(no subject)
Title: Panicked, part 16
Pairing: Eventual Arthur/Eames
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence, memory loss, and deals with non-con
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 5,600
Disclaimer/Author's note: Beta'd by fitz_y, who is still an absolutely amazing beta! 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 & Part Fifteen.
Sorry, once again, for the delay. This is the last section, but it got longer than I expected, so I've split it into two parts. The last chapter (part seventeen) will be up later this week (its already done and waiting, I promise!), and then there will be an epilogue… then I'm done! Thank you to anyone who is still reading, I appreciate your comments so much!
Part Sixteen
The flight from Mombasa to Los Angeles - even direct, on the swanky private jet Arthur had managed to acquire - was twenty hours.
Eames slept for most of them.
He hadn't slept for more than a few hours at a time since getting back from Paris, and hadn't had a proper night's sleep for even longer than that. Perhaps it was the emotional exhaustion of the night before, or the last week catching up with him, or a side effect of all the drinking and the coke, but Eames got on the plane, crashed onto the leather couch, and managed to sleep away almost twelve hours of the flight.
Which left eight.
Eames hadn't had much time to pack before leaving his flat - Yusuf had been breathing down his neck the entire time and his mind had still been hazy from what had happened only a few hours previous - although Yusuf shoving him, fully clothed, into a lukewarm shower had helped with that, somewhat. He hadn't thought to bring anything to entertainment him on the plane, however, except his laptop, which bored him quickly.
It left Eames with nothing to do but think and that was dangerous. He needed something to occupy his mind, something to stop him fixating on what was going to happen when the plane landed, to stop him from bring crushed by the guilt he felt from the night before - for getting himself into such a situation, for calling Arthur, and especially for what he had done to Marcos. Eames couldn't remember a lot of the details of all that had taken place, but coming to while punching Marcos stuck in his mind. He hoped he had overestimated the man's injuries, in his panicked, drugged stupor - Marcos had been a jerk, he remembered that much, but he wasn't sure he'd deserved what had happened - it hadn't been Marcos that Eames had been mad at, not really.
Eames rubbed his forehead, trying to lessen the pain growing in his head. Fuck. If Marcos was even that guy's name. Christ, how could he have been so stupid?
Casting these thoughts out of his head, Eames got up from the couch and explored the plane's interior. He found some magazines shoved between two seats near the front of the small cabin, two of which were thankfully in English, and attempted to concentrate on those. It didn't take long for him to get bored of this, too, and he was soon up again, examining the rest of the cabin. Although there were no attendants on the flight, Eames found the cupboards had been left well stocked. Avoiding the biscuits and snacks, unsure how his still-sour stomach would react to them, he only hesitated for a moment when he saw some miniature bottles of wine.
It took just a few of those to put him to sleep again, and he was only woken by the pilots announcing they were starting their descent into LAX.
---
Arthur was waiting for him outside the security line.
Eames didn't make eye contact as he approached, instead looking around the airport, at his bag, at other passengers. He was still tired, despite getting more sleep during the flight than he probably had the last week in total, and he could still feel the wine in his system, which wasn't helping him to think clearly.
'Eames,' Arthur said on an exhale, when Eames finally got close enough that he had to look at him. 'You look…' Arthur paused, and Eames felt his judging gaze on him. 'Better than I thought you would.'
Eames thought of making a joke, to say something like the teasing comments he used to find effortless with Arthur, thought of apologising for the night before, but he didn't do either. 'Hi,' he said, instead.
'Come on,' Arthur said, grabbing Eames' bag and turning towards the exit. 'I'm paying like a hundred bucks a minute for parking.'
--
Eames avoided Arthur's gaze as much as possible while they left the airport, and remained uncharacteristically quiet. It was only when Arthur was fully concentrating on driving, his eyes focused on the highway ahead of him, that Eames let himself look at Arthur, studying him.
He wasn't scared of him, not as he had been. It was still a shock to see Arthur, but it was different, now, somehow. Eames couldn't elucidate, even to himself, what had changed, but despite embarrassing himself in Paris, he had been right - he didn't feel as frightened of Arthur as he had. He felt embarrassed, mostly, but that wasn't it - Eames was still attracted to Arthur, despite everything, and he wished that he could feel the old emotions Arthur's face, Arthur's body used to bring up. Instead, he couldn't get his mind clear enough to appreciate anything other than this lack of fear, of outright panic. He supposed the residual effect of the wine he had drunk on the plane wasn't helping.
'So.' Arthur broke the silence, flicking a quick glance to Eames, who quickly fixed his gaze to the passing cars outside his window. 'Nice face,' Arthur said after a second.
Eames raised his still sore left hand to touch the cut underneath his eye. 'Thanks,' he said as he touched it gently, afraid of hurting it or his hand further.
Arthur sent him another quick glance, his eyebrows raised. 'Nice hand.'
'Yeah.' Eames lowered his hand quickly, suddenly self-conscious, especially since the night before had made it swell up again. 'It's broken, actually.'
Arthur didn't say anything for a moment. 'From Paris or from what happened to your face?' he said after another moment, looking at the rear-view mirror and preparing to get off the highway.
Eames didn't answer right away, somewhat embarrassed that his injury - well, that injury - was from almost punching Arthur in the face. Again.
His pause must have answered Arthur's question.
'Glad you didn't hit me,' Arthur said, but his tone was light. 'I'd rather your hand than my nose.'
Eames looked at his profile. 'I wouldn't have.' He thought about the hotel room in London. 'Well, not again.'
'Good, because I wouldn't have been so gentle this time,' Arthur said, but the quick grin he flashed at Eames revealed he was teasing.
They lapsed into a moment of silence.
'Your face,' Arthur said, the teasing note gone from his voice. 'Does this have something to do with what you told me about last night - about almost killing someone?' His tone was indecipherable, but serious.
'Fuck.' Eames brought his non-broken hand up to his forehead, closing his eyes for a second. He didn't remember saying that - didn't remember most of his conversation with Arthur, besides that he was embarrassed from what he did remember. 'No,' he said after a moment, his head still down. 'I didn't - it's not as bad - fuck,' he said again.
'Eames,' Arthur turned to him, the car halted at a red light. 'Are you gonna be in trouble if you go back to Mombasa? Is there anything I can help with?'
Eames almost laughed. 'Jesus, Arthur, aren't you sick of cleaning up after my messes yet?' He hurried on before Arthur could answer. 'No - it's fine. It, it wasn't as bad as I thought.' I hope, he added silently. 'I'm not in trouble.'
Eames felt Arthur studying him for a long moment, but Eames kept his gaze stubbornly ahead. 'Okay,' Arthur said finally, turning back to the road as the stoplight turned green. Neither of them said anything else, even when they pulled into the street Eames recognised as Arthur's a few minutes later.
Eames made sure to grab his suitcase from the boot of the car before Arthur could, not liking that Arthur thought he couldn't carry it himself. The headache that had started on the plane and persisted through his second nap was getting worse, and Eames hesitated for a second beside the car. He didn't know what he was doing here, not really. He took a fortifying breath before following Arthur inside.
The flat was the same as Eames remembered. Same questionable decorating, that odd mix of so many things that both surprised Eames and somehow screamed Arthur - the collection of records in the corner, a large abstract painting behind the couch that looked disturbing to Eames but was certainly Arthur's taste, a plant that clearly needed watering by the door.
Eames had a flash of the last time he had entered the flat with his suitcase in hand, of Arthur pushing him against the door, and he swallowed quickly. Christ, he wished it were that bloody easy - despite all of the shit that had happened in the past few months, Eames would have given almost anything to have Arthur react that way now, to kiss, quickly and eagerly, like they had just a few months ago. But it wasn't Arthur's fault that it had all gotten so bloody difficult, and Eames tried to clear his mind, not sure if the idea of Arthur kissing him was too frightening or the thought that he wouldn't too depressing - either way Eames knew it wasn't helpful, especially after what had happened in Paris.
'Do you want any coffee?' Arthur asked, stopping in the middle of the living room. 'I can get you some if you're jet lagged.'
'Yeah, that sounds good, ta,' Eames said distractedly, considering where to put his suitcase. He ended up stashing it in a corner of the small room as Arthur headed into his connected kitchen.
It hit Eames again that he didn't know why he was there, not really. All he remembered from the conversation between him and Arthur the night before was telling Arthur that he hated him, that he blamed him, and - that wasn't true. Eames didn't blame him, and certainly didn't hate him, not really. Once again bringing a hand up to rub at his forehead, Eames closed his eyes. Jesus, it would be easier if he did hate him.
Eames was torn from his thoughts a second later by Arthur shoving a mug in front of him. 'I put a lot of sugar and milk in,' he said as Eames accepted the cup, 'but I'm not sure it’s as sickeningly sweet as you like it.'
Eames ignored this, putting the coffee down on the table in front of the couch, suddenly not sure he could stomach it.
Arthur sat on a chair and followed Eames's lead, putting his coffee on the table as well. He left the entire couch open for Eames who hesitated for a moment, biting his lip, before sitting down.
Eames tried to clear his thoughts, tried to think through the dull, instant pound of his headache. 'Look, I think you have the wrong idea.' Looking at his coffee cup, Eames didn't turn to see Arthur's reaction to this. 'From that phone call, I mean. It's --'
Arthur interrupted him and Eames couldn't help but turn his eyes towards him, just for a second. Arthur looked calm, his face giving nothing away. 'Eames - I was glad you called, actually. Concerned and freaked out, but glad.' There was a second of silence, and Eames once again focused on the coffee mug in front of him. 'I've been worried about you,' Arthur eventually said, matter-of-factly.
'You don't have to be.' Eames brushed this off, automatically, unthinkingly. He wasn't stupid - he knew he was lying and he didn't mean to start it this way, to start by lying to Arthur, but he hadn't travelled halfway around the world to hear how 'concerned' Arthur was.
'No?' Arthur said, in a tone that was unreadable. 'Look - I've been in contact with Yusuf since Paris. I know how you've spent the last week, that --'
Eames jerked his head towards Arthur at this admission, but Arthur didn't meet his eyes. Eames felt a rush of nerves, suddenly on edge as he wondered where exactly he was going with this, why the fuck he thought it was okay to discuss his life with Yusuf behind his back - what he had told Yusuf.
Eames struggled to keep his voice calm. 'You didn't - didn't tell Yusuf?' he asked, and while he hated that it had turned into a question, that he was sure Arthur could hear the waver in his voice, he couldn't control either of those.
He didn't have to specify what he was talking about and he was grateful to Arthur for that. 'No,' Arthur said, and he looked at Eames, his brow wrinkled in confusion at the question. 'Of course not - Eames, I was worried, that's all, but you have to know I would never tell anyone anything you didn't want me to.' Eames didn't answer and Arthur went on, his tone dry. 'Look - Yusuf's kept me updated on your week of drinking and gambling binges.'
Another wave of anger flooded Eames, and he thought about denying this, of telling Arthur that it was none of his goddamn business what he did when he was continents away, but Arthur went on before he could form any reply.
'I thought about going to see you,' he said, his tone once again so matter-of-fact. 'I wanted to go to Mombasa, after you left Paris so suddenly, but I didn't think you'd want to see me.'
Anger snaked up Eames' spine, into his throat, making him feel almost feverish with rage. 'What the fuck, Arthur - it's bad enough you're talking about me behind my back like some sort of… of child. I don't need a bloody babysitter.'
'That's not what --'
'No.' Eames stood up. He couldn't do this. 'This was a mistake.'
'Eames, come on,' Arthur said in a tone Eames recognised was supposed to be placating.
'I don't need you to worry about me,' Eames said firmly, as he went to pick up his bag.
'No?' Arthur was suddenly standing as well, stepping in front of Eames and blocking his way to the door. 'I don't need to worry about you?' His tone was harsh, mocking, and Eames let go of his bag, wanting his hands free. The longing he'd had for Arthur to kiss him as he had months ago was gone instantly and fear washed over Eames, erasing any desire he'd felt as his pulse skyrocketed and his body break into a cold sweat.
'Jesus, Eames,' Arthur continued, his voice still harsh and bitter. 'I've done nothing but worry about you for months - starting in London in that stupid bathroom, then listening to all the rumours about how you were cracking up from too much forging, didn't even know who you were anymore - which, fuck, seemed possible, I mean, you wouldn't even speak to me - and you fucking hit me - Eames, of course I've been fucking worried.'
'I'm fine,' Eames said dismissively, looking over Arthur's shoulder at the door.
'Don't --' Arthur reached his hand up, palm open, and Eames flinched, causing Arthur to interrupt himself. He took a step back and there was a moment of embarrassed silence as Eames chewed on his lip, his eyes on the floor. 'Don't fucking lie to me,' Arthur said after a moment, his tone quieter but no less intense.
Eames felt his throat constrict and his chest tighten and he lowered his head, suddenly terrified that he was going to start to cry. He stood frozen for a moment, Arthur similarly not moving at his side, before taking a step back, his legs wobbly. He sat back on the couch, all but collapsing onto it, and kept his head down, embarrassed and upset at his reaction, at the fact that he knew Arthur could undoubtedly tell he was shaking.
Arthur followed him and again sat on the chair near him, but not next to him. 'You're allowed to not be fine,' he said gently after a moment.
Flashes of the past week - of the past few months - shot through Eames' head, ending on the picture of him looming over Marcos with blood on his fists, and Eames felt sick all over again. 'I'm not --' he started, but couldn't get any further. He wanted to tell Arthur - he came to tell Arthur - that he wasn't fine, that he was scared and that even though he hated to admit it, he wasn't sure he could manage to get out of the hole he had fallen into alone. But he couldn't, physically couldn't speak.
Eames sat with his head down for a long moment, wetting his lips before speaking. 'It was just a dream,' he said, and his voice sounded funny to his ears. He looked up, meeting Arthur's gaze as he swallowed, trying to cure his suddenly dry mouth. 'It wasn't you and it wasn't real.'
If Arthur was bothered by this non sequitur, he didn't show it. 'Eames, you of all people should know that dreams matter. I mean - I've been injured too many times in a dream to say that the pain isn't real and I can't,' he paused, 'I can't imagine what you went through.'
'But it wasn't you,' Eames said, not sure who he was reminding.
'No. But I'm sorry that Murray made you think it was.'
'I don't blame you,' Eames said, his brain unable to stay on any one train of thought for more than a few seconds. He kept his eyes on Arthur, needing him to know that he was telling the truth. 'What I said on the phone - I was wrong, I don't blame you.' Eames bit at his lip as he felt his eyes water at the memory of the phone call, of his disjointed memories of that night and dropped his head once again. 'Shit,' he said, his voice thick.
'Eames, I wouldn't fault you if you did.' Arthur's tone was still gentle, which somehow only made Eames' tears worse. 'I wouldn't fault you if you never wanted to see me again. I get that you're angry with me, I get it.'
'No,' Eames said quickly, raising his head and ignoring that his eyes were wet. 'No, I --' He paused and tried to collect himself, but when he spoke next his voice was still almost unrecognisable to his ears. 'One of the worst parts of this whole thing,' he admitted slowly, wanting to get his words right, 'Is that I really - I really enjoyed being in Los Angeles last time. After the Fischer job. With you.' Eames got another flash of lying on this same couch with Arthur, of laughing and touching and kissing and his stomach jumped, wishing to God he could just go back to that.
He returned to the present after a second and laughed slightly, the sound stripped of any humour. 'But… Murray fucked that up. I fucked that up.'
'No,' Arthur said quickly, looking at him. 'You didn't fuck anything up, Eames. It's just - I didn't,' he paused, evidently thinking over his words. 'Eames, I don't want to put this all on you right now. You obviously have a lot to deal with - I think Paris showed that you aren't making all the right decisions for yourself --'
'Don't do that,' Eames said, and couldn't keep the sudden, tight fury out of his tone. 'Don't make excuses for me, don't fucking baby me - if you're disgusted or just not interested or what the fuck ever, you don't have to make excuses.' He knew it, he fucking knew it - Arthur was disgusted by him, by what had happened, by what he had let happen to him, and Eames didn't want excuses. If Arthur thought he was used goods, Eames wanted to know, wanted to know that was the reason.
'That's not it,' Arthur said, but Eames looked away, not convinced. 'Eames. You're wrong. Its not that I'm not interested and I don't even know why you think I'd be disgusted, but that's not --' Arthur trailed off as he leaned forward, practically kneeling in order to get closer to Eames, to try to get him to look at him. Eames avoided him, keeping his head turned the other way, his eyes watering once more as he berated himself - he should have known, he was fucking smarter than this, he shouldn't have brought this up at all.
'Eames, come on - don't do that. Don't make yourself more miserable,' Arthur was saying, as if he could hear Eames' thoughts. Eames took a deep, shaky breath, still trying to remain in control and not further embarrass himself in front of Arthur. 'Look - I misspoke. I was trying to take responsibility and I didn't --' Arthur was tripping over his words and Eames knew if this had been in some other circumstances, he would have enjoyed seeing the usual unflappable Arthur in such a state. 'Eames - I'm here. I'm here whenever.' Arthur paused, still leaning close to Eames, but Eames kept his head down, his eyes screwed closed. 'I - I think you should spend some time making sure you're alright and not drinking Mombasa dry or gambling away all the money you've ever made or - or scared I'll touch you.'
Eames finally looked up at this, his head still down, and knew that Arthur couldn't miss that his eyes were wet. He said nothing as he studied Arthur, trying to figure out if he was lying, if he was covering up for disgust or revulsion.
'I think you should deal with all that,' Arthur said, looking at him and speaking slowly, seriously, and looking for all the world as if he were speaking completely honestly. 'Before we try anything else. Just - just take some time, okay?'
Eames snorted, but it came out sounding broken, closer to a sob. He couldn't keep his frustration or bitterness out of his tone when he spoke. 'I'm so fucking sick of time. I haven't done anything for months - no jobs, no dreaming. I don't need any more bloody time.'
Arthur took a deep breath, a pained expression on his face. 'Listen, Eames, there is nothing - nothing - I wish more in the world right now than that I could take away what happened or - or make it better instantly. I wish I could kiss you, right now, and have you somehow forget everything that happened. I wish I could take you under and show you what sex in a dream with me is really like.' Eames stayed quiet, but kept his eyes on Arthur, listening. 'But that's not going to help,' Arthur continued. 'That's not going to stop you flinching every time I get too close to you.'
Eames felt a flush of embarrassment at the mention of this, but Arthur went on before he could formulate a response.
'I know the last few months have been hell for you and I am so, so sorry for my role in that - for what Murray did and for not seeing or, or ignoring what you've been doing to yourself. But Jesus, Eames.' For the first time, Arthur broke eye contact, looking down for a second before meeting Eames' gaze once again. 'I'm not letting us do this, okay? I’m not letting us become another excuse. I can't take anymore of this, of watching you destroy yourself while I let it go on. You need time to get yourself together because I can't sit here any longer, a fucking continent away, and watch you self-destruct. I can't let you do that.'
Arthur's tone was getting firmer as he went on, gaining strength. It was still gentle, not angry, but steelier. 'It ends now, okay?' He paused, considering Eames for so long that he wasn't sure if he should answer. 'All of it,' he finally continued. 'The drinking, gambling, drugs, it ends now. I'll help you detox, with withdrawal, any of that and we can deal with what happens, but I can't - I can't watch you kill yourself.' Arthur broke off, and looked down again, clenching his jaw. When he looked up again, his voice was tighter. 'I can't do it, Eames. I'm not letting you do that to yourself - it's no longer a fucking option.'
Arthur took a deep breath, and Eames watched as he looked at the ceiling for a second. 'So yeah,' he said a second later, his voice quieter and less intense, but still serious. He looked back at Eames. 'You need time. It’s frustrating, I know it is, but… you need time. We need time.'
Eames was frozen, unsure of what to say, how to reply. He felt slightly numb, unable to take in all that was happening. He watched Arthur for a long moment, trying to get his head around all that he had said, as Arthur studied him in return. 'How much time?' he asked eventually, and although his voice was high, pathetic, he couldn't bring himself to care.
'I dunno,' Arthur answered honestly. 'Why don't we start with getting you detoxed from the alcohol and whatever else and then… and then we can see.'
Eames tried once again to consider all of this, biting his lip slightly. Maybe Arthur wasn't completely disgusted by him. He didn't let himself think too deeply about all that he had said, however, his thoughts traveling to quickly to take it all in. He finally spoke after a minute, concentrating on the last thing he'd understood. 'What do you mean, detox?'
'I mean you're staying here,' Arthur said firmly, 'and you're not drinking anymore. And no drugs, nothing. I have all the supplies, all --' he looked towards the kitchen quickly and Eames followed his glance. 'I've got everything we need to get through any withdrawal symptoms you'll have --'
Eames couldn't stop himself from making a surprised noise, interrupting Arthur. Withdrawal, what the fuck was Arthur on about? Although Eames couldn't help but get a thrill of enjoyment from seeing Arthur back in classic point man mode, the effect was ruined by Eames being the target of his preparations. Especially since such preparations were unnecessary.
'What? No,' he said, trying to match Arthur's firm tone. 'I'm not as bad as that. You don't need any "supplies."'
Arthur raised an eyebrow. 'You've been drinking pretty heavily for months… You think everyone didn't see that? You were always drunk or hung over in London, and even worse in Paris. I know you've been steadily drinking and, according to Yusuf, you've been drunk for practically the entire last week. Did you find the wine I had them leave for you on the plane?' Eames sent him a surprised look. 'I figured this would all be easier if you weren't starting withdrawal while we discussed… all of this. But I was glad to see you came off the airplane not totally drunk.'
Eames hated this conniving, that Arthur thought he had bested him, and was angry with himself for falling into Arthur's trick. But a part of him was still enjoying seeing this glimpse of the old Arthur, always one step ahead, and despite being frustrated that Arthur had kept tabs on him, he couldn't help but wonder what it meant. He stayed silent as Arthur continued.
'Listen, I have it set up. It's not going to be pleasant, but I have all the supplies and a doctor I trust that we can call if it gets bad --'
Eames sighed and looked away, but still said nothing. His head was still pounding, as though there was a band tightening slowly around his skull, but he was sure it had more to do with Arthur's manipulation than with anything worse than a mild hangover.
'Also,' Arthur said, and a change in his voice made Eames look back at him. 'I think it would be best if Ariadne came to stay with us for a bit - it's gonna be crowded, but I know she wants to see you and --'
'What?' Eames interrupted, ‘No.’ It was one thing for Arthur to be convinced he was destroying himself, that he needed him to save him, but Eames was not about to let someone else get involved, even - especially - Ariadne.
'She offered to come.' Arthur's tone was defensive and Eames wondered quickly how much he had been talking to her about him in the past week. 'She's worried, too.'
'No,' Eames said again. 'Look, it - it's bad enough that you and Yusuf saw me like - like this. But I don't - I can't --' Eames broke off, feeling overwhelmed. He didn't like this, didn't like feeling helpless like this.
'Okay,' Arthur backed off. 'I just… anxiety and panic attacks can be some of the symptoms. I wanted to make sure --'
'Nothing's going to happen, Arthur!' Eames struck out, and was instantly embarrassed as his reaction. He brought his voice down, tried to calm himself even though he swore he could feel his blood pressure skyrocketing. 'I'm not a bloody alcoholic, alright? I'm certainly not a bloody drug addict, so come off it, okay?' He avoided eye contact, but took a breath, recognising that getting upset was not going to help his argument. 'You saved me from a rough night - thank you. I -- you're right, okay, I won't drink as much.' He looked up at this, meeting Arthur's gaze again. 'But I'm not going to let you do your fucking point man act on me. I'm not going to get sick, I'm not going to get panic attacks, I don't need you to take care of me, and I certainly don't need a bloody little girl either.'
Arthur appeared completely nonplussed by this, and merely stared back at Eames calmly. 'I don't think Ariadne would like to hear you refer to her like that.'
Somehow Arthur's ability to be completely unfazed only irritated Eames more and he struggled to hold still, the adrenaline suddenly flooding his system making him shaky. 'Why do you care? Why do you fucking care what I do anyway? I don't want you to do this out of guilt, Arthur - don't make me your next project just because you feel bad that someone could forge you convincingly.'
Arthur did react to this. 'I - what?' he said, sounding genuinely confused.
'You didn't do anything to me, so just leave me alone, okay? Whatever you think you owed me you repaid by getting me out of Mombasa last night. Just…' Eames paused, struggling to think through his headache. He wanted to leave, wanted all of this to be over and - and fuck Arthur, he wanted a fucking drink.
'Eames.' Something in Arthur's voice cut through the pain in Eames' mind and he met his eyes again. 'I'm not doing this because I think I owe you. Aren't you listening --' he interrupted himself, and Eames watched as he took a deep breath, looking away for a short moment. '"Why do I even care?"' He parroted back to Eames in a softer voice, looking at him once more. 'How can you even ask that?'
Eames studied him for a moment, his brow furrowed as he contemplated what that meant. There was no disgust on Arthur's face, no sense that he was repulsed by Eames, by what had happened. Eames looked away for a second, took a deep breath and tried to calm down. Maybe Arthur wasn't doing this out of some misguided sense of responsibility, but he still wasn't sure what his motives were.
He looked back at Arthur after a long moment, after he'd come to some sort of decision. 'I'm not going to go through withdrawal,' he said stubbornly
Arthur raised both eyebrows and sighed, making clear his disbelief at this. 'Okay,' he said.
'That's fucking ridiculous.'
'Okay,' Arthur repeated, a note of impatience in his voice. Eames watched as he took another deep breath before speaking again, any trace of impatience gone. 'So that was a no to calling Ariadne then?'
'No. Just you and me.' Eames turned away, his mind back on Arthur's response to his question. He was unsure what it meant, and his head was still pounding, pulsing with pain that was making it increasingly difficult to think through. He looked back at Arthur after a moment. 'Whatever you think is going to happen, I want it to be just you and me.'
Arthur met his gaze and they stayed like that a moment, each staring at the other, but Arthur broke first, and Eames closed his eyes in relief, taking a deep breath. 'Fine,' Arthur said. 'Just you and me then.'
Part Seventeen
Pairing: Eventual Arthur/Eames
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence, memory loss, and deals with non-con
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 5,600
Disclaimer/Author's note: Beta'd by fitz_y, who is still an absolutely amazing beta! 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 & Part Fifteen.
Sorry, once again, for the delay. This is the last section, but it got longer than I expected, so I've split it into two parts. The last chapter (part seventeen) will be up later this week (its already done and waiting, I promise!), and then there will be an epilogue… then I'm done! Thank you to anyone who is still reading, I appreciate your comments so much!
Part Sixteen
The flight from Mombasa to Los Angeles - even direct, on the swanky private jet Arthur had managed to acquire - was twenty hours.
Eames slept for most of them.
He hadn't slept for more than a few hours at a time since getting back from Paris, and hadn't had a proper night's sleep for even longer than that. Perhaps it was the emotional exhaustion of the night before, or the last week catching up with him, or a side effect of all the drinking and the coke, but Eames got on the plane, crashed onto the leather couch, and managed to sleep away almost twelve hours of the flight.
Which left eight.
Eames hadn't had much time to pack before leaving his flat - Yusuf had been breathing down his neck the entire time and his mind had still been hazy from what had happened only a few hours previous - although Yusuf shoving him, fully clothed, into a lukewarm shower had helped with that, somewhat. He hadn't thought to bring anything to entertainment him on the plane, however, except his laptop, which bored him quickly.
It left Eames with nothing to do but think and that was dangerous. He needed something to occupy his mind, something to stop him fixating on what was going to happen when the plane landed, to stop him from bring crushed by the guilt he felt from the night before - for getting himself into such a situation, for calling Arthur, and especially for what he had done to Marcos. Eames couldn't remember a lot of the details of all that had taken place, but coming to while punching Marcos stuck in his mind. He hoped he had overestimated the man's injuries, in his panicked, drugged stupor - Marcos had been a jerk, he remembered that much, but he wasn't sure he'd deserved what had happened - it hadn't been Marcos that Eames had been mad at, not really.
Eames rubbed his forehead, trying to lessen the pain growing in his head. Fuck. If Marcos was even that guy's name. Christ, how could he have been so stupid?
Casting these thoughts out of his head, Eames got up from the couch and explored the plane's interior. He found some magazines shoved between two seats near the front of the small cabin, two of which were thankfully in English, and attempted to concentrate on those. It didn't take long for him to get bored of this, too, and he was soon up again, examining the rest of the cabin. Although there were no attendants on the flight, Eames found the cupboards had been left well stocked. Avoiding the biscuits and snacks, unsure how his still-sour stomach would react to them, he only hesitated for a moment when he saw some miniature bottles of wine.
It took just a few of those to put him to sleep again, and he was only woken by the pilots announcing they were starting their descent into LAX.
---
Arthur was waiting for him outside the security line.
Eames didn't make eye contact as he approached, instead looking around the airport, at his bag, at other passengers. He was still tired, despite getting more sleep during the flight than he probably had the last week in total, and he could still feel the wine in his system, which wasn't helping him to think clearly.
'Eames,' Arthur said on an exhale, when Eames finally got close enough that he had to look at him. 'You look…' Arthur paused, and Eames felt his judging gaze on him. 'Better than I thought you would.'
Eames thought of making a joke, to say something like the teasing comments he used to find effortless with Arthur, thought of apologising for the night before, but he didn't do either. 'Hi,' he said, instead.
'Come on,' Arthur said, grabbing Eames' bag and turning towards the exit. 'I'm paying like a hundred bucks a minute for parking.'
--
Eames avoided Arthur's gaze as much as possible while they left the airport, and remained uncharacteristically quiet. It was only when Arthur was fully concentrating on driving, his eyes focused on the highway ahead of him, that Eames let himself look at Arthur, studying him.
He wasn't scared of him, not as he had been. It was still a shock to see Arthur, but it was different, now, somehow. Eames couldn't elucidate, even to himself, what had changed, but despite embarrassing himself in Paris, he had been right - he didn't feel as frightened of Arthur as he had. He felt embarrassed, mostly, but that wasn't it - Eames was still attracted to Arthur, despite everything, and he wished that he could feel the old emotions Arthur's face, Arthur's body used to bring up. Instead, he couldn't get his mind clear enough to appreciate anything other than this lack of fear, of outright panic. He supposed the residual effect of the wine he had drunk on the plane wasn't helping.
'So.' Arthur broke the silence, flicking a quick glance to Eames, who quickly fixed his gaze to the passing cars outside his window. 'Nice face,' Arthur said after a second.
Eames raised his still sore left hand to touch the cut underneath his eye. 'Thanks,' he said as he touched it gently, afraid of hurting it or his hand further.
Arthur sent him another quick glance, his eyebrows raised. 'Nice hand.'
'Yeah.' Eames lowered his hand quickly, suddenly self-conscious, especially since the night before had made it swell up again. 'It's broken, actually.'
Arthur didn't say anything for a moment. 'From Paris or from what happened to your face?' he said after another moment, looking at the rear-view mirror and preparing to get off the highway.
Eames didn't answer right away, somewhat embarrassed that his injury - well, that injury - was from almost punching Arthur in the face. Again.
His pause must have answered Arthur's question.
'Glad you didn't hit me,' Arthur said, but his tone was light. 'I'd rather your hand than my nose.'
Eames looked at his profile. 'I wouldn't have.' He thought about the hotel room in London. 'Well, not again.'
'Good, because I wouldn't have been so gentle this time,' Arthur said, but the quick grin he flashed at Eames revealed he was teasing.
They lapsed into a moment of silence.
'Your face,' Arthur said, the teasing note gone from his voice. 'Does this have something to do with what you told me about last night - about almost killing someone?' His tone was indecipherable, but serious.
'Fuck.' Eames brought his non-broken hand up to his forehead, closing his eyes for a second. He didn't remember saying that - didn't remember most of his conversation with Arthur, besides that he was embarrassed from what he did remember. 'No,' he said after a moment, his head still down. 'I didn't - it's not as bad - fuck,' he said again.
'Eames,' Arthur turned to him, the car halted at a red light. 'Are you gonna be in trouble if you go back to Mombasa? Is there anything I can help with?'
Eames almost laughed. 'Jesus, Arthur, aren't you sick of cleaning up after my messes yet?' He hurried on before Arthur could answer. 'No - it's fine. It, it wasn't as bad as I thought.' I hope, he added silently. 'I'm not in trouble.'
Eames felt Arthur studying him for a long moment, but Eames kept his gaze stubbornly ahead. 'Okay,' Arthur said finally, turning back to the road as the stoplight turned green. Neither of them said anything else, even when they pulled into the street Eames recognised as Arthur's a few minutes later.
Eames made sure to grab his suitcase from the boot of the car before Arthur could, not liking that Arthur thought he couldn't carry it himself. The headache that had started on the plane and persisted through his second nap was getting worse, and Eames hesitated for a second beside the car. He didn't know what he was doing here, not really. He took a fortifying breath before following Arthur inside.
The flat was the same as Eames remembered. Same questionable decorating, that odd mix of so many things that both surprised Eames and somehow screamed Arthur - the collection of records in the corner, a large abstract painting behind the couch that looked disturbing to Eames but was certainly Arthur's taste, a plant that clearly needed watering by the door.
Eames had a flash of the last time he had entered the flat with his suitcase in hand, of Arthur pushing him against the door, and he swallowed quickly. Christ, he wished it were that bloody easy - despite all of the shit that had happened in the past few months, Eames would have given almost anything to have Arthur react that way now, to kiss, quickly and eagerly, like they had just a few months ago. But it wasn't Arthur's fault that it had all gotten so bloody difficult, and Eames tried to clear his mind, not sure if the idea of Arthur kissing him was too frightening or the thought that he wouldn't too depressing - either way Eames knew it wasn't helpful, especially after what had happened in Paris.
'Do you want any coffee?' Arthur asked, stopping in the middle of the living room. 'I can get you some if you're jet lagged.'
'Yeah, that sounds good, ta,' Eames said distractedly, considering where to put his suitcase. He ended up stashing it in a corner of the small room as Arthur headed into his connected kitchen.
It hit Eames again that he didn't know why he was there, not really. All he remembered from the conversation between him and Arthur the night before was telling Arthur that he hated him, that he blamed him, and - that wasn't true. Eames didn't blame him, and certainly didn't hate him, not really. Once again bringing a hand up to rub at his forehead, Eames closed his eyes. Jesus, it would be easier if he did hate him.
Eames was torn from his thoughts a second later by Arthur shoving a mug in front of him. 'I put a lot of sugar and milk in,' he said as Eames accepted the cup, 'but I'm not sure it’s as sickeningly sweet as you like it.'
Eames ignored this, putting the coffee down on the table in front of the couch, suddenly not sure he could stomach it.
Arthur sat on a chair and followed Eames's lead, putting his coffee on the table as well. He left the entire couch open for Eames who hesitated for a moment, biting his lip, before sitting down.
Eames tried to clear his thoughts, tried to think through the dull, instant pound of his headache. 'Look, I think you have the wrong idea.' Looking at his coffee cup, Eames didn't turn to see Arthur's reaction to this. 'From that phone call, I mean. It's --'
Arthur interrupted him and Eames couldn't help but turn his eyes towards him, just for a second. Arthur looked calm, his face giving nothing away. 'Eames - I was glad you called, actually. Concerned and freaked out, but glad.' There was a second of silence, and Eames once again focused on the coffee mug in front of him. 'I've been worried about you,' Arthur eventually said, matter-of-factly.
'You don't have to be.' Eames brushed this off, automatically, unthinkingly. He wasn't stupid - he knew he was lying and he didn't mean to start it this way, to start by lying to Arthur, but he hadn't travelled halfway around the world to hear how 'concerned' Arthur was.
'No?' Arthur said, in a tone that was unreadable. 'Look - I've been in contact with Yusuf since Paris. I know how you've spent the last week, that --'
Eames jerked his head towards Arthur at this admission, but Arthur didn't meet his eyes. Eames felt a rush of nerves, suddenly on edge as he wondered where exactly he was going with this, why the fuck he thought it was okay to discuss his life with Yusuf behind his back - what he had told Yusuf.
Eames struggled to keep his voice calm. 'You didn't - didn't tell Yusuf?' he asked, and while he hated that it had turned into a question, that he was sure Arthur could hear the waver in his voice, he couldn't control either of those.
He didn't have to specify what he was talking about and he was grateful to Arthur for that. 'No,' Arthur said, and he looked at Eames, his brow wrinkled in confusion at the question. 'Of course not - Eames, I was worried, that's all, but you have to know I would never tell anyone anything you didn't want me to.' Eames didn't answer and Arthur went on, his tone dry. 'Look - Yusuf's kept me updated on your week of drinking and gambling binges.'
Another wave of anger flooded Eames, and he thought about denying this, of telling Arthur that it was none of his goddamn business what he did when he was continents away, but Arthur went on before he could form any reply.
'I thought about going to see you,' he said, his tone once again so matter-of-fact. 'I wanted to go to Mombasa, after you left Paris so suddenly, but I didn't think you'd want to see me.'
Anger snaked up Eames' spine, into his throat, making him feel almost feverish with rage. 'What the fuck, Arthur - it's bad enough you're talking about me behind my back like some sort of… of child. I don't need a bloody babysitter.'
'That's not what --'
'No.' Eames stood up. He couldn't do this. 'This was a mistake.'
'Eames, come on,' Arthur said in a tone Eames recognised was supposed to be placating.
'I don't need you to worry about me,' Eames said firmly, as he went to pick up his bag.
'No?' Arthur was suddenly standing as well, stepping in front of Eames and blocking his way to the door. 'I don't need to worry about you?' His tone was harsh, mocking, and Eames let go of his bag, wanting his hands free. The longing he'd had for Arthur to kiss him as he had months ago was gone instantly and fear washed over Eames, erasing any desire he'd felt as his pulse skyrocketed and his body break into a cold sweat.
'Jesus, Eames,' Arthur continued, his voice still harsh and bitter. 'I've done nothing but worry about you for months - starting in London in that stupid bathroom, then listening to all the rumours about how you were cracking up from too much forging, didn't even know who you were anymore - which, fuck, seemed possible, I mean, you wouldn't even speak to me - and you fucking hit me - Eames, of course I've been fucking worried.'
'I'm fine,' Eames said dismissively, looking over Arthur's shoulder at the door.
'Don't --' Arthur reached his hand up, palm open, and Eames flinched, causing Arthur to interrupt himself. He took a step back and there was a moment of embarrassed silence as Eames chewed on his lip, his eyes on the floor. 'Don't fucking lie to me,' Arthur said after a moment, his tone quieter but no less intense.
Eames felt his throat constrict and his chest tighten and he lowered his head, suddenly terrified that he was going to start to cry. He stood frozen for a moment, Arthur similarly not moving at his side, before taking a step back, his legs wobbly. He sat back on the couch, all but collapsing onto it, and kept his head down, embarrassed and upset at his reaction, at the fact that he knew Arthur could undoubtedly tell he was shaking.
Arthur followed him and again sat on the chair near him, but not next to him. 'You're allowed to not be fine,' he said gently after a moment.
Flashes of the past week - of the past few months - shot through Eames' head, ending on the picture of him looming over Marcos with blood on his fists, and Eames felt sick all over again. 'I'm not --' he started, but couldn't get any further. He wanted to tell Arthur - he came to tell Arthur - that he wasn't fine, that he was scared and that even though he hated to admit it, he wasn't sure he could manage to get out of the hole he had fallen into alone. But he couldn't, physically couldn't speak.
Eames sat with his head down for a long moment, wetting his lips before speaking. 'It was just a dream,' he said, and his voice sounded funny to his ears. He looked up, meeting Arthur's gaze as he swallowed, trying to cure his suddenly dry mouth. 'It wasn't you and it wasn't real.'
If Arthur was bothered by this non sequitur, he didn't show it. 'Eames, you of all people should know that dreams matter. I mean - I've been injured too many times in a dream to say that the pain isn't real and I can't,' he paused, 'I can't imagine what you went through.'
'But it wasn't you,' Eames said, not sure who he was reminding.
'No. But I'm sorry that Murray made you think it was.'
'I don't blame you,' Eames said, his brain unable to stay on any one train of thought for more than a few seconds. He kept his eyes on Arthur, needing him to know that he was telling the truth. 'What I said on the phone - I was wrong, I don't blame you.' Eames bit at his lip as he felt his eyes water at the memory of the phone call, of his disjointed memories of that night and dropped his head once again. 'Shit,' he said, his voice thick.
'Eames, I wouldn't fault you if you did.' Arthur's tone was still gentle, which somehow only made Eames' tears worse. 'I wouldn't fault you if you never wanted to see me again. I get that you're angry with me, I get it.'
'No,' Eames said quickly, raising his head and ignoring that his eyes were wet. 'No, I --' He paused and tried to collect himself, but when he spoke next his voice was still almost unrecognisable to his ears. 'One of the worst parts of this whole thing,' he admitted slowly, wanting to get his words right, 'Is that I really - I really enjoyed being in Los Angeles last time. After the Fischer job. With you.' Eames got another flash of lying on this same couch with Arthur, of laughing and touching and kissing and his stomach jumped, wishing to God he could just go back to that.
He returned to the present after a second and laughed slightly, the sound stripped of any humour. 'But… Murray fucked that up. I fucked that up.'
'No,' Arthur said quickly, looking at him. 'You didn't fuck anything up, Eames. It's just - I didn't,' he paused, evidently thinking over his words. 'Eames, I don't want to put this all on you right now. You obviously have a lot to deal with - I think Paris showed that you aren't making all the right decisions for yourself --'
'Don't do that,' Eames said, and couldn't keep the sudden, tight fury out of his tone. 'Don't make excuses for me, don't fucking baby me - if you're disgusted or just not interested or what the fuck ever, you don't have to make excuses.' He knew it, he fucking knew it - Arthur was disgusted by him, by what had happened, by what he had let happen to him, and Eames didn't want excuses. If Arthur thought he was used goods, Eames wanted to know, wanted to know that was the reason.
'That's not it,' Arthur said, but Eames looked away, not convinced. 'Eames. You're wrong. Its not that I'm not interested and I don't even know why you think I'd be disgusted, but that's not --' Arthur trailed off as he leaned forward, practically kneeling in order to get closer to Eames, to try to get him to look at him. Eames avoided him, keeping his head turned the other way, his eyes watering once more as he berated himself - he should have known, he was fucking smarter than this, he shouldn't have brought this up at all.
'Eames, come on - don't do that. Don't make yourself more miserable,' Arthur was saying, as if he could hear Eames' thoughts. Eames took a deep, shaky breath, still trying to remain in control and not further embarrass himself in front of Arthur. 'Look - I misspoke. I was trying to take responsibility and I didn't --' Arthur was tripping over his words and Eames knew if this had been in some other circumstances, he would have enjoyed seeing the usual unflappable Arthur in such a state. 'Eames - I'm here. I'm here whenever.' Arthur paused, still leaning close to Eames, but Eames kept his head down, his eyes screwed closed. 'I - I think you should spend some time making sure you're alright and not drinking Mombasa dry or gambling away all the money you've ever made or - or scared I'll touch you.'
Eames finally looked up at this, his head still down, and knew that Arthur couldn't miss that his eyes were wet. He said nothing as he studied Arthur, trying to figure out if he was lying, if he was covering up for disgust or revulsion.
'I think you should deal with all that,' Arthur said, looking at him and speaking slowly, seriously, and looking for all the world as if he were speaking completely honestly. 'Before we try anything else. Just - just take some time, okay?'
Eames snorted, but it came out sounding broken, closer to a sob. He couldn't keep his frustration or bitterness out of his tone when he spoke. 'I'm so fucking sick of time. I haven't done anything for months - no jobs, no dreaming. I don't need any more bloody time.'
Arthur took a deep breath, a pained expression on his face. 'Listen, Eames, there is nothing - nothing - I wish more in the world right now than that I could take away what happened or - or make it better instantly. I wish I could kiss you, right now, and have you somehow forget everything that happened. I wish I could take you under and show you what sex in a dream with me is really like.' Eames stayed quiet, but kept his eyes on Arthur, listening. 'But that's not going to help,' Arthur continued. 'That's not going to stop you flinching every time I get too close to you.'
Eames felt a flush of embarrassment at the mention of this, but Arthur went on before he could formulate a response.
'I know the last few months have been hell for you and I am so, so sorry for my role in that - for what Murray did and for not seeing or, or ignoring what you've been doing to yourself. But Jesus, Eames.' For the first time, Arthur broke eye contact, looking down for a second before meeting Eames' gaze once again. 'I'm not letting us do this, okay? I’m not letting us become another excuse. I can't take anymore of this, of watching you destroy yourself while I let it go on. You need time to get yourself together because I can't sit here any longer, a fucking continent away, and watch you self-destruct. I can't let you do that.'
Arthur's tone was getting firmer as he went on, gaining strength. It was still gentle, not angry, but steelier. 'It ends now, okay?' He paused, considering Eames for so long that he wasn't sure if he should answer. 'All of it,' he finally continued. 'The drinking, gambling, drugs, it ends now. I'll help you detox, with withdrawal, any of that and we can deal with what happens, but I can't - I can't watch you kill yourself.' Arthur broke off, and looked down again, clenching his jaw. When he looked up again, his voice was tighter. 'I can't do it, Eames. I'm not letting you do that to yourself - it's no longer a fucking option.'
Arthur took a deep breath, and Eames watched as he looked at the ceiling for a second. 'So yeah,' he said a second later, his voice quieter and less intense, but still serious. He looked back at Eames. 'You need time. It’s frustrating, I know it is, but… you need time. We need time.'
Eames was frozen, unsure of what to say, how to reply. He felt slightly numb, unable to take in all that was happening. He watched Arthur for a long moment, trying to get his head around all that he had said, as Arthur studied him in return. 'How much time?' he asked eventually, and although his voice was high, pathetic, he couldn't bring himself to care.
'I dunno,' Arthur answered honestly. 'Why don't we start with getting you detoxed from the alcohol and whatever else and then… and then we can see.'
Eames tried once again to consider all of this, biting his lip slightly. Maybe Arthur wasn't completely disgusted by him. He didn't let himself think too deeply about all that he had said, however, his thoughts traveling to quickly to take it all in. He finally spoke after a minute, concentrating on the last thing he'd understood. 'What do you mean, detox?'
'I mean you're staying here,' Arthur said firmly, 'and you're not drinking anymore. And no drugs, nothing. I have all the supplies, all --' he looked towards the kitchen quickly and Eames followed his glance. 'I've got everything we need to get through any withdrawal symptoms you'll have --'
Eames couldn't stop himself from making a surprised noise, interrupting Arthur. Withdrawal, what the fuck was Arthur on about? Although Eames couldn't help but get a thrill of enjoyment from seeing Arthur back in classic point man mode, the effect was ruined by Eames being the target of his preparations. Especially since such preparations were unnecessary.
'What? No,' he said, trying to match Arthur's firm tone. 'I'm not as bad as that. You don't need any "supplies."'
Arthur raised an eyebrow. 'You've been drinking pretty heavily for months… You think everyone didn't see that? You were always drunk or hung over in London, and even worse in Paris. I know you've been steadily drinking and, according to Yusuf, you've been drunk for practically the entire last week. Did you find the wine I had them leave for you on the plane?' Eames sent him a surprised look. 'I figured this would all be easier if you weren't starting withdrawal while we discussed… all of this. But I was glad to see you came off the airplane not totally drunk.'
Eames hated this conniving, that Arthur thought he had bested him, and was angry with himself for falling into Arthur's trick. But a part of him was still enjoying seeing this glimpse of the old Arthur, always one step ahead, and despite being frustrated that Arthur had kept tabs on him, he couldn't help but wonder what it meant. He stayed silent as Arthur continued.
'Listen, I have it set up. It's not going to be pleasant, but I have all the supplies and a doctor I trust that we can call if it gets bad --'
Eames sighed and looked away, but still said nothing. His head was still pounding, as though there was a band tightening slowly around his skull, but he was sure it had more to do with Arthur's manipulation than with anything worse than a mild hangover.
'Also,' Arthur said, and a change in his voice made Eames look back at him. 'I think it would be best if Ariadne came to stay with us for a bit - it's gonna be crowded, but I know she wants to see you and --'
'What?' Eames interrupted, ‘No.’ It was one thing for Arthur to be convinced he was destroying himself, that he needed him to save him, but Eames was not about to let someone else get involved, even - especially - Ariadne.
'She offered to come.' Arthur's tone was defensive and Eames wondered quickly how much he had been talking to her about him in the past week. 'She's worried, too.'
'No,' Eames said again. 'Look, it - it's bad enough that you and Yusuf saw me like - like this. But I don't - I can't --' Eames broke off, feeling overwhelmed. He didn't like this, didn't like feeling helpless like this.
'Okay,' Arthur backed off. 'I just… anxiety and panic attacks can be some of the symptoms. I wanted to make sure --'
'Nothing's going to happen, Arthur!' Eames struck out, and was instantly embarrassed as his reaction. He brought his voice down, tried to calm himself even though he swore he could feel his blood pressure skyrocketing. 'I'm not a bloody alcoholic, alright? I'm certainly not a bloody drug addict, so come off it, okay?' He avoided eye contact, but took a breath, recognising that getting upset was not going to help his argument. 'You saved me from a rough night - thank you. I -- you're right, okay, I won't drink as much.' He looked up at this, meeting Arthur's gaze again. 'But I'm not going to let you do your fucking point man act on me. I'm not going to get sick, I'm not going to get panic attacks, I don't need you to take care of me, and I certainly don't need a bloody little girl either.'
Arthur appeared completely nonplussed by this, and merely stared back at Eames calmly. 'I don't think Ariadne would like to hear you refer to her like that.'
Somehow Arthur's ability to be completely unfazed only irritated Eames more and he struggled to hold still, the adrenaline suddenly flooding his system making him shaky. 'Why do you care? Why do you fucking care what I do anyway? I don't want you to do this out of guilt, Arthur - don't make me your next project just because you feel bad that someone could forge you convincingly.'
Arthur did react to this. 'I - what?' he said, sounding genuinely confused.
'You didn't do anything to me, so just leave me alone, okay? Whatever you think you owed me you repaid by getting me out of Mombasa last night. Just…' Eames paused, struggling to think through his headache. He wanted to leave, wanted all of this to be over and - and fuck Arthur, he wanted a fucking drink.
'Eames.' Something in Arthur's voice cut through the pain in Eames' mind and he met his eyes again. 'I'm not doing this because I think I owe you. Aren't you listening --' he interrupted himself, and Eames watched as he took a deep breath, looking away for a short moment. '"Why do I even care?"' He parroted back to Eames in a softer voice, looking at him once more. 'How can you even ask that?'
Eames studied him for a moment, his brow furrowed as he contemplated what that meant. There was no disgust on Arthur's face, no sense that he was repulsed by Eames, by what had happened. Eames looked away for a second, took a deep breath and tried to calm down. Maybe Arthur wasn't doing this out of some misguided sense of responsibility, but he still wasn't sure what his motives were.
He looked back at Arthur after a long moment, after he'd come to some sort of decision. 'I'm not going to go through withdrawal,' he said stubbornly
Arthur raised both eyebrows and sighed, making clear his disbelief at this. 'Okay,' he said.
'That's fucking ridiculous.'
'Okay,' Arthur repeated, a note of impatience in his voice. Eames watched as he took another deep breath before speaking again, any trace of impatience gone. 'So that was a no to calling Ariadne then?'
'No. Just you and me.' Eames turned away, his mind back on Arthur's response to his question. He was unsure what it meant, and his head was still pounding, pulsing with pain that was making it increasingly difficult to think through. He looked back at Arthur after a moment. 'Whatever you think is going to happen, I want it to be just you and me.'
Arthur met his gaze and they stayed like that a moment, each staring at the other, but Arthur broke first, and Eames closed his eyes in relief, taking a deep breath. 'Fine,' Arthur said. 'Just you and me then.'
Part Seventeen