(no subject)
Title: Panicked, part 17
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 5,300
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 & Part Sixteen..
This is the second to last part… only the epilogue to go now. Thank you, as always, to everyone who reads and who comments!
Part Seventeen
Oh fuck, it was hell.
It hadn't seemed that bad, not at first - it crept up on Eames. He'd managed to fall asleep for a few hours on Arthur's couch, after the pulsing headache had gotten to be too much, and he'd had to cover his head with a pillow to block out any light. He hadn't been able to sleep for long, however - the same headache woke him up, his head feeling as though it was being squeezed, crushed by some powerful force; then his stomach kicked in - flipping over and hurting, not just aching but hurting, as though he was being stabbed; then the shaking started, his whole body trembling; and soon he couldn't keep anything down and he was freezing, fucking freezing, and he couldn't stay still even though he was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to collapse, just to get some bloody sleep. Now, it seemed dying was the only thing that would ever make him feel any better.
He was leaning over the toilet, again, gagging and retching, even though he had passed the point of having anything in his stomach hours ago. His neck and lower back were screaming in pain, cramped from being in the same position for so long, and Eames just wanted to lie down, but every time he moved from his position, another wave of nausea would sweep over him. He spit into the toilet again, trying to rid the acrid taste in his mouth, and glanced at Arthur, who was sitting not far away on the edge of his bathtub, watching Eames.
Pausing for a second, Eames tried to catch his breath as he admitted to himself that, like anything Arthur was involved with planning, his attempt at 'detoxing' Eames - and fuck if Eames didn't still hate using that word, didn't hate the drama of it - had been well thought out, well planned. He'd explained it all to Eames - how he had gotten all the supplies they would need, all the materials he'd read about that might be necessary, how Eames shouldn't worry because only a minority of people going through alcohol withdrawal needed outside medical help.
Eames had sent him a disbelieving look at this, which had only Arthur defensive. 'Look, it can be dangerous, okay? So I researched it.'
'Of course you did,' Eames had replied, his tone wry. He'd still been convinced that Arthur was overreacting, still been more amused by his over-preparation than anything. It had reminded him of working with Arthur, of how he really was the best at what he did precisely because of his tendency for such over-preparation, and Eames couldn't help but find it slightly endearing, even while finding it rather exasperating. 'Arthur - this isn't going to get as bad as you think. I don't even get hangovers.'
Arthur had looked at him steadily. 'Do you ever stop drinking long enough?
Eames hadn't been amused and he'd avoided eye contact, all good will towards Arthur's preparations gone. 'I'll get a headache. That's it.'
Eames was jerked from his memory when his stomach flipped again, causing him to pitch forward into the toilet again, bringing up nothing but burning bile.
'Oh God,' he managed to stutter after what seemed like another hour, finally leaning back and attempting to steady his heaving breath. He stayed hunched over, his hands still on the toilet and his forehead on his forearms, careful of his bandaged hand. His stomach hurt from the seemingly endless muscle contractions and his head was still pounding as though someone had tied a tight vice around it. Everything hurt.
He stayed like this for a second until he could look up, immediately searching beside him for his totem. It was lying to his right, where he had dropped it, and he palmed it quickly, his hands still shaking, as he felt Arthur watch him from his seat above.
'Okay?' Arthur asked. When Eames looked towards him, Arthur handed him a washcloth, which Eames accepted with clammy hands.
'Cheers,' he said, wiping his face slowly, trying unsuccessfully to still his hands.
'You're not going to like my next suggestion,' Arthur said after another moment, 'but you really need to eat something.'
Eames raised a hand to silence him, even as his stomach lurched and he felt another wave of nausea. 'Please don't mention food,' he mumbled, closing his eyes briefly and swallowing slightly, gently.
'It might help,' Arthur said, standing up. 'I have some fruit in the kitchen, that's supposed to be the best thing for this.' Eames closed his eyes again, unmoving, and tried to ignore Arthur. 'Come on, Eames,' he heard Arthur say a second later, the sound echoing through his headache. 'I'll help you up, okay?'
He opened his eyes to see Arthur reaching a hand out and Eames considered it for a second. He wished that he could trust himself to stand on his own, that he didn't need to rely on Arthur's help, but he was shaky and weak and it would be more embarrassing to attempt to stand on his own and fail than it would be to accept the help.
He gripped the offered arm and Arthur helped him stand, Eames shaking him off immediately. His head swam as the blood rushed from it and Eames clutched at the sink, white knuckling it to make sure he stayed upright.
'You okay?' Arthur asked, just watching.
'Yeah just gimme --' Eames began but too quickly his vision dimmed and he felt his knees start to give out. He tried to keep his grip on the sink, but felt Arthur lunge at him from behind, seizing him by his upper arms and steadying him. Eames blinked, trying to bring his vision back, and slumped forward, held up only by Arthur's hands and the sink's basin.
'Fuck,' he managed a few seconds later, when he could manage to stand almost on his own. He took a step back, forcing Arthur to drop his hands. He let go of the sink hesitantly, and sunk back to the floor. 'I think - maybe I'll stay in here for a bit,' Eames said after a moment, trying to make his voice light as his heart rate slowed down. The room was spinning, just the slightest bit, and it was making his stomach and head worse.
'I can help you if you want to get back to the couch, let --' Arthur began.
'No,' Eames said quickly, and was immediately embarrassed at his curt tone.
There was a beat. 'Or we can stay here.' Arthur sat back down on the edge of the tub, as Eames moved slightly, slowly, so his back was beside him on the white porcelain, just a few inches from touching Arthur's leg.
'Fuck,' Eames said after a moment, taking a deep breath with his eyes still closed, his head back against the cool porcelain of the tub. 'I'm so bloody sick of having everything be out of control. I mean - Jesus, I can't even stand up right now.' He laughed dryly, unsure what else to do. 'I can't keep anything down, can't sleep more than a few hours a night, God knows if I can still dream or forge or anything - my whole bloody life is in shambles and I can't even stand up.'
He opened his eyes, glancing up at Arthur quickly before he could respond. 'I meant what I said - I don't blame you. But bloody hell, Arthur - everything is so fucked up and he - fucking Murray - wasn't even trying to get to me. I was just collateral damage.'
'Eames, I'm sorry --'
'Stop,' Eames interrupted, firmly but not spitefully. 'Don't. I'm not saying this to make you feel guilty, or to make you feel like you have something to apologise for. It's just - I never even met Murray, not until this was all over. It does my head in, you know?' He barked a laugh and couldn't stop this from sounding bitter. 'No, of course you don't.'
'You know, Eames,' Arthur said after a moment, speaking slowly and clearly considering his words. 'Maybe it would be a good idea, along with dealing with the physical effects of the last few months, if you dealt with the… less physical ones.' Eames glanced up at him, confusion on his face. 'Maybe it would be good if you talked to someone about - about all of this.'
Eames laughed again, still dry. 'Gonna recommend me a good psychiatrist, Arthur? How very American of you.'
'Hey, it could be helpful, that's all.' Arthur's voice had a note of defensiveness in it that Eames wasn't expecting and he looked at him once more, studying him for a moment before replying.
'Other problems aside,' he said after a moment, 'don't you think some of my less legal... practices might be a bit of a complication?'
Arthur shrugged, apparently unbothered. 'I could find someone to trust,' he said simply.
Eames watched him for a moment, before decisively looking away. 'I don't think so.'
'Fine… but I do thinking talking about this all might help.' Eames pulled a face, unconvinced. 'Even if it's just to Yusuf or Ariadne or… or me.'
'There's nothing to tell,' Eames brushed him off quickly, suddenly much more nervous as to where this conversation was headed. 'You already know everything.' Eames was trying for a droll, bored tone, but his voice just sounded weak. He stared ahead, not turning to Arthur, and clutched his hands together, trying unsuccessfully to stop their shaking.
The disbelief in Arthur's voice was obvious as he echoed his words. 'Nothing to tell?'
'Oh, I'm sorry, Arthur,' Eames began before he was sure what he was doing, and some of the weakness drained from his voice, replaced by an angry, cutting tone. 'Did you want the fine details? Do you want to know everything that Murray did to me - that you did to me, that you made me do? Do you want to know how Murray used your body, used your --'
'Stop it.' Arthur spoke coldly, harshly, and Eames stopped, staring resolutely ahead and biting at the inside of his lip. 'That's not fair, Eames,' Arthur continued more softly after a second. 'You know that's not what I meant.'
'There's nothing to tell.'
'Okay,' Arthur said, his tone still unbelieving but apparently giving up. 'Fine, nothing.'
'What do you want from me, Arthur?' Eames said suddenly, and despite his dizziness, the palsy in his hands and body, and all his aches and pains, he managed to twist so that he could face Arthur, still on the floor in front of him. 'What do you want me to talk about? Some asshole that I never even fucking met destroyed my life, kidnapped me and - and fucking - attacked me.' He broke his gaze from Arthur's, embarrassed that after all this time he couldn't bring himself to say what had happened, what Murray had done to him. 'What do you expect me to talk about?' he repeated after a moment, looking back at Arthur.
Arthur didn't back down, sounding resolute when he answered, looking at Eames. 'I'm just worried that if you don't talk about this, if you keep trying to pretend everything is fine all of the time, this detox won't mean anything. It will be a waste of time because you'll just go back to drinking yourself to death every night to deal with what happened and Eames - I told you, I'm not letting you do that.'
Eames clenched his jaw, trying to maintain eye contact through his headache, but only lasted for a second, before shifting his gaze to the tiled floor and taking a shaky breath. 'Shit, Arthur, I… I just want everything to go back to normal. I want this all to be over and to be - to be fucking better. I thought killing Murray would do it, I thought being with you would do it, I thought being with someone fucking else would do it, but nothing ever does. Nothing makes this better.' He cut off suddenly, afraid his voice would break.
'It will get better, Eames. It will.' Eames looked back at Arthur, afraid he would see pity in his face, but mostly Arthur just looked sad. 'You just need to stop putting so much pressure on yourself - you can't expect something dramatic to happen and make everything that happened melt away. It takes time. Time when you're sober,' he added.
'I can't even --' Eames stopped again, closing his eyes briefly in frustration. 'I haven't dreamed in months. Or, I have actually,' he chuckled slightly, with no trace of amusement. 'Nightmares. But no dream sharing. I don't even know…' he trailed off, not wanting to voice the full idea. He felt a rush of fear, fear that he had lost the only thing he was truly a genius at, and he clenched his jaw as he a wave of nausea followed it.
'So we'll work on it,' Arthur said, in his usual straight-forward voice. 'Start with long walks on the beach or something,' he grinned. 'I dunno, something inconsequential, ease you back into it.'
Eames worried at his inner lip again, his nausea fading back to its usual tolerable level. 'We?'
'Yeah - you can get back to normal, Eames. Just. Maybe not all by yourself.' Arthur didn't look directly at Eames as he said this, studying the wall slightly to his right.
Eames looked at Arthur, and once again felt a rush of affection so strong that it surprised him, crowding above his nausea, his feverish shivering and sweating. He averted his gaze almost immediately, however, as a sense of shame followed instantly. 'I'm sorry,' he said softly after a minute. He was so tired, suddenly all too aware of his exhaustion again. Just sitting up was taking all he had, but he resisted the urge to twist back around, instead looking back at Arthur. 'I don't… I know you're helping me here, and I appreciate it. I'm sorry I keep… keep being difficult.'
Arthur snickered, and Eames narrowed his eyes, unsure what that meant. 'You're always difficult, Eames. This is just a new, fun form of difficulty.'
Eames rolled his eyes. 'Thanks, Arthur.' He paused for a beat. 'I'll try to be less difficult.'
Arthur's laughed slightly. 'I'll believe that when I see it.'
Eames glared at him. He knew Arthur was joking, could recognise on some level that this was the sort of teasing that was normal to both of them, and on any other day, where Eames wasn't struggling just to sit up, it would have rolled off his back. In his current situation, however, Eames felt a surge of annoyance. 'I'm glad this is hilarious to you,' he said, turning back around slowly. He pressed his back into the tub, feeling its coolness through his sweat-soaked shirt.
'Eames, it's not hilarious,' he heard Arthur say, sounding apologetic. 'Look, I get that you're not feeling well, that a lot of stuff is going on, that's all I meant. You don't have to apologise.'
'Why are you doing this, anyway?' Eames couldn't help but ask, feeling bolder now that he couldn't see Arthur's face. He brought a hand up to his forehead, wiping at the sweat on his brow and trying to ease the headache that was still making his head pound. 'It can't be fun. You said you're not doing this because you think you owe me. What are you getting out of this?'
Arthur laughed slightly again, but this time without a trace of amusement. 'Jesus, Eames, I'm not getting anything out of this, I told you. And, no, it's not fun. But you know why I'm doing this. You're not this dense, Eames.'
'Why?' Eames pressed, his back still to Arthur. He didn't allow himself to think too hard, wanting only to hear what Arthur said.
'Why? God, Eames…' Arthur trailed off for a second, and Eames waited, closing his eyes and laying his head back against the porcelain but listening intently. 'I told you - it's been hell watching you the last few months. I can't imagine how bad its been for you, but watching it… I couldn't let you keep doing that. I care about you, Eames, I'm not going to let you destroy yourself.'
Eames' stomach jerked at this, but not from nausea. He hadn't had time to think about all that Arthur had said the night before, what he had admitted, but he didn't want Arthur to admit things now that he'd take back later, when he no longer felt bad, when Eames was no longer in such a pathetic position. He let out a sarcastic-sounding laugh. 'Don't. Don't pretend this is something it's not because you feel guilty.'
There was a pause before Arthur answered, but Eames stayed still, didn't twist to see him. 'This isn't about guilt, Eames,' he said finally, and his voice had something in it that Eames couldn't place. 'You have to know it's not. Look, I - I waited a long time to ever… ever do anything with you. Ever give into your constant - seriously, constant - advances because I didn't think you were serious or because I didn't want to mess up our working relationship or occasionally because you were just driving me crazy, but I thought long and hard before inviting you back after the Fischer case. I waited a long fucking time and I'm not going to let you destroy yourself and push me away just because someone else realised what you meant to me and twisted it.'
Eames bit his lip, feeling his chest tighten and his breath hitch. He swallowed hard, writing off this sudden rise of emotions as part of the withdrawal symptoms. 'What are you trying to say here, Arthur?' he said after a minute, his voice sounding almost as shaky as his hands felt.
Eames felt a shift behind him as Arthur rose from his seat on the side of the tub and sat down beside Eames, careful to be close but not touching him. Eames watched him warily, but didn't move. 'I'm saying I care about you,' Arthur said slowly, taking advantage of his new position to look at Eames. 'And that… and I dunno, I love you or whatever and I'm doing this because you deserve to not be killing yourself. Because I want you to be happier than you've been in months. Because, I dunno, I want you to stay here, with me, and not have you drunk all the time.'
Eames didn't move, eyeing Arthur. 'You… you "love me or whatever"?' he said after a minute, unsure how to react. His brain had frozen, and Eames could do nothing but watch Arthur for a moment. Arthur looked at him and opened his mouth to reply, but Eames suddenly spoke before he could, looking down at the floor, away from Arthur. 'Why, Arthur, you've always had such a need for specificity… interesting to see this fails you when you have to play the role of a romantic.' Eames tried for the teasing tone he used to use so often with Arthur, but wasn't sure he managed it. He fought the urge to look back at Arthur, unsure what the response would be.
'Sorry, Eames, shall I be more specific?' Arthur had adopted a similar teasing tone. 'I love you,' he said simply. 'Specific enough for you?'
Eames looked at him again, trying to judge how serious he was, and Arthur went on after a moment of silence, 'More specific, still?' The teasing note was gone from his voice. 'Eames, I love you. I want to spend time with you when we're both awake and not solely planning on fleecing some poor unsuspecting mark out of his money or ideas, I'd like you to be sober when I spend time with you, I want to do ridiculously mundane things with you like going out for dinner or having a pizza, I want to build cities with you in dreams and --' He stopped for a second, raising an eyebrow. 'Well, shall I go on?'
Eames couldn't help the grin that he felt on his face, despite his headache. 'I'm not going to stop you.' Ignoring the pain in his head and stomach was suddenly easier as Eames focused on Arthur, his heart beating faster and harder than it had a few minutes before, finally not from fear.
Arthur rolled his eyes, but was still smiling and dutifully continued. 'I think you're very attractive - despite the fact that you obviously know it and never seem to shut up about it --'
'You're ruining the romance of the moment again, Arthur,' Eames broke in, still grinning.
'Oh, I'm sorry - I'm declaring my love for you despite the fact that you just vomited all over my bathroom, and I'm ruining the romantic moment?' Arthur said, in a tone of mock-outrage, watching Eames carefully.
Eames actually smiled at this, before another stabbing pain from his head wiped the smile from his face. He brought up his knees and sat forward, pressing his head into his knees and allowing his hands to go to his still-aching stomach. He tried to keep the pain out of his voice as he answered Arthur after a moment, his voice serious again. 'Arthur, I…' he was thankful that his head was in his lap, thankful for an excuse not to face Arthur. 'I'm really messed up right now.' Arthur made a slight noise of fake surprise, which Eames ignored. 'I mean, I… I really care about you and… and I'm thankful - I mean, I…' he stopped, certain he was making this all worse. After all these months… he'd wanted this conversation to happen, for months. Maybe years. But now? Eames struggled to concentrate on what was happening, trying again. 'Arthur, I --' he stopped, his voice cutting out suddenly.
'Hey, Eames, it's okay,' Arthur said gently after a second, leaning forward to try to catch Eames' gaze. 'We can figure this all out later, okay? Or… not. I'm not putting pressure on you. Just… get better for right now, okay?' Eames looked back at him, grateful for Arthur's understanding, and just nodded, not trusting his voice. He felt his chest tighten again, suddenly worried that he had reacted wrong, that he'd messed this up, again, but Arthur's voice interrupted his rising panic.
'Anyway, you don't exactly look your best right now,' Arthur said in a more normal voice, shifting his head back against the tub again. 'Maybe we should save these move moments for when you're not… you know, puking and sweaty.'
Consoled by Arthur's response, Eames tried to force a laugh, tried to act normally as he sat up a bit more. 'Hey, you're the one who just declared your love for me, even though I smell of sick and sweat and I'm so weak you had to help me stand.'
Arthur grinned. 'Actually, I think this may be an improvement to some of the conditions I've seen you in.'
Eames felt his pulse speed up for reasons unrelated to fear or anxiety. He laughed slightly, less forced this time, as he followed Arthur's cue and leaned his head back against the tub again. The slight move made him dizzy and he took a second to recover before speaking again. 'I so want to kiss you right now,' he admitted, staring ahead, and it was true - he wished to God he could grab Arthur, press their lips, their bodies together and have it be normal, not have either one of them have to think about it. 'But I'd probably end up breaking another bone or - or hitting you or something,' he continued, trying to sound light, as if this were some sort of joke.
'Yeah, let's avoid both of those,' Arthur said slowly, his tone dry. 'We're taking it slowly, remember?' There was a beat as Eames tried to dissect what this meant, if he'd crossed some line with his comment. 'I'll try not to be so nice to you, that should make it easier for you,' Arthur said after a moment, and Eames was relieved to hear the note of teasing in his voice. 'And I have to say, as much as I have enjoyed kissing you in the past, you were right - you're not looking your best at the moment, Eames.'
'Mm, thanks.' Eames wanted to have a snappy comeback to this, but was suddenly hit with a wave of exhaustion. He pressed his head further back against the porcelain, closing his eyes. Arthur's confession had apparently sapped what little energy he'd had left, and his head was pounding more harshly, the movement from the moment before exacerbating it. His stomach was more settled now, however, and he just wanted to sleep.
'Think you can make it back to the living room?' he heard Arthur say after a moment, his eyes still closed.
Eames nodded, and was slightly less embarrassed this time when he opened his eyes to see Arthur reaching a hand out to help him up.
----
Eames managed to make it to the couch, with some help from Arthur, and fell asleep almost immediately. When he woke up, he was surprised to see that it was morning. He must have slept for almost five hours, more than he'd managed since the plane ride. He moved slightly, testing to see what new aches and pains would have developed, but nothing new hurt - his stomach was still queasy, his head still sensitive, but both were better than they had been.
He stood up slowly, his head not liking the change in altitude, but luckily his stomach didn't revolt. He grabbed a glass of water left on the table from the night before and felt safe enough to drink some of it, finishing most of it. He replaced the glass quietly, snatching the poker chip beside it and idly playing with it as he started to shakily make his way towards the bathroom.
Arthur was asleep on the chair beside the couch, looking uncomfortable in an awkward pretzel-like pose. Eames watched him, willing him to stay asleep, as he shuffled his way past him slowly.
Christ, he looked ghastly. Eames studied his reflection in the mirror above the sink, his non-broken hand supporting his weight on the basin. He looked truly awful - pale, still sweaty, needed a shave. He wasn't visibly shaking anymore, however, which was a relief. He struggled to suppress a yawn - he still felt exhausted.
Eames paused at the door to the bathroom before leaving, unsure if he was ready to face Arthur if he had woken up. He still felt too numb, too overwhelmed by everything that had taken place in the past twenty-four hours to be able to digest it all, but he felt a thrill run down his spine as he remembered Arthur's confession last night. For the first time, he wasn't worried about being scared of Arthur.
He came out of the bathroom a minute later to see Arthur blinking sleepily from his place in the chair, looking half-awake.
'Good morning,' Arthur said after a moment, voice hoarse from sleep.
Eames grunted in response, falling back down to the couch.
'You look better,' Arthur said, undeterred by this lack of reply.
Eames shot him a look of disbelief - if this was him looking better, he didn't want to think about how bad he must have looked the day before.
Arthur glanced at his wrist. 'It's been about forty hours since your last drink,' he said, looking back at Eames. 'You should be through the worst of all this.'
Eames considered this. He still felt like shit. He was tired, his head ached and the light from the windows was only making it worse; he was so fucking thirsty he felt like he was dying, but was scared to drink too much, lest he puke it all back up; and he was still that weird mix of restless and exhausted at the same time. But he wasn't shaking, wasn't covered in cold sweat, and didn't have his head in the toilet, all of which he supposed was an improvement. 'How do you know?' he asked Arthur, unable to keep the notes of annoyance and frustration out of his voice.
When Arthur didn't answer right away, Eames rolled his eyes and answered for him. 'Fucking research, of course.' He closed his eyes, sinking his head further into the pillow it was laying on. 'So when does your research say this all ends?'
'Soon.' Arthur's tone was impenetrable.
'I still feel like shit,' Eames said.
'That should end soon.'
Eames opened his eyes and raised his head, looking at Arthur. 'I kind of just want a drink,' he confessed, studying Arthur for his reaction.
'I'm not sure that part ends so soon,' Arthur admitted, sounding almost apologetic.
'Hm,' Eames responded, dropping his head and closing his eyes again.
There was a pause, a momentary silence, as Eames once again considered how he felt. He did feel better, if still somewhat awful.
'Thanks,' he mumbled after a few minutes, not sure he wanted Arthur to hear him. He kept his eyes shut.
'Hm?' Arthur didn't sound very awake and Eames lifted his head to look at him - Arthur's eyes were closed again, his body wrapped up in yet another uncomfortable looking position on the chair.
'Thank you,' Eames said slightly louder, clearer. He studied Arthur closely, half hoping he would stay asleep through this.
He didn't. Arthur opened his eyes and met his stare, his gaze drowsy and unclear but his voice strong. 'Don't be stupid, Eames, you don't need to thank me.'
'Yeah, well…' Eames trailed off, not used to any conversations like this. 'Still.'
Arthur looked at him for a long second before closing his eyes again. 'Eames, it was nothing - I told you last night, I want you to be better. Anything I can do to make you better is worth it.'
Eames didn't move, couldn't reply to this. He looked down at the blanket he was wrapped in, wetting his lips but not knowing what to say. After he second he looked back up to see Arthur's eyes open again, watching him. 'Thanks,' he mumbled again. 'I won't mess it up,' he added quietly after another moment.
Apparently satisfied with this, Arthur closed his eyes again. 'Are you going to sleep more?' he asked, his voice still sounding groggy.
Eames laid his head back, his eyelids heavy. 'Hm, I guess.'
'Go to sleep, Mr. Eames.'
Eames couldn't help but grin, his eyes closed. 'You too, darling.'
Epilogue
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 5,300
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 & Part Sixteen..
This is the second to last part… only the epilogue to go now. Thank you, as always, to everyone who reads and who comments!
Part Seventeen
Oh fuck, it was hell.
It hadn't seemed that bad, not at first - it crept up on Eames. He'd managed to fall asleep for a few hours on Arthur's couch, after the pulsing headache had gotten to be too much, and he'd had to cover his head with a pillow to block out any light. He hadn't been able to sleep for long, however - the same headache woke him up, his head feeling as though it was being squeezed, crushed by some powerful force; then his stomach kicked in - flipping over and hurting, not just aching but hurting, as though he was being stabbed; then the shaking started, his whole body trembling; and soon he couldn't keep anything down and he was freezing, fucking freezing, and he couldn't stay still even though he was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to collapse, just to get some bloody sleep. Now, it seemed dying was the only thing that would ever make him feel any better.
He was leaning over the toilet, again, gagging and retching, even though he had passed the point of having anything in his stomach hours ago. His neck and lower back were screaming in pain, cramped from being in the same position for so long, and Eames just wanted to lie down, but every time he moved from his position, another wave of nausea would sweep over him. He spit into the toilet again, trying to rid the acrid taste in his mouth, and glanced at Arthur, who was sitting not far away on the edge of his bathtub, watching Eames.
Pausing for a second, Eames tried to catch his breath as he admitted to himself that, like anything Arthur was involved with planning, his attempt at 'detoxing' Eames - and fuck if Eames didn't still hate using that word, didn't hate the drama of it - had been well thought out, well planned. He'd explained it all to Eames - how he had gotten all the supplies they would need, all the materials he'd read about that might be necessary, how Eames shouldn't worry because only a minority of people going through alcohol withdrawal needed outside medical help.
Eames had sent him a disbelieving look at this, which had only Arthur defensive. 'Look, it can be dangerous, okay? So I researched it.'
'Of course you did,' Eames had replied, his tone wry. He'd still been convinced that Arthur was overreacting, still been more amused by his over-preparation than anything. It had reminded him of working with Arthur, of how he really was the best at what he did precisely because of his tendency for such over-preparation, and Eames couldn't help but find it slightly endearing, even while finding it rather exasperating. 'Arthur - this isn't going to get as bad as you think. I don't even get hangovers.'
Arthur had looked at him steadily. 'Do you ever stop drinking long enough?
Eames hadn't been amused and he'd avoided eye contact, all good will towards Arthur's preparations gone. 'I'll get a headache. That's it.'
Eames was jerked from his memory when his stomach flipped again, causing him to pitch forward into the toilet again, bringing up nothing but burning bile.
'Oh God,' he managed to stutter after what seemed like another hour, finally leaning back and attempting to steady his heaving breath. He stayed hunched over, his hands still on the toilet and his forehead on his forearms, careful of his bandaged hand. His stomach hurt from the seemingly endless muscle contractions and his head was still pounding as though someone had tied a tight vice around it. Everything hurt.
He stayed like this for a second until he could look up, immediately searching beside him for his totem. It was lying to his right, where he had dropped it, and he palmed it quickly, his hands still shaking, as he felt Arthur watch him from his seat above.
'Okay?' Arthur asked. When Eames looked towards him, Arthur handed him a washcloth, which Eames accepted with clammy hands.
'Cheers,' he said, wiping his face slowly, trying unsuccessfully to still his hands.
'You're not going to like my next suggestion,' Arthur said after another moment, 'but you really need to eat something.'
Eames raised a hand to silence him, even as his stomach lurched and he felt another wave of nausea. 'Please don't mention food,' he mumbled, closing his eyes briefly and swallowing slightly, gently.
'It might help,' Arthur said, standing up. 'I have some fruit in the kitchen, that's supposed to be the best thing for this.' Eames closed his eyes again, unmoving, and tried to ignore Arthur. 'Come on, Eames,' he heard Arthur say a second later, the sound echoing through his headache. 'I'll help you up, okay?'
He opened his eyes to see Arthur reaching a hand out and Eames considered it for a second. He wished that he could trust himself to stand on his own, that he didn't need to rely on Arthur's help, but he was shaky and weak and it would be more embarrassing to attempt to stand on his own and fail than it would be to accept the help.
He gripped the offered arm and Arthur helped him stand, Eames shaking him off immediately. His head swam as the blood rushed from it and Eames clutched at the sink, white knuckling it to make sure he stayed upright.
'You okay?' Arthur asked, just watching.
'Yeah just gimme --' Eames began but too quickly his vision dimmed and he felt his knees start to give out. He tried to keep his grip on the sink, but felt Arthur lunge at him from behind, seizing him by his upper arms and steadying him. Eames blinked, trying to bring his vision back, and slumped forward, held up only by Arthur's hands and the sink's basin.
'Fuck,' he managed a few seconds later, when he could manage to stand almost on his own. He took a step back, forcing Arthur to drop his hands. He let go of the sink hesitantly, and sunk back to the floor. 'I think - maybe I'll stay in here for a bit,' Eames said after a moment, trying to make his voice light as his heart rate slowed down. The room was spinning, just the slightest bit, and it was making his stomach and head worse.
'I can help you if you want to get back to the couch, let --' Arthur began.
'No,' Eames said quickly, and was immediately embarrassed at his curt tone.
There was a beat. 'Or we can stay here.' Arthur sat back down on the edge of the tub, as Eames moved slightly, slowly, so his back was beside him on the white porcelain, just a few inches from touching Arthur's leg.
'Fuck,' Eames said after a moment, taking a deep breath with his eyes still closed, his head back against the cool porcelain of the tub. 'I'm so bloody sick of having everything be out of control. I mean - Jesus, I can't even stand up right now.' He laughed dryly, unsure what else to do. 'I can't keep anything down, can't sleep more than a few hours a night, God knows if I can still dream or forge or anything - my whole bloody life is in shambles and I can't even stand up.'
He opened his eyes, glancing up at Arthur quickly before he could respond. 'I meant what I said - I don't blame you. But bloody hell, Arthur - everything is so fucked up and he - fucking Murray - wasn't even trying to get to me. I was just collateral damage.'
'Eames, I'm sorry --'
'Stop,' Eames interrupted, firmly but not spitefully. 'Don't. I'm not saying this to make you feel guilty, or to make you feel like you have something to apologise for. It's just - I never even met Murray, not until this was all over. It does my head in, you know?' He barked a laugh and couldn't stop this from sounding bitter. 'No, of course you don't.'
'You know, Eames,' Arthur said after a moment, speaking slowly and clearly considering his words. 'Maybe it would be a good idea, along with dealing with the physical effects of the last few months, if you dealt with the… less physical ones.' Eames glanced up at him, confusion on his face. 'Maybe it would be good if you talked to someone about - about all of this.'
Eames laughed again, still dry. 'Gonna recommend me a good psychiatrist, Arthur? How very American of you.'
'Hey, it could be helpful, that's all.' Arthur's voice had a note of defensiveness in it that Eames wasn't expecting and he looked at him once more, studying him for a moment before replying.
'Other problems aside,' he said after a moment, 'don't you think some of my less legal... practices might be a bit of a complication?'
Arthur shrugged, apparently unbothered. 'I could find someone to trust,' he said simply.
Eames watched him for a moment, before decisively looking away. 'I don't think so.'
'Fine… but I do thinking talking about this all might help.' Eames pulled a face, unconvinced. 'Even if it's just to Yusuf or Ariadne or… or me.'
'There's nothing to tell,' Eames brushed him off quickly, suddenly much more nervous as to where this conversation was headed. 'You already know everything.' Eames was trying for a droll, bored tone, but his voice just sounded weak. He stared ahead, not turning to Arthur, and clutched his hands together, trying unsuccessfully to stop their shaking.
The disbelief in Arthur's voice was obvious as he echoed his words. 'Nothing to tell?'
'Oh, I'm sorry, Arthur,' Eames began before he was sure what he was doing, and some of the weakness drained from his voice, replaced by an angry, cutting tone. 'Did you want the fine details? Do you want to know everything that Murray did to me - that you did to me, that you made me do? Do you want to know how Murray used your body, used your --'
'Stop it.' Arthur spoke coldly, harshly, and Eames stopped, staring resolutely ahead and biting at the inside of his lip. 'That's not fair, Eames,' Arthur continued more softly after a second. 'You know that's not what I meant.'
'There's nothing to tell.'
'Okay,' Arthur said, his tone still unbelieving but apparently giving up. 'Fine, nothing.'
'What do you want from me, Arthur?' Eames said suddenly, and despite his dizziness, the palsy in his hands and body, and all his aches and pains, he managed to twist so that he could face Arthur, still on the floor in front of him. 'What do you want me to talk about? Some asshole that I never even fucking met destroyed my life, kidnapped me and - and fucking - attacked me.' He broke his gaze from Arthur's, embarrassed that after all this time he couldn't bring himself to say what had happened, what Murray had done to him. 'What do you expect me to talk about?' he repeated after a moment, looking back at Arthur.
Arthur didn't back down, sounding resolute when he answered, looking at Eames. 'I'm just worried that if you don't talk about this, if you keep trying to pretend everything is fine all of the time, this detox won't mean anything. It will be a waste of time because you'll just go back to drinking yourself to death every night to deal with what happened and Eames - I told you, I'm not letting you do that.'
Eames clenched his jaw, trying to maintain eye contact through his headache, but only lasted for a second, before shifting his gaze to the tiled floor and taking a shaky breath. 'Shit, Arthur, I… I just want everything to go back to normal. I want this all to be over and to be - to be fucking better. I thought killing Murray would do it, I thought being with you would do it, I thought being with someone fucking else would do it, but nothing ever does. Nothing makes this better.' He cut off suddenly, afraid his voice would break.
'It will get better, Eames. It will.' Eames looked back at Arthur, afraid he would see pity in his face, but mostly Arthur just looked sad. 'You just need to stop putting so much pressure on yourself - you can't expect something dramatic to happen and make everything that happened melt away. It takes time. Time when you're sober,' he added.
'I can't even --' Eames stopped again, closing his eyes briefly in frustration. 'I haven't dreamed in months. Or, I have actually,' he chuckled slightly, with no trace of amusement. 'Nightmares. But no dream sharing. I don't even know…' he trailed off, not wanting to voice the full idea. He felt a rush of fear, fear that he had lost the only thing he was truly a genius at, and he clenched his jaw as he a wave of nausea followed it.
'So we'll work on it,' Arthur said, in his usual straight-forward voice. 'Start with long walks on the beach or something,' he grinned. 'I dunno, something inconsequential, ease you back into it.'
Eames worried at his inner lip again, his nausea fading back to its usual tolerable level. 'We?'
'Yeah - you can get back to normal, Eames. Just. Maybe not all by yourself.' Arthur didn't look directly at Eames as he said this, studying the wall slightly to his right.
Eames looked at Arthur, and once again felt a rush of affection so strong that it surprised him, crowding above his nausea, his feverish shivering and sweating. He averted his gaze almost immediately, however, as a sense of shame followed instantly. 'I'm sorry,' he said softly after a minute. He was so tired, suddenly all too aware of his exhaustion again. Just sitting up was taking all he had, but he resisted the urge to twist back around, instead looking back at Arthur. 'I don't… I know you're helping me here, and I appreciate it. I'm sorry I keep… keep being difficult.'
Arthur snickered, and Eames narrowed his eyes, unsure what that meant. 'You're always difficult, Eames. This is just a new, fun form of difficulty.'
Eames rolled his eyes. 'Thanks, Arthur.' He paused for a beat. 'I'll try to be less difficult.'
Arthur's laughed slightly. 'I'll believe that when I see it.'
Eames glared at him. He knew Arthur was joking, could recognise on some level that this was the sort of teasing that was normal to both of them, and on any other day, where Eames wasn't struggling just to sit up, it would have rolled off his back. In his current situation, however, Eames felt a surge of annoyance. 'I'm glad this is hilarious to you,' he said, turning back around slowly. He pressed his back into the tub, feeling its coolness through his sweat-soaked shirt.
'Eames, it's not hilarious,' he heard Arthur say, sounding apologetic. 'Look, I get that you're not feeling well, that a lot of stuff is going on, that's all I meant. You don't have to apologise.'
'Why are you doing this, anyway?' Eames couldn't help but ask, feeling bolder now that he couldn't see Arthur's face. He brought a hand up to his forehead, wiping at the sweat on his brow and trying to ease the headache that was still making his head pound. 'It can't be fun. You said you're not doing this because you think you owe me. What are you getting out of this?'
Arthur laughed slightly again, but this time without a trace of amusement. 'Jesus, Eames, I'm not getting anything out of this, I told you. And, no, it's not fun. But you know why I'm doing this. You're not this dense, Eames.'
'Why?' Eames pressed, his back still to Arthur. He didn't allow himself to think too hard, wanting only to hear what Arthur said.
'Why? God, Eames…' Arthur trailed off for a second, and Eames waited, closing his eyes and laying his head back against the porcelain but listening intently. 'I told you - it's been hell watching you the last few months. I can't imagine how bad its been for you, but watching it… I couldn't let you keep doing that. I care about you, Eames, I'm not going to let you destroy yourself.'
Eames' stomach jerked at this, but not from nausea. He hadn't had time to think about all that Arthur had said the night before, what he had admitted, but he didn't want Arthur to admit things now that he'd take back later, when he no longer felt bad, when Eames was no longer in such a pathetic position. He let out a sarcastic-sounding laugh. 'Don't. Don't pretend this is something it's not because you feel guilty.'
There was a pause before Arthur answered, but Eames stayed still, didn't twist to see him. 'This isn't about guilt, Eames,' he said finally, and his voice had something in it that Eames couldn't place. 'You have to know it's not. Look, I - I waited a long time to ever… ever do anything with you. Ever give into your constant - seriously, constant - advances because I didn't think you were serious or because I didn't want to mess up our working relationship or occasionally because you were just driving me crazy, but I thought long and hard before inviting you back after the Fischer case. I waited a long fucking time and I'm not going to let you destroy yourself and push me away just because someone else realised what you meant to me and twisted it.'
Eames bit his lip, feeling his chest tighten and his breath hitch. He swallowed hard, writing off this sudden rise of emotions as part of the withdrawal symptoms. 'What are you trying to say here, Arthur?' he said after a minute, his voice sounding almost as shaky as his hands felt.
Eames felt a shift behind him as Arthur rose from his seat on the side of the tub and sat down beside Eames, careful to be close but not touching him. Eames watched him warily, but didn't move. 'I'm saying I care about you,' Arthur said slowly, taking advantage of his new position to look at Eames. 'And that… and I dunno, I love you or whatever and I'm doing this because you deserve to not be killing yourself. Because I want you to be happier than you've been in months. Because, I dunno, I want you to stay here, with me, and not have you drunk all the time.'
Eames didn't move, eyeing Arthur. 'You… you "love me or whatever"?' he said after a minute, unsure how to react. His brain had frozen, and Eames could do nothing but watch Arthur for a moment. Arthur looked at him and opened his mouth to reply, but Eames suddenly spoke before he could, looking down at the floor, away from Arthur. 'Why, Arthur, you've always had such a need for specificity… interesting to see this fails you when you have to play the role of a romantic.' Eames tried for the teasing tone he used to use so often with Arthur, but wasn't sure he managed it. He fought the urge to look back at Arthur, unsure what the response would be.
'Sorry, Eames, shall I be more specific?' Arthur had adopted a similar teasing tone. 'I love you,' he said simply. 'Specific enough for you?'
Eames looked at him again, trying to judge how serious he was, and Arthur went on after a moment of silence, 'More specific, still?' The teasing note was gone from his voice. 'Eames, I love you. I want to spend time with you when we're both awake and not solely planning on fleecing some poor unsuspecting mark out of his money or ideas, I'd like you to be sober when I spend time with you, I want to do ridiculously mundane things with you like going out for dinner or having a pizza, I want to build cities with you in dreams and --' He stopped for a second, raising an eyebrow. 'Well, shall I go on?'
Eames couldn't help the grin that he felt on his face, despite his headache. 'I'm not going to stop you.' Ignoring the pain in his head and stomach was suddenly easier as Eames focused on Arthur, his heart beating faster and harder than it had a few minutes before, finally not from fear.
Arthur rolled his eyes, but was still smiling and dutifully continued. 'I think you're very attractive - despite the fact that you obviously know it and never seem to shut up about it --'
'You're ruining the romance of the moment again, Arthur,' Eames broke in, still grinning.
'Oh, I'm sorry - I'm declaring my love for you despite the fact that you just vomited all over my bathroom, and I'm ruining the romantic moment?' Arthur said, in a tone of mock-outrage, watching Eames carefully.
Eames actually smiled at this, before another stabbing pain from his head wiped the smile from his face. He brought up his knees and sat forward, pressing his head into his knees and allowing his hands to go to his still-aching stomach. He tried to keep the pain out of his voice as he answered Arthur after a moment, his voice serious again. 'Arthur, I…' he was thankful that his head was in his lap, thankful for an excuse not to face Arthur. 'I'm really messed up right now.' Arthur made a slight noise of fake surprise, which Eames ignored. 'I mean, I… I really care about you and… and I'm thankful - I mean, I…' he stopped, certain he was making this all worse. After all these months… he'd wanted this conversation to happen, for months. Maybe years. But now? Eames struggled to concentrate on what was happening, trying again. 'Arthur, I --' he stopped, his voice cutting out suddenly.
'Hey, Eames, it's okay,' Arthur said gently after a second, leaning forward to try to catch Eames' gaze. 'We can figure this all out later, okay? Or… not. I'm not putting pressure on you. Just… get better for right now, okay?' Eames looked back at him, grateful for Arthur's understanding, and just nodded, not trusting his voice. He felt his chest tighten again, suddenly worried that he had reacted wrong, that he'd messed this up, again, but Arthur's voice interrupted his rising panic.
'Anyway, you don't exactly look your best right now,' Arthur said in a more normal voice, shifting his head back against the tub again. 'Maybe we should save these move moments for when you're not… you know, puking and sweaty.'
Consoled by Arthur's response, Eames tried to force a laugh, tried to act normally as he sat up a bit more. 'Hey, you're the one who just declared your love for me, even though I smell of sick and sweat and I'm so weak you had to help me stand.'
Arthur grinned. 'Actually, I think this may be an improvement to some of the conditions I've seen you in.'
Eames felt his pulse speed up for reasons unrelated to fear or anxiety. He laughed slightly, less forced this time, as he followed Arthur's cue and leaned his head back against the tub again. The slight move made him dizzy and he took a second to recover before speaking again. 'I so want to kiss you right now,' he admitted, staring ahead, and it was true - he wished to God he could grab Arthur, press their lips, their bodies together and have it be normal, not have either one of them have to think about it. 'But I'd probably end up breaking another bone or - or hitting you or something,' he continued, trying to sound light, as if this were some sort of joke.
'Yeah, let's avoid both of those,' Arthur said slowly, his tone dry. 'We're taking it slowly, remember?' There was a beat as Eames tried to dissect what this meant, if he'd crossed some line with his comment. 'I'll try not to be so nice to you, that should make it easier for you,' Arthur said after a moment, and Eames was relieved to hear the note of teasing in his voice. 'And I have to say, as much as I have enjoyed kissing you in the past, you were right - you're not looking your best at the moment, Eames.'
'Mm, thanks.' Eames wanted to have a snappy comeback to this, but was suddenly hit with a wave of exhaustion. He pressed his head further back against the porcelain, closing his eyes. Arthur's confession had apparently sapped what little energy he'd had left, and his head was pounding more harshly, the movement from the moment before exacerbating it. His stomach was more settled now, however, and he just wanted to sleep.
'Think you can make it back to the living room?' he heard Arthur say after a moment, his eyes still closed.
Eames nodded, and was slightly less embarrassed this time when he opened his eyes to see Arthur reaching a hand out to help him up.
----
Eames managed to make it to the couch, with some help from Arthur, and fell asleep almost immediately. When he woke up, he was surprised to see that it was morning. He must have slept for almost five hours, more than he'd managed since the plane ride. He moved slightly, testing to see what new aches and pains would have developed, but nothing new hurt - his stomach was still queasy, his head still sensitive, but both were better than they had been.
He stood up slowly, his head not liking the change in altitude, but luckily his stomach didn't revolt. He grabbed a glass of water left on the table from the night before and felt safe enough to drink some of it, finishing most of it. He replaced the glass quietly, snatching the poker chip beside it and idly playing with it as he started to shakily make his way towards the bathroom.
Arthur was asleep on the chair beside the couch, looking uncomfortable in an awkward pretzel-like pose. Eames watched him, willing him to stay asleep, as he shuffled his way past him slowly.
Christ, he looked ghastly. Eames studied his reflection in the mirror above the sink, his non-broken hand supporting his weight on the basin. He looked truly awful - pale, still sweaty, needed a shave. He wasn't visibly shaking anymore, however, which was a relief. He struggled to suppress a yawn - he still felt exhausted.
Eames paused at the door to the bathroom before leaving, unsure if he was ready to face Arthur if he had woken up. He still felt too numb, too overwhelmed by everything that had taken place in the past twenty-four hours to be able to digest it all, but he felt a thrill run down his spine as he remembered Arthur's confession last night. For the first time, he wasn't worried about being scared of Arthur.
He came out of the bathroom a minute later to see Arthur blinking sleepily from his place in the chair, looking half-awake.
'Good morning,' Arthur said after a moment, voice hoarse from sleep.
Eames grunted in response, falling back down to the couch.
'You look better,' Arthur said, undeterred by this lack of reply.
Eames shot him a look of disbelief - if this was him looking better, he didn't want to think about how bad he must have looked the day before.
Arthur glanced at his wrist. 'It's been about forty hours since your last drink,' he said, looking back at Eames. 'You should be through the worst of all this.'
Eames considered this. He still felt like shit. He was tired, his head ached and the light from the windows was only making it worse; he was so fucking thirsty he felt like he was dying, but was scared to drink too much, lest he puke it all back up; and he was still that weird mix of restless and exhausted at the same time. But he wasn't shaking, wasn't covered in cold sweat, and didn't have his head in the toilet, all of which he supposed was an improvement. 'How do you know?' he asked Arthur, unable to keep the notes of annoyance and frustration out of his voice.
When Arthur didn't answer right away, Eames rolled his eyes and answered for him. 'Fucking research, of course.' He closed his eyes, sinking his head further into the pillow it was laying on. 'So when does your research say this all ends?'
'Soon.' Arthur's tone was impenetrable.
'I still feel like shit,' Eames said.
'That should end soon.'
Eames opened his eyes and raised his head, looking at Arthur. 'I kind of just want a drink,' he confessed, studying Arthur for his reaction.
'I'm not sure that part ends so soon,' Arthur admitted, sounding almost apologetic.
'Hm,' Eames responded, dropping his head and closing his eyes again.
There was a pause, a momentary silence, as Eames once again considered how he felt. He did feel better, if still somewhat awful.
'Thanks,' he mumbled after a few minutes, not sure he wanted Arthur to hear him. He kept his eyes shut.
'Hm?' Arthur didn't sound very awake and Eames lifted his head to look at him - Arthur's eyes were closed again, his body wrapped up in yet another uncomfortable looking position on the chair.
'Thank you,' Eames said slightly louder, clearer. He studied Arthur closely, half hoping he would stay asleep through this.
He didn't. Arthur opened his eyes and met his stare, his gaze drowsy and unclear but his voice strong. 'Don't be stupid, Eames, you don't need to thank me.'
'Yeah, well…' Eames trailed off, not used to any conversations like this. 'Still.'
Arthur looked at him for a long second before closing his eyes again. 'Eames, it was nothing - I told you last night, I want you to be better. Anything I can do to make you better is worth it.'
Eames didn't move, couldn't reply to this. He looked down at the blanket he was wrapped in, wetting his lips but not knowing what to say. After he second he looked back up to see Arthur's eyes open again, watching him. 'Thanks,' he mumbled again. 'I won't mess it up,' he added quietly after another moment.
Apparently satisfied with this, Arthur closed his eyes again. 'Are you going to sleep more?' he asked, his voice still sounding groggy.
Eames laid his head back, his eyelids heavy. 'Hm, I guess.'
'Go to sleep, Mr. Eames.'
Eames couldn't help but grin, his eyes closed. 'You too, darling.'
Epilogue