'Nothing,' Eames said, getting a hold of himself but unable to lose the smile on his face. 'I just… this is good stuff,' he repeated. He tried to concentrate on Marcos, who laughed at his complement, but Eames could feel everything in ways he'd forgotten coke did to him. His body felt alive, like all of his skin was extra sensitive, and so when Marcos touched his shoulder a second later, it was an entirely new sensation and not an entirely unpleasant one.
Marcos leaned in, catching Eames' lips in an open-mouthed kiss, and Eames kissed back automatically. His mind, however, flashed to Paris.
The coke was making everything seem clear, as if Eames was seeing everything in some sort of hyper-focus. He was reminded of how he had felt this way, on adrenaline alone, when he was kissing Arthur and almost laughed again, although he didn't find any of it amusing, all of a sudden. Eames' life was going in circles, going nowhere and keeping him in the same damn place. He broke the kiss, shaking his head and blinking his eyes quickly. He wasn't making sense, not even to himself. Too much... everything.
Marcos looked confused, but not undeterred; his fingers, still on Eames' shoulder, tightened, not uncomfortably, as he leaned in again to continue the kiss.
Eames stepped back, dodging Marcos's lips and breaking his hold on his shoulder.
He couldn't do this. He couldn't do this again.
He was fucked up in some hotel room and suddenly, through the buzz of the cocaine in his system, Eames could only think of how stupid this all was. Sex aside, Eames had enemies - that much had been made clear in the past few months. He shouldn't be there, shouldn't have let himself get in such a stupid situation, even if he was fairly sure Marcos was harmless.
It didn't have anything to do with thinking about Arthur and Paris. It was just a stupid situation to be in, and somehow the cocaine was cutting through the clutter of alcohol in Eames' mind to let him see that. His mind was still skipping, careening - thinking of circles and how Eames was stuck and nothing had changed, nothing had really - but Eames struggled to hold onto his thoughts, to find a way out of this stupid situation he had put himself in.
He had a sudden strike of paranoia as he looked at Marcos, who was once again watching him, seeming confused. 'I…' he began, but stopped. He blinked again, striving to keep his mind clear, before saying, 'I can't - I'm sorry, I have to go.'
'What?' Marcos said, the furrowed lines on his forehead deepening.
'I'm sorry,' Eames said again, taking a step back and glancing towards the door. 'It's been lovely, darling, but I'm afraid I have to end the evening here.'
'What the fuck,' Marcos growled. He didn't move, but his jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed as he studied Eames. 'You think you can tease me all evening, take my alcohol and drugs, and then leave?'
Eames wasn't impressed. 'Yes,' he said simply. He turned to head for the door, but Marcos moved more quickly and got there before him.
'I don't think so,' he said. His tone was dark, and Eames felt a bolt of fear, but Marcos adjusted it quickly. 'Don't be coy, James, come to bed with me,' he said, his voice light again, flirtatious.
Eames wouldn't usually be as nervous as he suddenly was. He knew how to take care of himself, he always had, and he'd been in too many fights to count, both in the real world and in dreams, fights with people a lot harder than this rich cokehead. But Eames was also aware of how drunk he was, that the two lines of cocaine had hit him a lot harder than they had Marcos, and he was painfully aware of all the muscle he'd lost in the past few months. Marcos was a lot bigger than he was, taller too, and Eames struggled not to take a step back, instead meeting Marcos's glare from his place in front of the door.
'I'm sorry,' Eames said, trying a slightly different tactic. 'It's --' he was cut off by Marcos grabbing his wrist. His grasp wasn't tight, not really, but it was all the provocation Eames needed. He didn't want anyone touching him when he didn't want it, not even if he was the one stupid enough to be in this situation in the first place. He didn't think, just struck out blindly, connecting with Marcos' face with his bandaged hand.
The punch was messier than anything, and although Marcos cried out, obviously surprised, it was Eames that bent forward, cradling his hand. The pain erupting from it was white hot and enough to make Eames dizzy.
He was struggling to stay conscious, trying to ignore the growing black dots in front of his eyes, when Marcos grabbed him and attempted to make him stand, to face him. Eames wasn't ready for it, wasn't ready for any of this - he wasn't supposed to be high and drunk and generally fucked up in some hotel room with some guy who turned out to be kind of an asshole and Eames really didn't want him manhandling him like that.
His anger - at Marcos, at himself, at the situation in general - made the pain in his hand fade somewhat, and Eames stood up, trying to shrug Marcos's hands off. 'Don't fucking touch me,' he said, as Marcos's hands lingered, and when he didn't move them fast enough, Eames went to hit him again.
Marcos was expecting it this time, however, and blocked Eames easily, bringing his other hand up to jab Eames in the face. Eames couldn't help but cry out as he stumbled back - he just couldn't dominate this fight as he knew he usually would. He was too high, too tired, and Marcos was too big. They tussled, but to Eames' mind it was slow, as if underwater.
It was only a few minutes later - although it felt like hours, kind of, and also like no time at all, Eames couldn't wrap his head around anything and getting punched in the face certainly wasn't helping - that Marcos completely got the upper hand on Eames. He shoved him, hard, throwing him to the ground. Eames' shoulder hit the edge of a table on the way, still near the door, and he grunted as he lost his breath.
They were both bleeding, Eames could realise that much, and he felt like he was dying for a second before he got air back into his lungs. He was still gasping slightly as he became more aware of the scene - he was on his back, half against the wall next to the door, and Marcos was leaning over him and holy fuck, this was exactly like the dream. Everything went black for a second, just a flash, as Eames felt his hands, his whole body shaking. It was just the same - he was beat up, thrown to the ground, someone leaning over him, trying to force him to do something and Christ, even his hand was injured in the same way.
Eames fought to clear his mind, not to think about whatever this reminded him of, struggling to remain in the present, in that same goddamn posh hotel room. He was only half-aware of his surroundings when Marcos stood back somewhat, apparently convinced Eames had given up.
Eames hadn't. He saw his chance and took it. He struggled to his knees and lunged forward, using his momentum to grab Marcos around the waist and force him to land hard on the floor a few feet from the door.
He wasn't sure how much time passed. It couldn't have been long, but the first thing Eames became aware of again was suddenly how much his shoulder hurt, how it was already sore from his weaker arm, his right arm, pulling back and pounding Marcos, again and again.
He paused, finally stopping as realisation hit him.
Eames was straddling Marcos's chest, and he must have hit him twenty times for his face to be that bloody, to look that bad. Eames felt sick as he realised Marcos wasn't just bleeding, he was unconscious, and Eames jumped back, trying not to vomit as he looked at the blood coating his hands.
Eames was frozen, unsure of what to do, when Marcos stirred. Eames felt a rush of relief - he couldn't have been as hurt as Eames originally thought, because it only took a second for Marcos to raise his head, gingerly, and to direct his gaze - his face bloody, parts of it already swollen - to Eames, just a few feet away. He fought to sit up as Eames stepped back - not sure what he was more afraid of, Marcos being able to recuperate somehow and attack him again or losing control and hitting Marcos more.
Marcos snarled, bringing a hand up to his freely bleeding nose. 'Get out,' he howled, his voice muffled and hoarse. 'Get out, you fucking psycho.'
Eames' thoughts were a mess, between the adrenaline and the fear and the coke and the alcohol, but he recognised the command. He turned, fumbled to unlock the door, and fled the suite.
He made it through the hotel lobby without anyone stopping him, even though Eames knew he must have looked a mess. He knew he should find a bathroom, clean up the blood he could feel on his face and hands, should do something to make him look less like the fucking criminal he was, but he just wanted to be home, wanted to be away from all the stupid mistakes he kept making.
Any euphoria Eames had felt from the coke was gone, and instead he felt sick, like his skin was too tight and everyone knew what was wrong with him, what he'd done.
He blindly walked for a few streets, the fresh air doing nothing to clear his head, and he had no thoughts about where he was headed. He stopped in an alleyway when he felt he was far enough away from the hotel, when he thought if he walked anymore he would pass out. He sagged against a wall, his forehead against the filthy bricks, and tried to get his vision to clear, to top his head spinning.
His stomach jumped suddenly and he leaned over farther, vomiting against the wall. He was surprised he had anything in his stomach to bring up, he couldn't remember the last time he had eaten anything like a proper meal. He struggled to slow his breathing when he was done, closing his eyes for a minute. Okay. He had to get home. That was all. Anything beyond that - any thoughts beyond getting the fuck back to his flat - could wait.
Bringing up a hand to wipe his mouth, Eames stopped at the last second, realising his hands were still red with blood. He didn't know if it was his - he was pretty sure his nose was bleeding and he had a cut on his cheek - or Marcos'. His thoughts flashed back to Murray, to his blood on his shirt, and he swallowed, trying not to be sick again.
He wasn't supposed to be like this. None of this was supposed to be like this, but Eames - Eames wasn't supposed to… He wasn't - he was good at what he did, fuck, he was the best, and he wasn't supposed to be in a fucking alleyway like a fucking homeless man. He wasn't supposed to beat up innocent albeit jerky guys, he wasn't supposed to have blood marking him, not Marcos's and not Murray's. Eames had never been the greatest guy, but he was supposed to be one of the good guys. He didn't know what the fuck had happened that he no longer knew if he was.
No. He did know what had happened, that much was fucking clear, and Eames felt a flooding surge of hot anger. This was not his fault - well, it was, so much of it was, but he hadn't started this. He had been nothing but a fucking pawn in some asshole's vendetta against Arthur, a pawn that both of them had considered expendable.
Suddenly Eames was shaking again, but not from fear or feeling ill - from rage. His life had gone off the rails, had been effectively fucking destroyed and this was all - all - because of Arthur.
Eames wiped his hands, still shaking, on his trousers, no longer thinking of the blood on them. He knew what he had to do, all of a sudden, knew what would make this better. He fumbled in his pockets as he stumbled out of the alleyway, pausing at its entrance, and managed to get his mobile out of his pocket.
It took some squinting and concentrating to get his phone to dial Arthur's number, but he managed, ignoring the blood and mess on his phone from his hands.
Eames leaned against the wall of whatever building he was beside, the street still empty in front of him, as the phone rang on Arthur's end. It didn't take him long to answer. Eames' pulse raced as he heard Arthur pick up and say his name in greeting.
Eames didn't let him say anything else. 'This is your fault, Arthur,' he jumped in immediately, his tone so biting and rushed that his words came out slurred, messy. He heard Arthur make a noise, the start of a reply, but Eames rushed on, concentrating on making his speech more intelligible. 'I - my life - everything is so fucking messed up and you - this is your fault, all your fucking fault.' Eames paused only long enough to swallow, to take a breath, acutely aware of the heat of tears in his eyes. 'I hate you, I hate that you did this to me - they kidnapped me and fucked me up because of you, because of us, and I don't even know who I am anymore, I don't know what I'm doing - I, I almost fucking killed someone and I'm so fucked up right now and --' Eames broke off, unable to talk through the lump in his throat, afraid he would break into sobs. He dropped his phone to his side, clenching his jaw as he slammed his head back, hitting the brick wall and concentrating on the dull pain it created.
He took a deep breath before he brought the phone back up to his ear - still angry, still fucking livid, but back together, such as it was.
'-- tell me where you are, okay, Eames, just tell me that - are you at home? Are you --' Arthur was pronouncing every word carefully, but Eames hadn't called him to listen.
'Shut up, I'm not --' Eames stopped, unsure of what to say. He was aware that the tears he had tried to stop were falling freely down his face, and he wiped at them. His hand came back slightly red, his nose still trickling blood, and Eames felt another wave of revulsion. He struggled not to let his voice break as he said blankly, 'I can't do this, Arthur, its not fucking fair, I can't do this.' He didn't know what he meant, was aware enough of what was going on to understand that he wasn't making sense, but he paused, hoping Arthur would say something, magically be able to fix what Eames was pretty sure was too fucking messed up to be fixable.
'Eames, listen, okay? Can you get home? Wherever you are - are you safe, where are you? - just get home, okay?'
Eames was coherent enough, barely, to realise he shouldn't tell Arthur he was standing on a street he didn't recognise, a few metres away from an alleyway he'd just been sick in. He stayed silent.
'Do you need someone to come get you? Just - give me a minute, I can get Yusuf to get you. Do you know where you are or --'
Eames cut him off. 'I'm going home,' he mumbled, and picking a direction, he started walking slowly, stumbling every few steps, keeping the phone to his ear like a lifeline.
'Okay, good,' Arthur said, and for the first time Eames noticed how panicked Arthur sounded, how his voice was uneven and hurried. 'Eames - listen, you need to get out of Mombasa. I'll come get you, just get home --'
'I don't need you to come get me, I'm not a fucking baby,' Eames said and couldn't keep the petulant tone out of his voice.
There was a split second pause before Arthur spoke again. 'Okay, okay - look, you need to be away from Mombasa right now, away from everything that's dragging you down, and with - with people who can take care of you.' Eames opened his mouth to argue, but Arthur hurried on. 'I know you're angry at me, and you're right to be, but I'm scheduling a flight for you right now - you're coming to Los Angeles, I can get you a plane ready to leave Mombasa in a few hours --'
'You're not fucking listening, Arthur!' Eames spit out and anger coursed through him again, making him feel even more nauseous and sick. He wiped at his nose again, his face wet with either blood or tears.
'I am. I am, Eames.' Arthur's tone was soft, sad, and that - more than anything that had happened that night, that broke Eames. He stopped walking again, suddenly unable to propel himself forward, and closed his eyes as he struggled not to cry. He took in deep gulps of air, trying to stay together as much as possible.
'Eames - can you get home okay? Can you tell me where you are?'
Eames gathered himself together enough to keep walking. He just had to get home. 'I can get home,' he said to Arthur, his tone messy and slurred again. He was tired, so fucking tired, all of a sudden, but he recognised a landmark at the upcoming intersection and was relieved to see he wasn't as far from his apartment building as he'd anticipated.
'Okay, good - stay on the line with me until you're there, okay? You can yell at me - I know you're angry, Eames, I know that you are - but just keep talking to me.'
Eames dutifully kept the phone to his ear, but was too tired to do anymore yelling. All the adrenaline he had been running on for days had left him, seemingly all at once, and it was taking all his energy to keep walking, to get back to his flat.
'…Eames? You still there?' Arthur said after a second, his pitch higher than normal, worry once again permeating his words.
Eames made a faint positive sound, and kept walking.
'Okay, good - listen, I'm getting you a plane right now. I'm gonna call in a favour and I'll have a plane for you at the airport in like…' there was a short pause and Eames could hear typing on the other line. 'In like 5 hours, okay? It will go straight to LA, you just need to get to the airport and get on it. Eames, can you do that?' There was another pause, but Eames said nothing. 'Eames? You have to answer me - can you do that?'
'Yeah,' Eames slurred, unsure what he was agreeing to.
'Eames, Jesus - please just tell me where you are,' Arthur said again, and even in his stupor Eames could hear his exasperation.
'I'm home. I'll be - I'm almost home,' Eames said, concentrating to make his voice clearer. He wasn't lying - he was only a block or so from the street that his flat was on, and when his apartment building finally came into view, Eames had never been so happy to see it in his life.
Arthur was still talking to him, undoubtedly asking him questions that Eames couldn't be bothered with, and he stopped outside his apartment building, catching his breath again before attempting the two flights of stairs to his flat.
'I'm home,' he interrupted, taking the stairs slowly. All his anger at Arthur had faded - it seemed too exhausting to keep it up - and Eames was tired of the conversation. He just want to go to sleep, he didn't want to talk to Arthur or think about him or what he had done to him - he just wanted to sleep.
'Good.' There was a pause. 'Listen, Eames, I'm going to get --'
'A plane, I heard you,' Eames said, as he struggled over the last few steps to his floor.
'No - I mean, yes, I've got you a plane that will be there in five hours - but I'm going to --'
'I'm home now, Arthur,' Eames said, struggling to get his keys out of his pocket and keep the phone to his ear. He didn't look at his hands as he fumbled with the keyring, didn't want to see the blood he knew was still on them. 'I'm going - I'm going to sleep, I can't - I'm sorry. I --' he managed to open his door and staggered inside, closing it and slumping against it.
'Eames, listen - I'm glad you called, don't --'
'Let's talk tomorrow, yeah?' Eames interrupted. He didn't care what Arthur was telling him, what he was saying, and when Arthur didn't stop talking right away, Eames interrupted him again. 'I'm going to sleep, okay? You can - we can talk tomorrow.'
'Eames, for fuck's sake, listen to --'
Eames hung up, too tired to argue anymore. There were tears on his cheeks again, mingling with the blood still there, and Eames didn't know why - he had too many reasons to cry, too many stupid reasons and too many things he'd fucked up. He blearily walked over to his couch, dropping his phone near the table in front of it, and tried to concentrate enough to remember his anger at Arthur, to remember their conversation. He vaguely felt ill again, but he collapsed backward on the couch and was asleep or passed out before he could move.
---
Eames could hear someone saying his name, could feel someone slapping at his face, and he reached a hand out without being fully conscious of the movement, trying to stop them from touching him again.
'Come on, Eames, wake up.'
Eames heard himself make a noise, but his eyes stayed closed.
'Eames. Come on.'
There was a blissful moment of silence before Eames felt someone pawing at his chest. It was too much and his eyes opened slowly, his vision hazy even when they were fully open.
Yusuf was in front of him, bending over him and, from what Eames could blearily see, was trying to get a hold of Eames enough to help him to sit up. Eames jerked away from his hands, suddenly much more awake, and sat up after a second, his head spinning at the movement.
'What - how did you - why are you in my flat?' he said, his voice still garbled, slurred. He swallowed and sat up straighter, but the movement was too much and he winced, grabbing his head and bending forward.
'Shit, Eames, what are you on?' Yusuf's tone was accusatory, but Eames was too tired to be angry. He didn't answer, however, and stayed bent forward, his eyes screwed shut.
'I broke in,' Eames heard Yusuf answer after another moment of silence. 'About twenty minutes ago - you certainly took your time waking up, what are you on?'
'Nothing,' Eames said finally, dropping his hands and looking at Yusuf, standing over him. 'I'm not on anything. Right now.' He looked around - his flat was a mess, with bottles and cans and half-empty take out containers from the last few days scattered around, and if Eames had been in any other mood he would have been at least vaguely embarrassed. As it was, he was just confused about how Yusuf had gotten in. 'What time is it?' he said, noting that it was lighter than it had been when he'd walked home, from what he remembered.
His heart sunk at the thought of his walk home, what little he remembered of it and his conversation with Arthur. 'Shit,' he said before Yusuf could respond, closing his eyes again briefly.
'Its sixish,' Yusuf answered, and Eames opened his eyes in time to see Yusuf attempt to hand him a glass of water. Eames ignored it, and Yusuf placed it on the table in front of him. 'You're leaving in two hours, wake up.'
'What - what are you on about?' Eames asked, the bone-deep exhaustion he felt evident in the slow drawl of his voice.
He heard Yusuf answer, or at least heard him talking, but Eames faded out as his eyes drifted shut again on their own accord. He slumped forward, not quite asleep but not entirely conscious.
His eyes sprung open a second later when Yusuf shook him, his hands on Eames' shoulders. 'Eames!' His voice was sharp, painful to Eames' head. 'If you fall back asleep I'm taking you to a bloody hospital, so wake up.'
'G'off,' Eames slurred, trying to shrug Yusuf off. Yusuf let go of his shoulders, but sat down beside him, too close for Eames' comfort.
'Eames,' he said, his voice stern and humour-less, so unlike Yusuf's usual tone that Eames blinked, forcing his eyes open to look at him. 'If you don't start listening to me and conversing in a reasonable way, if you don't drink some bloody water and get up, I'm taking you to the hospital, do you understand?'
Eames shook his head, trying to make his mind clearer. He was confused, but not so confused that he didn't realise the gravity of Yusuf's ultimatum. 'I'm conversing,' he articulated the word, making sure it wasn't slurred. 'I just - how did you get in? Why did you get in?'
Yusuf rolled his eyes. 'Listen, we can have this conversation another time, right now you need to get up and drink some water, eat something if you can, and take a shower. I don't know whose blood is all over you, but its rather distracting.'
Eames looked down at himself, moving slowly, as if through jelly, and saw that there was blood on his trousers, his shirt, his jacket. He got a flash of the night before - of him straddling a figure in the posh hotel room, hitting him - and felt acid rise in his throat.
Yusuf had obviously been expecting something like this, because as soon as Eames started to gag, he handed him a trash bin. Eames bent forward, coughing and choking into the bin, and trying not to think about blood.
'That should wake you up a bit more.' Eames heard Yusuf say after he'd managed to calm his retching. Eames stayed bent over, head down, as Yusuf took the bin from his grasp and walked away for a minute. More and more of the night before was rushing back to Eames, and his head was swimming with it.
'Come on, Eames,' Yusuf said a few moments later, and once again he reached under Eames' arms, trying to force him up. Eames let him help him, swaying slightly with the movement as he stood, leaning heavily on Yusuf. 'You're getting a shower and then you have a plane to catch. Arthur will cut my balls off if you miss this, and I can't say I'd blame him.'
Part Sixteen