Fic: When I Grew Up [Inception]
Title: When I Grew Up
Character/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, Cobb, Phillipa (mentions of Ariadne, Saito, Yusuf, James)
Rating: PG - 13
Word Count: 6,443
Disclaimer: Mr. Nolan owns it all
Warnings: Language, mentions of an eating disorder
Summary: Phillipa Marjorie Cobb is eleven years old the first time she sees her Uncle Arthur break down and cry. She's eleven and a half the first time he makes her cry.
Author's Notes: Written for my bidder zeto on help_pakistan , who requested a sequel to "When I was a Child" and for the hc_bingo square "sensory deprivation."
Phillipa Marjorie Cobb is eleven years old the first time she sees her Uncle Arthur break down and cry.
It goes like this: Phillipa is kneeling on the dirty concrete floor of an abandoned, decrepit warehouse, cold and tired, eyes red-rimmed from crying, throat hoarse from screaming. Daddy's rushing toward her, arms outstretched and enveloping her in a crushing embrace, crying with relief and whispering that it's okay, it's okay, you're safe now, everything will be all right. But Phillipa only has eyes for her Uncle Arthur, who's dirtying the knees of his perfectly pressed and tailored trousers as he too kneels on the floor, cradling Uncle Eames' body in his arms - and it's not all right; nothing is all right, how can anything be all right ever again when Uncle Arthur's bowing his head over Uncle Eames' still, beaten and bloodied form and screaming out in heartache?
"Phillipa." Daddy's trying to turn her away from the sight, but Phillipa won't have any of it; she fights against his hold and her feet slip in something wet; she looks down to see that it's a puddle of blood. "Phillipa, don't-"
Uncle Arthur's mouth is an open cavern, the howl coming from his throat sounds like that of a wild animal's and his movements are sharp and clumsy as he clutches Uncle Eames' body close, fighting the paramedics trying to separate and remove corpse from grieving man, literally snarling unintelligibly at those who dare to venture near. His eyes - always so serious and intelligent and kind - are wide and wild, wet and lost like that of an abandoned child's as he gazes around, blind in his despair.
Phillipa clutches Daddy's arm and squeezes her eyes shut, because she's never wanted to see her Uncle Arthur reduced to a sobbing mess like this; he's always been so cool, calm and collected no matter what the circumstance. He's the smartest man in the world, he's her champion when Daddy can't be, he's her Uncle Arthur and this isn't right, it's not right, it's not-
- - - - -
She wakes with a gasp, blinking against the unwelcome and unwanted remnants of the horrific image, eyes adjusting to the darkness of her bedroom. Just a dream, Phillipa tells herself, pulling the coverlet up to her chin with a shiver, just a dream.
Except it wasn't and she knows it all too well.
Rolling over on her side, she flicks on the bedside lamp and props her chin up in her hands, gazing at the pictures lined up neatly on the bedside table. There's one of Mom and Daddy together on their wedding day, a photo that Phillipa had found up in the attic and subsequently claimed for her own. Mom is beautiful in her white dress, dark brown hair perfectly coifed and swept away from her face, smiling at the camera the same smile Phillipa sees in the mirror. Daddy gazes at her like she's both the sun and the moon, adoration and pure love shining out through his gentle eyes, a look that Phillipa rarely ever sees anymore.
Quietly, she sends a quick prayer up to her Mother in Heaven before turning her attention back to the framed and neatly arranged pictures, looking over one of Miss Ariadne and her fiancee (Phillipa had been promised a spot as a maid of honor), one of her and James and Daddy, one of her and Uncle Arthur (she still remembers that day with perfectly clarity, of the day she got into her first fistfight at nine years old, how angry that idiot boy had made her when he called Uncle Arthur a word Phillipa dares not repeat ever again, not even in her thoughts, and how Uncle Arthur made everything right again as he always does, drying her tears and taking her out for ice cream afterwards), before settling on one that makes her heart squeeze tight in her chest.
Phillipa remembers the day well, filled to near bursting with cake and ice cream - it'd been her birthday after all, the eleventh - and running around with the Hasselblad camera Mr. Saito had gifted her with (Daddy's eyes had nearly bugged out of his head when Phillipa ripped away the last piece of tissue paper, looking rather like a fish as he turned to Mr. Saito, mouth open to form a protest. Mr. Saito had merely smiled, patted Daddy's shoulder, and that had been that.), looking for things to "shoot" (as all professional photographers said), and had come upon her two uncles, standing a bit apart from all the festivities, having what Miss Ariadne would call 'a moment'. Without thinking, Phillipa had raised the camera, focused the lens, and took the picture.
Her eyes well with tears as she now looks at it, at Uncle Arthur still dressed as sharp as ever, charcoal three-piece suit and all - but his tie is loosened, two buttons at his collar undone, and his eyes are closed, head tipped back on one broad shoulder, one hand resting on the arms encircling his waist. His languid posture suggests that the pose he's in, leaning back against Uncle Eames' strong chest, is comfortable and familiar, the rays of the sunset catching the small, pleased smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. Uncle Eames is gazing at him, normally mischievous eyes softened into something private and tender, very much like the look Daddy directs at Mom in their wedding picture.
The flash of the camera had startled Uncle Arthur out of his position, and he'd gone extremely red in the face whereas Uncle Eames simply laughed and told Phillipa to send them a copy when she got it developed. It'd been in her book bag when Uncle Eames picked her up from school a week later, the same day they'd been taken by the nameless, faceless monsters she still has nightmares about, still wakes up screaming Uncle Eames, Uncle Eames, no!!
It's been six months since then.
And Uncle Eames still hasn't woken up.
* - * - *
It's dark here. He doesn't know where he is, doesn't know how he got here, doesn't remember what came before or what may or may not come after, only knows that there's the darkness. And that's all there's been for the longest time.
His fingers are bloody, his fingernails long gone by now, having been ripped to shreds by his frantic digging and clawing at the emptiness around him. And it's strange, strange because this isn't Limbo and this isn't a dream, but he's been trying to leave here for the longest time, wherever here is, and he can't. The panic swells within him like the crest of a wave and he beats his fists against nothing, writhes and twists against restraints he can't sense or see or touch, to no avail.
He screams out soundlessly into the silence, and no one comes, no one answers, no one even hears him.
* - * - *
"Uncle Arthur?"
He looks up from where his eyes have been glued to the far wall, standing stiffly, aching all over from his constant vigil in the uncomfortable plastic chair. Phillipa steps into the room, flip-flops slapping noisily against the tile floors in cacophony to the steady beep beep beep of the heart monitors, long brown hair streaming out behind her (Christ, she looks more and more like Mal everyday) as she more or less flings herself at him, throwing her arms around his waist and hugging him tight. "Hey, Uncle Arthur," she whispers against his waistcoat, and he kisses the top of her hair in response before glancing up at Cobb.
"You really don't have to come every weekend," he says quietly as Phillipa tiptoes over to Eames' bedside, carefully laying the single sunflower (Eames' favorite) on the adjoining table, leaning over to brush a kiss on the forger's cheek ("Hi, Uncle Eames. I missed you."). Arthur watches the simple, sincere action and has to look away, lest the burning in his eyes manifest as tears. "I know it's a long drive."
Cobb is watching him closely. "Phillipa insisted," he replies slowly, and then lowers his voice. "Arthur, are you okay?"
Arthur huffs out a derisive bark of laughter, because really, what the hell kind of a question is that? Cobb's eyes narrow shrewdly, and then the other man is grabbing his elbow and firmly steering him out of the room, and Arthur goes willingly, docile and without complaint although his nerves are so high-strung he could snap Cobb's radius over his knee in the blink of an eye.
"No," is the first thing Cobb says once they're out of Philipa's earshot, and the former extractor's crossing his arms across his chest too, doing his best to pull a stern don't contradict me expression. "Whatever it is you're planning on doing Arthur, no."
Arthur quirks an eyebrow. He's immune to any and all of Cobb's looks (they've lost some of their sharpness over the years, softened for the purposes of rebuking children instead of keeping unruly forgers and point men in line); knowing a man for close to two decades will do that, and besides, he's not the type of man who intimidates easily anyway, and both of them know it. "I don't know what you're talking about, Cobb." His voice is hollow-sounding, hoarse from disuse.
"Look." Cobb shakes his head in frustration, and runs his fingers through his hair. Arthur notes with detached interest that the blonde's hairline is receding ever so slightly, the evidence of years gone by and the stress of single fatherhood. "You can't keep doing this, Arthur. Have you seen yourself, lately?"
Arthur shrugs. He has, as a matter of fact, and wonders vaguely what that has to do with anything, what his sharpening jawline and hollowed out cheeks have to do with trying to wake Eames up, what the listless sheen of his eyes or the pallor of his skin have to do with the way Cobb is starting to look like one of those bobblehead dolls tourists buy in overpriced gimmicky shops to set up on their dashboards. "I'm fine, Cobb." Ignoring the dubious glance the flat-sounding reassurance provokes, he continues. "Have you heard back from Saito's researchers?"
"They haven't found anything yet."
His lips twist into a bitter, wry smile. "Of course they haven't." And they won't. What could mere scientists possibly discover that Arthur hasn't already investigated, scrutinized, and probed from every which angle? Arthur's job is to research and uncover everything from dirty little secrets to the possible cure for cancer, and he is incontestably very good at what he does, living up to his title as best in the business, even years after the successful inception, even after Cobb's retirement, even after what had happened six months ago. Just last week, he'd completed a job by providing thorough intel and complete background checks on the mark, the mark's extensive family, and extensive extended family - all without leaving Eames' bedside, one hand gripping the forger's tightly, thumb rubbing continuous circles over Eames' scarred, bumpy knuckles.
He turns his head, looking through the observation window and past the thin gauzy material of the open curtains. Phillipa's carefully climbing up onto the side of the bed, careful not to jostle anything as Eames lies there, a hollow shell of the man he once was, paler than the sheets and thinner than Arthur can ever remember - a shell with a tube down his throat, a needle in his wrist, and all manners of wires and machines helping him breathe, bleed, piss, exist.
They're dead, the ones who dared to do this, to reduce the forger to such a state - killed in all painful manners of execution. Arthur is a criminal, and he knows this. He knows how to play the game; pain is not a new or unfamiliar concept to the point man, and he knows his way around the human anatomy better than some of the top leading surgeons in the entire world. So, like a point man should, he'd been thorough in the hunt, he'd been relentless in the pursuit, and he'd been merciless in the kill - and yes, he had indeed exacted his vengeance - but it hadn't brought Eames back.
And, as of yet, nothing has.
- - - - -
"I brought this for you."
Phillipa retrieves the framed picture from her backpack and carefully places it on the bedside table, right next to the sunflowers (her single stalk and the giant arrangement sent by Mr. Saito). Her feet dangle about half a foot off the floor and she swings her legs back and forth slowly, eyes fixed on the image of her two uncles together before turning to look reality full in the face.
Uncle Eames looks terrible. If not for the slight rise and fall of his chest - only made possible by any number of machines - he would look dead, like he did that day in the warehouse, cradled in Uncle Arthur's arms, lying there limply like a broken doll, like that time so long ago, when Phillipa had smashed the Sally from down the street's porcelain doll and watched the pieces scatter in smug satisfaction as Sally shrieked and promptly burst into tears. (She'd deserved it, anyway. No one throws a rock at Uncle Arthur's car and gets away with it. Not if Phillipa Marjorie Cobb has anything to say about it.)
The doll had been fixed, but it was damn ugly after the repair made with Elmer's glue. It never looked the same again. Sally threw it out along with the rest of the garbage.
"Brandon kept looking at me again today," she tells him, toying absently with a loose thread on the fringe of her shirt. "Molly says it's because he likes me, but I don't like him. He's such a jerk. I wish I could bring you or Uncle Arthur to school to make him leave me alone."
Beep. Beep. Beep.
"James couldn't come today. He had to finish a science project at a friend's house or something. But he says to tell you hi, so. Hi from Jamie, I guess."
Beep. Beep. Beep.
"I'm no good at this, Uncle Eames. You always said I was a lot like Uncle Arthur: a lot of skill, but no imagination. I still don't know what that really means." Phillipa stares out the window, watching a fat bluebird settle on a branch far too slender for its considerable bulk, vaguely wondering if it'll fall - and if it does, could it possibly save itself by flying away? "My stories are always so boring. I miss yours." She swallows hard, and then realizes that she's been talking down at her feet this entire time, unwilling to turn to look at the pale, thin shadow wasting away in a hospital bed. "I miss you so much."
Uncle Eames is silent. He used to tell her stories, used to make her laugh, used to call her dove and tease her about the boys at school, used to say how he would hurt any boy who dared to make her cry in a jovial tone, but with a dangerous spark in his eye that Phillipa knew to be the truth. He used to.
"You lied, Uncle Eames," Phillipa says suddenly, and turns around, glaring ferociously - maybe not with all the heat of a woman scorned, but definitely with all the indignation of a child discovering that Daddy puts the presents under the tree, Mommy's the one who leaves the quarters behind in exchange for teeth, and that the truth is a lot uglier than it seems. "You said everything would be okay, and it's not. It's not!"
She kneels on the bed and grasps either side of Uncle Eames' face, willing him to wake, willing him with all her might to make good on his promise. "I kicked you once because you made Uncle Arthur sad," she whispers, and her vision is going blurry with tears; one drops onto the pristine white sheets. "I remember doing it, too. That was a long time ago and I'm obviously too old for that." Her voice trembles, rises, breaks. "But I still know how to kick - and if you don't wake up soon, I'm going to kick you again because now you're making Uncle Arthur cry!!"
Daddies aren't supposed to cry, this Phillipa knows, but she's seen her father cry before: when he came back from his extended "vacation" (she knows better than that now, but Uncle Arthur's told her not to pry, so she's left well enough alone), and every year when they go to visit Mom's grave. He thinks she doesn't see, but Phillipa has always had sharp eyes, and truly, Daddy isn't nearly half as good at hiding things as he thinks. But Uncle Arthur isn't supposed to cry. And for eleven years, she'd never seen him shed a single tear, until six months ago.
It breaks her heart.
"So you see," Phillipa whispers meekly, "you have to wake up. You have to, Uncle Eames." Because Uncle Arthur is broken, she thinks but doesn't dare say out loud as she leans her head down against his and cries softly into the pillow. Because Uncle Arthur is hurt and you're the only one who can fix it. "Wake up. Wake up. Please."
But Uncle Eames still doesn't.
* - * - *
He thinks he hears a voice brushing at the edges of his mind and he strains his ears, catching only the faintest whispers of a voice he definitely recognizes, a voice he can remember once demanding "go say SORRY" in a surprisingly vicious roar of childish indignation and great wisdom.
He sees then, in his mind's eye, a beautiful child with cornsilk hair and big brown eyes, scowling at him for daring to "hurt" her beloved Uncle Arthur, booting him in the shin (he'd actually limped around for days after, much to Arthur's amusement). And then she's not so little anymore, she's a sneaky little thing with a camera and a sly smile, she's screaming in fright as the car plunges down the side of a steep ravine, she's crying and he bites back the pain to wipe away her tears and tells her that it's going to be okay.
But who is she? He loves her - he knows that much, he loves her because she is precious to him and to Arthur - but who then, is Arthur? And that thought strikes fear into him like never before, terror straight to his core because that is an awful question to consider, "who is Arthur" - how could he possibly forget?
Wake up, she whispers, wake up.
But how?
* - * - *
Uncle Arthur has dinner with them that night.
It's a tradition, and has been for as long as Phillipa can remember - Saturday nights are Uncle Eames and Uncle Arthur nights, when the former will regale the Cobb children with wild tales that he spins out of thin air, his words like golden string weaving in and out of each other into a tapestry of magic and wonder as the latter talks business with Daddy behind closed doors, but they're together, all of them, and she loves it.
Phillipa really doesn't get the girls at school who roll their eyes and scoff at having to suffer "family night", speaking of heinously boring board games or their parents' awkward attempts to be cool and "hang with the kids" because Uncle Arthur and Eames are cool by nature, because she wouldn't give up these nights for anything - not for shopping trips to buy junk she doesn't need or gossiping about the boys at school. The only boys she finds important in her life are her family, and Phillipa likes it that way, thanks very much.
Tonight though, like every Saturday for the past six months, there are no stories. Uncle Arthur doesn't smile, doesn't loosen his tie, doesn't even eat although he helped Daddy in the kitchen for close to two hours, making baked macaroni and cheese with mashed potatoes and cole slaw - James' favorite.
Uncle Eames' chair sits empty.
The missing space at the dinner table haunts Phillipa as she gets ready for bed, as she says goodnight to Mom's picture, as she pulls the covers up to her chin and waits.
Five minutes pass by. Then ten. Then fifteen.
She's almost nodded off by the time a tap sounds on her bedroom door. Uncle Arthur. She knows, because the stairs didn't squeak - or she assumes they didn't, she was too half asleep to hear (she still doesn't know how he does it). "Come in," she calls sleepily, and Uncle Arthur enters, a razor-slim shadow backlit by the light spilling in from the hallway.
Too slim, Phillipa realizes with a start when he sits down on the edge of her bed and she sees the gauntness of his face, the thinness of the bones in his wrist, the disconcerting way her arms reach way too far around when she hugs his waist - like Maggie Grace at school, who doesn't eat her lunch and dumps them in the garbage can instead, whispering about how fat she feels, how many pounds she's gained or lost, and does anyone think Matt has noticed how thin she's gotten?
She'd fainted in school one day a couple of weeks ago, and had to be taken to the hospital. Uncle Arthur looks almost as thin as Maggie Grace had.
Uncle Arthur kisses her forehead, and Phillipa hugs him extra tight. I love you, Uncle Arthur, she means to say, but what comes out instead is a blunt: "Uncle Arthur, when is Uncle Eames going to wake up?"
He stiffens, and she stills, face still pressed against his waistcoat (Uncle Arthur's clothes are always so fancy; Phillipa doesn't think she's ever seen him in jeans and a t-shirt before). Then, he sighs and Phillipa feels his ribs moving beneath her cheek. "I don't know, Phillipa. I don't have the answer to that."
That's not right. That is not right at all.
Phillipa hits him before she even realizes it (her teachers always did say she had a temper problem), fists striking Uncle Arthur's chest, the words flying fast and desperate out of her mouth: "But you have to know!" she cries, "you're supposed to know everything!" and then gasps when she realizes what she's done.
Uncle Arthur doesn't look angry though; he looks so incredibly sad, dark eyes lost and haunted, so sad that Phillipa just wants to hug him again - and so she does, wrapping her arms around his neck this time and climbing onto his lap like she used to when she was younger, and she doesn't care that she's really too old for this. "I miss Uncle Eames," she whispers, voice trembling, and when Uncle Arthur answers, his voice is shaky too.
"I know."
"He's a liar," she says and the words are mean, but it somehow lessens the hurt in her chest to say them out loud. "He said everything would be okay, but he's such a liar."
"Yes," Uncle Arthur says, and his voice reverberates in his throat as Phillipa buries her face against his neck, seeking the comfort and safety and security she used to be able to find in Uncle Arthur's answers to absolutely everything. "He can be, sometimes."
"I want-" Phillipa whimpers miserably and she's aware of how selfish she sounds, for surely Uncle Arthur misses Uncle Eames even more than she does - but she knows that Uncle Arthur never complains and would never say anything like that out loud, so she says it for them both. "I want him back."
What Uncle Arthur says next startles her, though. "I know. And I'm going to bring him back."
She pulls back and blinks, surprised, because Daddy had said that was impossible, and she knows about people falling into comas; they don't wake up until their own bodies do so by themselves, not a minute before. Hope flutters in her chest though, at Uncle Arthur's steady, calm voice, but she makes sure this time - grabbing the sides of his face and looking him straight in his eyes - "Don't you lie too, Uncle Arthur."
Because Phillipa doesn't think she can stand it.
"Phillipa." He takes her hands and Phillipa shivers suddenly, because his fingers feel just like Maggie Grace's, thin and bony and so very cold. "Phillipa." He crooks a finger under her chin and tilts her face up. His expression is solemn. "I have never lied to you before, and I'm not going to start now." Taking one of her hands, he loops his pinky with hers. "I'm promising you, Phillipa, and I've never broken a promise to you, have I?"
Her answer is immediate and sure. "No."
And, truthfully, he hasn't.
Uncle Arthur, I miss Daddy.
I know, and I'm going to bring him back. I promise.
Uncle Arthur, I'm scared. Am I going to die?
No, Phillipa. It's just the flu. You'll get better, I promise.
But you can't miss the party, Uncle Arthur; you just CAN'T!
Don't worry, Phillipa. I'll get there in time. I promise.
"I'm going to bring your Uncle Eames back," Uncle Arthur tells her, conviction and steel in his voice, and tightens their looped pinky fingers. "I promise."
- - - - -
Arthur slouches in the leather easy chair, gazing dully out into the dimly lit room, eyes roving restlessly: at a pile of Eames' clothes, still in a heap on the floor - clean, lying where they landed when Arthur got Cobb's frantic phone call six months ago; Eames' collection of classics line the bookshelves along the walls, many of them worn and dog-earred, read and reread over the years; the coffee table shines with several watermarks, courtesy of Eames' apparent strange hatred for coasters.
"I miss Uncle Eames. I want him back."
Phillipa's words echo in his mind as he lifts the tumbler of scotch to his lips, sips but doesn't taste it at all, doesn't feel the burn down his throat or when it hits his empty stomach. He doesn't feel much of anything these days, but he'd felt Phillipa's arms squeezing tight around him, felt her fists striking his breastbone, felt her tears against his neck as she cried, as he told her I'm going to bring your Uncle Eames back.
The alcohol dulls his senses, makes him remember when it's supposed to be making him forget - and Arthur closes his eyes, sees Eames for the very first time, bending down to brush his ridiculously pouty lips against the back of his hand, and he shivers in remembrance.
Mal's dead, dead, she threw herself out of a window, Dom screams over the phone (because he's still Dom back then), and he's an absolute mess. Arthur is on the first flight out of Portugal; he's there to make what he can of the aftermath, to clean up the disaster the best he can, to make the funeral arrangements and hug little Phillipa close when she asks why her Mommy's gone to Heaven, and why she can't go on a "vacation" with her Daddy.
No one knows, not even Cobb, and not even Arthur himself, until much later - that through postcards, phone calls, conning the funeral parlor, threatening the Cobbs' lawyer into offering Cobb a free pass out of the country - that it was Eames holding Arthur together.
Inception. Arthur feels a kick under his chair and he falls forward, flicks a glance of annoyance at Eames, who merely smiles - a strange tenderness beneath the mischief, and goddamn it, why hadn't Arthur seen it back then?!
He's aching and hurt, and so very, very cold - and Eames is whispering in his ear, whispering as he holds him close: Alright, darling. It's alright. Easy now, I've got you. I've got you. I love you.
Phillipa - oh, dear, sweet Phillipa and her earnest brown eyes, so wide and shy and uncertain - Did he say sorry?
A nightmare then, a prison of his own mind although Arthur shudders to remember it - he sees Eames dressed in the standard white cotton of Penrose Psychiatric Ward, of Ariadne as a nurse, of going crazy in a dream and of how many times he meets Eames again and again - in a psych ward, on the shores of a beach, in post Apocalyptic America, in the hotel of an unnamed lobby in his dreams. How many times? He doesn't know and Eames never said how much he sacrificed for Arthur's sake, how many times he fought to save Arthur's mind from himself.
Arthur opens his eyes to the grey light of dawn streaming through the window.
Cobb's voice rises up in his mind, the former extractor's disapproving look, the firm set of his mouth, his arms crossed over his chest: Whatever it is you're planning on doing, Arthur, NO. It's too dangerous. You know what happened to the last team that tried to go into the mind of a coma patient; I know you do. You must have researched it already. Brain dead after an hour, Arthur. All of them. And I am not going to let you take that chance.
With all due respect, Cobb, shut the fuck up.
He stands and crosses over to the dresser, stripping out of yesterday's clothes and dressing in the suit laid out on the bed. He's too thin, and he knows it; the suit hangs on his frame - but this one is Eames' favorite, and Arthur knots the red silk tie at his throat with nimble fingers, picks up the PASIV sitting by the bedside table in one hand, the vial of eternal sleep stopped up in a bottle, and heads out the door.
* - * - *
He doesn't know how long he's been here now, still can't remember anyone but himself here all alone although he's wracked his brain relentlessly and he curls into a ball, drawing his knees in tight toward his chest, shaking and choking on the sobs that are wrenched from deep within his chest. The little girl's voice is now nothing but a mere memory that has already slipped through his mental fingers like water through a sieve, and there's nothing, absolutely nothing at all but him inside the darkness.
But wait - a name rises to the tip of his tongue, and an image along with it and he grabs for it frantically, holds onto it, cherishes it: a man. A beautiful man in a three piece suit, with dark hair and dark eyes and a stern mouth that he knows he can goad into a smile if he teases and taunts and flirts just enough. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs. He's all straight lines and hard angles, but then he softens with just the right touch, a tender word, and this...this is Arthur.
Arthur.
Poncy point man extraordinaire.
Soft hair. Dark eyes. Marvelous arse, yes please.
You love him.
Arthur. Poncy point man extraordinaire. Soft hair, dark eyes, marvelous arse.
You love him.
Arthur. Poncy point man extraordinaire. Soft hair, dark eyes, marvelous arse.
You love him.
Arthur.
* - * - *
Phillipa jabs at the pancake on her plate, spearing it through the middle and folds it over the caramelized apple piled on top, drizzling hot syrup over it all. Just like Uncle Eames taught her how. Suddenly then, she's not very hungry anymore.
The phone rings and Daddy nods at her as he ladles another spoonful of batter on the griddle and, having gotten permission, Phillipa slips over the stool at the breakfast bar and patters barefoot over to the phone, picking it up in the middle of a ring. "Hello?"
"Phillipa?" A tremulous female voice asks.
"Miss Ariadne?"
"Phillipa, can I speak to your Dad, please?" A sniff, then "It's about your Uncle Arthur."
From in front of the stove, Daddy frowns and reaches for the phone, which Phillipa hands over without complaint. "Ariadne?" Daddy says into the phone, and as he listens, the lines in his forehead furrow deeper and deeper; he drops the spatula and batter splatters everywhere as he says very loudly and very clearly: "What the FUCK?!"
- - - - -
Uncle Arthur looks so small, so thin, so helpless lying next to Uncle Eames, nearly swallowed up by the folds of his expensive black, white-pinstriped suit. His face is ashen-grey, and Phillipa reaches out to grasp his hand, shivering at the icy touch.
Outside, Miss Ariadne stands with her fiancee (Brad something or other), tearfully explaining to Daddy how she'd gotten there with a bouquet of flowers in tow just in time to see Uncle Arthur lying down beside Uncle Eames, kissing his lips gently, and then plunging the needle into his wrist (I tried to stop him Cobb, I tried-); how she had rushed to the PASIV (what's a passive? Phillipa didn't know the word could be a noun) only to see that it has no timer, it's one that Arthur built himself, built to accommodate whatever sedative he's down under.
He won't wake unless Uncle Eames does.
Daddy rages in a way Phillipa's never seen before, the emotions in his face closer to desperation than anger (we have to do something; can't we do something?!), Mr. Yusuf inspects the sedative and sadly says there's nothing he can do (Arthur has created something truly spectacular; this is beyond even my expertise), Mr. Saito has taken James down to the cafeteria- but Phillipa refuses to budge from the bedside, refuses to leave, anger and fear twisting in her chest - but she doesn't cry, she doesn't dare, because that would mean giving up.
"You promised," she whispers, reminding him because surely he can hear her. Uncle Arthur is pale, so pale; his lips are blue and his features slack. "Uncle Arthur, you promised."
- - - - -
A day passes. Then a week. Then two.
* - * - *
Arthur. You love him. Arthur. You love him. Arthur. You love him.
He can't even remember his own name anymore, but he remembers this one fact - because it has to be a fact; it simply has to be truth, this one mantra that he keeps repeating: that he loves Arthur, whoever Arthur is, whatever Arthur looks like - he loves him.
It becomes the name's definition, the name's meaning, everything that can and does apply to the two syllables and six letters which for all he knows could be a jumble of some gibberish made up in his own messed up mind, but he chooses to believe, chooses to believe without a shred of doubt.
Arthur: You love him.
- - - - -
He hits his knees and presses his ear to the pulsing shroud; his heart begins to race and his mouth goes dry, and, raising his fists above his head, he brings them down with an almighty thrust, and breaks through the black.
- - - - -
Something above him shifts - wait, there's an above? He raises a hand, and presses weakly; his muscles are atrophied and his eyes all but useless. There hasn't been anything to see but darkness for the longest time anyway.
- - - - -
He digs furiously, on his hands and knees; his suit is ruined - it was ruined the first moment he fought his way through the battlefield anyway, digging and prying; his nails tear but he keeps digging down - is it even down? He can't tell anymore - but he pushes and shoves, breaking through the barrier - and the edges of that which is neither dream nor nightmare are unraveling, unraveling as he tears and rips through it, razing it out of existence.
- - - - -
Arthur. You love him. Arthur. You love him.
More noise. Something above him shifts, and then he lifts his head, reason and words gone, ripped away from his mind, whispering the only word he knows: Arthur.
- - - - -
He shreds the last layer with his bleeding hands, sweat and tears mingling on his face as he leans forward, breath catching in his throat, gasps: "Eames."
Eames looks up, bare and blinking as the day that he was born, whispers- "Arthur."
For a moment, the two of them stare at each other speechlessly, and then Arthur, barely able to believe it, raises his arms - and then Eames scrabbles against the black void of nothingness, launching himself at the other man and then he's weeping, whispering Arthur, Arthur, Arthur because it has meaning now, it has meaning beyond the mantra he'd been chanting to himself for God knows how long now - although the meaning in and of itself (you love him) hadn't been incorrect in the least bit either.
"You came for me." the forger says thickly, sounding awed.
"Of course I did, you moron." Arthur holds him close, closes his eyes, and smiles through the tears. "Of course I did."
* - * - *
"Now that can't be comfortable. We should wake her."
"She looks tired. Let her sleep."
"Well then darling, at least budge over so she can share the bed, yeah? ...Bloody hell, when did you get so skinny?"
Voices float around her, disembodied but familiar as Phillipa starts to stir. She must have fallen asleep against the bed - Mr. Saito had since relocated Uncle Eames and Arthur into a larger, more private room closer to the Cobb residence, so she spent most of her free time here - and she jerks awake when she realizes she's being lifted straight out and off of her chair.
"What the-"
The words die in her throat when she looks up to see Uncle Eames smiling down at her, and then there are no words. Phillipa shrieks in joy and lunges upwards, hugging his neck. From beside them, Uncle Arthur smiles at them and makes as if to stand up off the bed - and is abruptly pulled back by Phillpa's arm snagging the back of his jacket. He falls ungracefully back onto the bed and she throws an arm around his neck as well, hugging both men close as the tears start to fall.
* - * - *
Phillipa is eleven and a half the first time she truly understands that when Uncle Arthur makes a promise, he keeps it.
Character/Pairings: Arthur/Eames, Cobb, Phillipa (mentions of Ariadne, Saito, Yusuf, James)
Rating: PG - 13
Word Count: 6,443
Disclaimer: Mr. Nolan owns it all
Warnings: Language, mentions of an eating disorder
Summary: Phillipa Marjorie Cobb is eleven years old the first time she sees her Uncle Arthur break down and cry. She's eleven and a half the first time he makes her cry.
Author's Notes: Written for my bidder zeto on help_pakistan , who requested a sequel to "When I was a Child" and for the hc_bingo square "sensory deprivation."
Phillipa Marjorie Cobb is eleven years old the first time she sees her Uncle Arthur break down and cry.
It goes like this: Phillipa is kneeling on the dirty concrete floor of an abandoned, decrepit warehouse, cold and tired, eyes red-rimmed from crying, throat hoarse from screaming. Daddy's rushing toward her, arms outstretched and enveloping her in a crushing embrace, crying with relief and whispering that it's okay, it's okay, you're safe now, everything will be all right. But Phillipa only has eyes for her Uncle Arthur, who's dirtying the knees of his perfectly pressed and tailored trousers as he too kneels on the floor, cradling Uncle Eames' body in his arms - and it's not all right; nothing is all right, how can anything be all right ever again when Uncle Arthur's bowing his head over Uncle Eames' still, beaten and bloodied form and screaming out in heartache?
"Phillipa." Daddy's trying to turn her away from the sight, but Phillipa won't have any of it; she fights against his hold and her feet slip in something wet; she looks down to see that it's a puddle of blood. "Phillipa, don't-"
Uncle Arthur's mouth is an open cavern, the howl coming from his throat sounds like that of a wild animal's and his movements are sharp and clumsy as he clutches Uncle Eames' body close, fighting the paramedics trying to separate and remove corpse from grieving man, literally snarling unintelligibly at those who dare to venture near. His eyes - always so serious and intelligent and kind - are wide and wild, wet and lost like that of an abandoned child's as he gazes around, blind in his despair.
Phillipa clutches Daddy's arm and squeezes her eyes shut, because she's never wanted to see her Uncle Arthur reduced to a sobbing mess like this; he's always been so cool, calm and collected no matter what the circumstance. He's the smartest man in the world, he's her champion when Daddy can't be, he's her Uncle Arthur and this isn't right, it's not right, it's not-
- - - - -
She wakes with a gasp, blinking against the unwelcome and unwanted remnants of the horrific image, eyes adjusting to the darkness of her bedroom. Just a dream, Phillipa tells herself, pulling the coverlet up to her chin with a shiver, just a dream.
Except it wasn't and she knows it all too well.
Rolling over on her side, she flicks on the bedside lamp and props her chin up in her hands, gazing at the pictures lined up neatly on the bedside table. There's one of Mom and Daddy together on their wedding day, a photo that Phillipa had found up in the attic and subsequently claimed for her own. Mom is beautiful in her white dress, dark brown hair perfectly coifed and swept away from her face, smiling at the camera the same smile Phillipa sees in the mirror. Daddy gazes at her like she's both the sun and the moon, adoration and pure love shining out through his gentle eyes, a look that Phillipa rarely ever sees anymore.
Quietly, she sends a quick prayer up to her Mother in Heaven before turning her attention back to the framed and neatly arranged pictures, looking over one of Miss Ariadne and her fiancee (Phillipa had been promised a spot as a maid of honor), one of her and James and Daddy, one of her and Uncle Arthur (she still remembers that day with perfectly clarity, of the day she got into her first fistfight at nine years old, how angry that idiot boy had made her when he called Uncle Arthur a word Phillipa dares not repeat ever again, not even in her thoughts, and how Uncle Arthur made everything right again as he always does, drying her tears and taking her out for ice cream afterwards), before settling on one that makes her heart squeeze tight in her chest.
Phillipa remembers the day well, filled to near bursting with cake and ice cream - it'd been her birthday after all, the eleventh - and running around with the Hasselblad camera Mr. Saito had gifted her with (Daddy's eyes had nearly bugged out of his head when Phillipa ripped away the last piece of tissue paper, looking rather like a fish as he turned to Mr. Saito, mouth open to form a protest. Mr. Saito had merely smiled, patted Daddy's shoulder, and that had been that.), looking for things to "shoot" (as all professional photographers said), and had come upon her two uncles, standing a bit apart from all the festivities, having what Miss Ariadne would call 'a moment'. Without thinking, Phillipa had raised the camera, focused the lens, and took the picture.
Her eyes well with tears as she now looks at it, at Uncle Arthur still dressed as sharp as ever, charcoal three-piece suit and all - but his tie is loosened, two buttons at his collar undone, and his eyes are closed, head tipped back on one broad shoulder, one hand resting on the arms encircling his waist. His languid posture suggests that the pose he's in, leaning back against Uncle Eames' strong chest, is comfortable and familiar, the rays of the sunset catching the small, pleased smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. Uncle Eames is gazing at him, normally mischievous eyes softened into something private and tender, very much like the look Daddy directs at Mom in their wedding picture.
The flash of the camera had startled Uncle Arthur out of his position, and he'd gone extremely red in the face whereas Uncle Eames simply laughed and told Phillipa to send them a copy when she got it developed. It'd been in her book bag when Uncle Eames picked her up from school a week later, the same day they'd been taken by the nameless, faceless monsters she still has nightmares about, still wakes up screaming Uncle Eames, Uncle Eames, no!!
It's been six months since then.
And Uncle Eames still hasn't woken up.
* - * - *
It's dark here. He doesn't know where he is, doesn't know how he got here, doesn't remember what came before or what may or may not come after, only knows that there's the darkness. And that's all there's been for the longest time.
His fingers are bloody, his fingernails long gone by now, having been ripped to shreds by his frantic digging and clawing at the emptiness around him. And it's strange, strange because this isn't Limbo and this isn't a dream, but he's been trying to leave here for the longest time, wherever here is, and he can't. The panic swells within him like the crest of a wave and he beats his fists against nothing, writhes and twists against restraints he can't sense or see or touch, to no avail.
He screams out soundlessly into the silence, and no one comes, no one answers, no one even hears him.
* - * - *
"Uncle Arthur?"
He looks up from where his eyes have been glued to the far wall, standing stiffly, aching all over from his constant vigil in the uncomfortable plastic chair. Phillipa steps into the room, flip-flops slapping noisily against the tile floors in cacophony to the steady beep beep beep of the heart monitors, long brown hair streaming out behind her (Christ, she looks more and more like Mal everyday) as she more or less flings herself at him, throwing her arms around his waist and hugging him tight. "Hey, Uncle Arthur," she whispers against his waistcoat, and he kisses the top of her hair in response before glancing up at Cobb.
"You really don't have to come every weekend," he says quietly as Phillipa tiptoes over to Eames' bedside, carefully laying the single sunflower (Eames' favorite) on the adjoining table, leaning over to brush a kiss on the forger's cheek ("Hi, Uncle Eames. I missed you."). Arthur watches the simple, sincere action and has to look away, lest the burning in his eyes manifest as tears. "I know it's a long drive."
Cobb is watching him closely. "Phillipa insisted," he replies slowly, and then lowers his voice. "Arthur, are you okay?"
Arthur huffs out a derisive bark of laughter, because really, what the hell kind of a question is that? Cobb's eyes narrow shrewdly, and then the other man is grabbing his elbow and firmly steering him out of the room, and Arthur goes willingly, docile and without complaint although his nerves are so high-strung he could snap Cobb's radius over his knee in the blink of an eye.
"No," is the first thing Cobb says once they're out of Philipa's earshot, and the former extractor's crossing his arms across his chest too, doing his best to pull a stern don't contradict me expression. "Whatever it is you're planning on doing Arthur, no."
Arthur quirks an eyebrow. He's immune to any and all of Cobb's looks (they've lost some of their sharpness over the years, softened for the purposes of rebuking children instead of keeping unruly forgers and point men in line); knowing a man for close to two decades will do that, and besides, he's not the type of man who intimidates easily anyway, and both of them know it. "I don't know what you're talking about, Cobb." His voice is hollow-sounding, hoarse from disuse.
"Look." Cobb shakes his head in frustration, and runs his fingers through his hair. Arthur notes with detached interest that the blonde's hairline is receding ever so slightly, the evidence of years gone by and the stress of single fatherhood. "You can't keep doing this, Arthur. Have you seen yourself, lately?"
Arthur shrugs. He has, as a matter of fact, and wonders vaguely what that has to do with anything, what his sharpening jawline and hollowed out cheeks have to do with trying to wake Eames up, what the listless sheen of his eyes or the pallor of his skin have to do with the way Cobb is starting to look like one of those bobblehead dolls tourists buy in overpriced gimmicky shops to set up on their dashboards. "I'm fine, Cobb." Ignoring the dubious glance the flat-sounding reassurance provokes, he continues. "Have you heard back from Saito's researchers?"
"They haven't found anything yet."
His lips twist into a bitter, wry smile. "Of course they haven't." And they won't. What could mere scientists possibly discover that Arthur hasn't already investigated, scrutinized, and probed from every which angle? Arthur's job is to research and uncover everything from dirty little secrets to the possible cure for cancer, and he is incontestably very good at what he does, living up to his title as best in the business, even years after the successful inception, even after Cobb's retirement, even after what had happened six months ago. Just last week, he'd completed a job by providing thorough intel and complete background checks on the mark, the mark's extensive family, and extensive extended family - all without leaving Eames' bedside, one hand gripping the forger's tightly, thumb rubbing continuous circles over Eames' scarred, bumpy knuckles.
He turns his head, looking through the observation window and past the thin gauzy material of the open curtains. Phillipa's carefully climbing up onto the side of the bed, careful not to jostle anything as Eames lies there, a hollow shell of the man he once was, paler than the sheets and thinner than Arthur can ever remember - a shell with a tube down his throat, a needle in his wrist, and all manners of wires and machines helping him breathe, bleed, piss, exist.
They're dead, the ones who dared to do this, to reduce the forger to such a state - killed in all painful manners of execution. Arthur is a criminal, and he knows this. He knows how to play the game; pain is not a new or unfamiliar concept to the point man, and he knows his way around the human anatomy better than some of the top leading surgeons in the entire world. So, like a point man should, he'd been thorough in the hunt, he'd been relentless in the pursuit, and he'd been merciless in the kill - and yes, he had indeed exacted his vengeance - but it hadn't brought Eames back.
And, as of yet, nothing has.
- - - - -
"I brought this for you."
Phillipa retrieves the framed picture from her backpack and carefully places it on the bedside table, right next to the sunflowers (her single stalk and the giant arrangement sent by Mr. Saito). Her feet dangle about half a foot off the floor and she swings her legs back and forth slowly, eyes fixed on the image of her two uncles together before turning to look reality full in the face.
Uncle Eames looks terrible. If not for the slight rise and fall of his chest - only made possible by any number of machines - he would look dead, like he did that day in the warehouse, cradled in Uncle Arthur's arms, lying there limply like a broken doll, like that time so long ago, when Phillipa had smashed the Sally from down the street's porcelain doll and watched the pieces scatter in smug satisfaction as Sally shrieked and promptly burst into tears. (She'd deserved it, anyway. No one throws a rock at Uncle Arthur's car and gets away with it. Not if Phillipa Marjorie Cobb has anything to say about it.)
The doll had been fixed, but it was damn ugly after the repair made with Elmer's glue. It never looked the same again. Sally threw it out along with the rest of the garbage.
"Brandon kept looking at me again today," she tells him, toying absently with a loose thread on the fringe of her shirt. "Molly says it's because he likes me, but I don't like him. He's such a jerk. I wish I could bring you or Uncle Arthur to school to make him leave me alone."
Beep. Beep. Beep.
"James couldn't come today. He had to finish a science project at a friend's house or something. But he says to tell you hi, so. Hi from Jamie, I guess."
Beep. Beep. Beep.
"I'm no good at this, Uncle Eames. You always said I was a lot like Uncle Arthur: a lot of skill, but no imagination. I still don't know what that really means." Phillipa stares out the window, watching a fat bluebird settle on a branch far too slender for its considerable bulk, vaguely wondering if it'll fall - and if it does, could it possibly save itself by flying away? "My stories are always so boring. I miss yours." She swallows hard, and then realizes that she's been talking down at her feet this entire time, unwilling to turn to look at the pale, thin shadow wasting away in a hospital bed. "I miss you so much."
Uncle Eames is silent. He used to tell her stories, used to make her laugh, used to call her dove and tease her about the boys at school, used to say how he would hurt any boy who dared to make her cry in a jovial tone, but with a dangerous spark in his eye that Phillipa knew to be the truth. He used to.
"You lied, Uncle Eames," Phillipa says suddenly, and turns around, glaring ferociously - maybe not with all the heat of a woman scorned, but definitely with all the indignation of a child discovering that Daddy puts the presents under the tree, Mommy's the one who leaves the quarters behind in exchange for teeth, and that the truth is a lot uglier than it seems. "You said everything would be okay, and it's not. It's not!"
She kneels on the bed and grasps either side of Uncle Eames' face, willing him to wake, willing him with all her might to make good on his promise. "I kicked you once because you made Uncle Arthur sad," she whispers, and her vision is going blurry with tears; one drops onto the pristine white sheets. "I remember doing it, too. That was a long time ago and I'm obviously too old for that." Her voice trembles, rises, breaks. "But I still know how to kick - and if you don't wake up soon, I'm going to kick you again because now you're making Uncle Arthur cry!!"
Daddies aren't supposed to cry, this Phillipa knows, but she's seen her father cry before: when he came back from his extended "vacation" (she knows better than that now, but Uncle Arthur's told her not to pry, so she's left well enough alone), and every year when they go to visit Mom's grave. He thinks she doesn't see, but Phillipa has always had sharp eyes, and truly, Daddy isn't nearly half as good at hiding things as he thinks. But Uncle Arthur isn't supposed to cry. And for eleven years, she'd never seen him shed a single tear, until six months ago.
It breaks her heart.
"So you see," Phillipa whispers meekly, "you have to wake up. You have to, Uncle Eames." Because Uncle Arthur is broken, she thinks but doesn't dare say out loud as she leans her head down against his and cries softly into the pillow. Because Uncle Arthur is hurt and you're the only one who can fix it. "Wake up. Wake up. Please."
But Uncle Eames still doesn't.
* - * - *
He thinks he hears a voice brushing at the edges of his mind and he strains his ears, catching only the faintest whispers of a voice he definitely recognizes, a voice he can remember once demanding "go say SORRY" in a surprisingly vicious roar of childish indignation and great wisdom.
He sees then, in his mind's eye, a beautiful child with cornsilk hair and big brown eyes, scowling at him for daring to "hurt" her beloved Uncle Arthur, booting him in the shin (he'd actually limped around for days after, much to Arthur's amusement). And then she's not so little anymore, she's a sneaky little thing with a camera and a sly smile, she's screaming in fright as the car plunges down the side of a steep ravine, she's crying and he bites back the pain to wipe away her tears and tells her that it's going to be okay.
But who is she? He loves her - he knows that much, he loves her because she is precious to him and to Arthur - but who then, is Arthur? And that thought strikes fear into him like never before, terror straight to his core because that is an awful question to consider, "who is Arthur" - how could he possibly forget?
Wake up, she whispers, wake up.
But how?
* - * - *
Uncle Arthur has dinner with them that night.
It's a tradition, and has been for as long as Phillipa can remember - Saturday nights are Uncle Eames and Uncle Arthur nights, when the former will regale the Cobb children with wild tales that he spins out of thin air, his words like golden string weaving in and out of each other into a tapestry of magic and wonder as the latter talks business with Daddy behind closed doors, but they're together, all of them, and she loves it.
Phillipa really doesn't get the girls at school who roll their eyes and scoff at having to suffer "family night", speaking of heinously boring board games or their parents' awkward attempts to be cool and "hang with the kids" because Uncle Arthur and Eames are cool by nature, because she wouldn't give up these nights for anything - not for shopping trips to buy junk she doesn't need or gossiping about the boys at school. The only boys she finds important in her life are her family, and Phillipa likes it that way, thanks very much.
Tonight though, like every Saturday for the past six months, there are no stories. Uncle Arthur doesn't smile, doesn't loosen his tie, doesn't even eat although he helped Daddy in the kitchen for close to two hours, making baked macaroni and cheese with mashed potatoes and cole slaw - James' favorite.
Uncle Eames' chair sits empty.
The missing space at the dinner table haunts Phillipa as she gets ready for bed, as she says goodnight to Mom's picture, as she pulls the covers up to her chin and waits.
Five minutes pass by. Then ten. Then fifteen.
She's almost nodded off by the time a tap sounds on her bedroom door. Uncle Arthur. She knows, because the stairs didn't squeak - or she assumes they didn't, she was too half asleep to hear (she still doesn't know how he does it). "Come in," she calls sleepily, and Uncle Arthur enters, a razor-slim shadow backlit by the light spilling in from the hallway.
Too slim, Phillipa realizes with a start when he sits down on the edge of her bed and she sees the gauntness of his face, the thinness of the bones in his wrist, the disconcerting way her arms reach way too far around when she hugs his waist - like Maggie Grace at school, who doesn't eat her lunch and dumps them in the garbage can instead, whispering about how fat she feels, how many pounds she's gained or lost, and does anyone think Matt has noticed how thin she's gotten?
She'd fainted in school one day a couple of weeks ago, and had to be taken to the hospital. Uncle Arthur looks almost as thin as Maggie Grace had.
Uncle Arthur kisses her forehead, and Phillipa hugs him extra tight. I love you, Uncle Arthur, she means to say, but what comes out instead is a blunt: "Uncle Arthur, when is Uncle Eames going to wake up?"
He stiffens, and she stills, face still pressed against his waistcoat (Uncle Arthur's clothes are always so fancy; Phillipa doesn't think she's ever seen him in jeans and a t-shirt before). Then, he sighs and Phillipa feels his ribs moving beneath her cheek. "I don't know, Phillipa. I don't have the answer to that."
That's not right. That is not right at all.
Phillipa hits him before she even realizes it (her teachers always did say she had a temper problem), fists striking Uncle Arthur's chest, the words flying fast and desperate out of her mouth: "But you have to know!" she cries, "you're supposed to know everything!" and then gasps when she realizes what she's done.
Uncle Arthur doesn't look angry though; he looks so incredibly sad, dark eyes lost and haunted, so sad that Phillipa just wants to hug him again - and so she does, wrapping her arms around his neck this time and climbing onto his lap like she used to when she was younger, and she doesn't care that she's really too old for this. "I miss Uncle Eames," she whispers, voice trembling, and when Uncle Arthur answers, his voice is shaky too.
"I know."
"He's a liar," she says and the words are mean, but it somehow lessens the hurt in her chest to say them out loud. "He said everything would be okay, but he's such a liar."
"Yes," Uncle Arthur says, and his voice reverberates in his throat as Phillipa buries her face against his neck, seeking the comfort and safety and security she used to be able to find in Uncle Arthur's answers to absolutely everything. "He can be, sometimes."
"I want-" Phillipa whimpers miserably and she's aware of how selfish she sounds, for surely Uncle Arthur misses Uncle Eames even more than she does - but she knows that Uncle Arthur never complains and would never say anything like that out loud, so she says it for them both. "I want him back."
What Uncle Arthur says next startles her, though. "I know. And I'm going to bring him back."
She pulls back and blinks, surprised, because Daddy had said that was impossible, and she knows about people falling into comas; they don't wake up until their own bodies do so by themselves, not a minute before. Hope flutters in her chest though, at Uncle Arthur's steady, calm voice, but she makes sure this time - grabbing the sides of his face and looking him straight in his eyes - "Don't you lie too, Uncle Arthur."
Because Phillipa doesn't think she can stand it.
"Phillipa." He takes her hands and Phillipa shivers suddenly, because his fingers feel just like Maggie Grace's, thin and bony and so very cold. "Phillipa." He crooks a finger under her chin and tilts her face up. His expression is solemn. "I have never lied to you before, and I'm not going to start now." Taking one of her hands, he loops his pinky with hers. "I'm promising you, Phillipa, and I've never broken a promise to you, have I?"
Her answer is immediate and sure. "No."
And, truthfully, he hasn't.
Uncle Arthur, I miss Daddy.
I know, and I'm going to bring him back. I promise.
Uncle Arthur, I'm scared. Am I going to die?
No, Phillipa. It's just the flu. You'll get better, I promise.
But you can't miss the party, Uncle Arthur; you just CAN'T!
Don't worry, Phillipa. I'll get there in time. I promise.
"I'm going to bring your Uncle Eames back," Uncle Arthur tells her, conviction and steel in his voice, and tightens their looped pinky fingers. "I promise."
- - - - -
Arthur slouches in the leather easy chair, gazing dully out into the dimly lit room, eyes roving restlessly: at a pile of Eames' clothes, still in a heap on the floor - clean, lying where they landed when Arthur got Cobb's frantic phone call six months ago; Eames' collection of classics line the bookshelves along the walls, many of them worn and dog-earred, read and reread over the years; the coffee table shines with several watermarks, courtesy of Eames' apparent strange hatred for coasters.
"I miss Uncle Eames. I want him back."
Phillipa's words echo in his mind as he lifts the tumbler of scotch to his lips, sips but doesn't taste it at all, doesn't feel the burn down his throat or when it hits his empty stomach. He doesn't feel much of anything these days, but he'd felt Phillipa's arms squeezing tight around him, felt her fists striking his breastbone, felt her tears against his neck as she cried, as he told her I'm going to bring your Uncle Eames back.
The alcohol dulls his senses, makes him remember when it's supposed to be making him forget - and Arthur closes his eyes, sees Eames for the very first time, bending down to brush his ridiculously pouty lips against the back of his hand, and he shivers in remembrance.
Mal's dead, dead, she threw herself out of a window, Dom screams over the phone (because he's still Dom back then), and he's an absolute mess. Arthur is on the first flight out of Portugal; he's there to make what he can of the aftermath, to clean up the disaster the best he can, to make the funeral arrangements and hug little Phillipa close when she asks why her Mommy's gone to Heaven, and why she can't go on a "vacation" with her Daddy.
No one knows, not even Cobb, and not even Arthur himself, until much later - that through postcards, phone calls, conning the funeral parlor, threatening the Cobbs' lawyer into offering Cobb a free pass out of the country - that it was Eames holding Arthur together.
Inception. Arthur feels a kick under his chair and he falls forward, flicks a glance of annoyance at Eames, who merely smiles - a strange tenderness beneath the mischief, and goddamn it, why hadn't Arthur seen it back then?!
He's aching and hurt, and so very, very cold - and Eames is whispering in his ear, whispering as he holds him close: Alright, darling. It's alright. Easy now, I've got you. I've got you. I love you.
Phillipa - oh, dear, sweet Phillipa and her earnest brown eyes, so wide and shy and uncertain - Did he say sorry?
A nightmare then, a prison of his own mind although Arthur shudders to remember it - he sees Eames dressed in the standard white cotton of Penrose Psychiatric Ward, of Ariadne as a nurse, of going crazy in a dream and of how many times he meets Eames again and again - in a psych ward, on the shores of a beach, in post Apocalyptic America, in the hotel of an unnamed lobby in his dreams. How many times? He doesn't know and Eames never said how much he sacrificed for Arthur's sake, how many times he fought to save Arthur's mind from himself.
Arthur opens his eyes to the grey light of dawn streaming through the window.
Cobb's voice rises up in his mind, the former extractor's disapproving look, the firm set of his mouth, his arms crossed over his chest: Whatever it is you're planning on doing, Arthur, NO. It's too dangerous. You know what happened to the last team that tried to go into the mind of a coma patient; I know you do. You must have researched it already. Brain dead after an hour, Arthur. All of them. And I am not going to let you take that chance.
With all due respect, Cobb, shut the fuck up.
He stands and crosses over to the dresser, stripping out of yesterday's clothes and dressing in the suit laid out on the bed. He's too thin, and he knows it; the suit hangs on his frame - but this one is Eames' favorite, and Arthur knots the red silk tie at his throat with nimble fingers, picks up the PASIV sitting by the bedside table in one hand, the vial of eternal sleep stopped up in a bottle, and heads out the door.
* - * - *
He doesn't know how long he's been here now, still can't remember anyone but himself here all alone although he's wracked his brain relentlessly and he curls into a ball, drawing his knees in tight toward his chest, shaking and choking on the sobs that are wrenched from deep within his chest. The little girl's voice is now nothing but a mere memory that has already slipped through his mental fingers like water through a sieve, and there's nothing, absolutely nothing at all but him inside the darkness.
But wait - a name rises to the tip of his tongue, and an image along with it and he grabs for it frantically, holds onto it, cherishes it: a man. A beautiful man in a three piece suit, with dark hair and dark eyes and a stern mouth that he knows he can goad into a smile if he teases and taunts and flirts just enough. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs. He's all straight lines and hard angles, but then he softens with just the right touch, a tender word, and this...this is Arthur.
Arthur.
Poncy point man extraordinaire.
Soft hair. Dark eyes. Marvelous arse, yes please.
You love him.
Arthur. Poncy point man extraordinaire. Soft hair, dark eyes, marvelous arse.
You love him.
Arthur. Poncy point man extraordinaire. Soft hair, dark eyes, marvelous arse.
You love him.
Arthur.
* - * - *
Phillipa jabs at the pancake on her plate, spearing it through the middle and folds it over the caramelized apple piled on top, drizzling hot syrup over it all. Just like Uncle Eames taught her how. Suddenly then, she's not very hungry anymore.
The phone rings and Daddy nods at her as he ladles another spoonful of batter on the griddle and, having gotten permission, Phillipa slips over the stool at the breakfast bar and patters barefoot over to the phone, picking it up in the middle of a ring. "Hello?"
"Phillipa?" A tremulous female voice asks.
"Miss Ariadne?"
"Phillipa, can I speak to your Dad, please?" A sniff, then "It's about your Uncle Arthur."
From in front of the stove, Daddy frowns and reaches for the phone, which Phillipa hands over without complaint. "Ariadne?" Daddy says into the phone, and as he listens, the lines in his forehead furrow deeper and deeper; he drops the spatula and batter splatters everywhere as he says very loudly and very clearly: "What the FUCK?!"
- - - - -
Uncle Arthur looks so small, so thin, so helpless lying next to Uncle Eames, nearly swallowed up by the folds of his expensive black, white-pinstriped suit. His face is ashen-grey, and Phillipa reaches out to grasp his hand, shivering at the icy touch.
Outside, Miss Ariadne stands with her fiancee (Brad something or other), tearfully explaining to Daddy how she'd gotten there with a bouquet of flowers in tow just in time to see Uncle Arthur lying down beside Uncle Eames, kissing his lips gently, and then plunging the needle into his wrist (I tried to stop him Cobb, I tried-); how she had rushed to the PASIV (what's a passive? Phillipa didn't know the word could be a noun) only to see that it has no timer, it's one that Arthur built himself, built to accommodate whatever sedative he's down under.
He won't wake unless Uncle Eames does.
Daddy rages in a way Phillipa's never seen before, the emotions in his face closer to desperation than anger (we have to do something; can't we do something?!), Mr. Yusuf inspects the sedative and sadly says there's nothing he can do (Arthur has created something truly spectacular; this is beyond even my expertise), Mr. Saito has taken James down to the cafeteria- but Phillipa refuses to budge from the bedside, refuses to leave, anger and fear twisting in her chest - but she doesn't cry, she doesn't dare, because that would mean giving up.
"You promised," she whispers, reminding him because surely he can hear her. Uncle Arthur is pale, so pale; his lips are blue and his features slack. "Uncle Arthur, you promised."
- - - - -
A day passes. Then a week. Then two.
* - * - *
Arthur. You love him. Arthur. You love him. Arthur. You love him.
He can't even remember his own name anymore, but he remembers this one fact - because it has to be a fact; it simply has to be truth, this one mantra that he keeps repeating: that he loves Arthur, whoever Arthur is, whatever Arthur looks like - he loves him.
It becomes the name's definition, the name's meaning, everything that can and does apply to the two syllables and six letters which for all he knows could be a jumble of some gibberish made up in his own messed up mind, but he chooses to believe, chooses to believe without a shred of doubt.
Arthur: You love him.
- - - - -
He hits his knees and presses his ear to the pulsing shroud; his heart begins to race and his mouth goes dry, and, raising his fists above his head, he brings them down with an almighty thrust, and breaks through the black.
- - - - -
Something above him shifts - wait, there's an above? He raises a hand, and presses weakly; his muscles are atrophied and his eyes all but useless. There hasn't been anything to see but darkness for the longest time anyway.
- - - - -
He digs furiously, on his hands and knees; his suit is ruined - it was ruined the first moment he fought his way through the battlefield anyway, digging and prying; his nails tear but he keeps digging down - is it even down? He can't tell anymore - but he pushes and shoves, breaking through the barrier - and the edges of that which is neither dream nor nightmare are unraveling, unraveling as he tears and rips through it, razing it out of existence.
- - - - -
Arthur. You love him. Arthur. You love him.
More noise. Something above him shifts, and then he lifts his head, reason and words gone, ripped away from his mind, whispering the only word he knows: Arthur.
- - - - -
He shreds the last layer with his bleeding hands, sweat and tears mingling on his face as he leans forward, breath catching in his throat, gasps: "Eames."
Eames looks up, bare and blinking as the day that he was born, whispers- "Arthur."
For a moment, the two of them stare at each other speechlessly, and then Arthur, barely able to believe it, raises his arms - and then Eames scrabbles against the black void of nothingness, launching himself at the other man and then he's weeping, whispering Arthur, Arthur, Arthur because it has meaning now, it has meaning beyond the mantra he'd been chanting to himself for God knows how long now - although the meaning in and of itself (you love him) hadn't been incorrect in the least bit either.
"You came for me." the forger says thickly, sounding awed.
"Of course I did, you moron." Arthur holds him close, closes his eyes, and smiles through the tears. "Of course I did."
* - * - *
"Now that can't be comfortable. We should wake her."
"She looks tired. Let her sleep."
"Well then darling, at least budge over so she can share the bed, yeah? ...Bloody hell, when did you get so skinny?"
Voices float around her, disembodied but familiar as Phillipa starts to stir. She must have fallen asleep against the bed - Mr. Saito had since relocated Uncle Eames and Arthur into a larger, more private room closer to the Cobb residence, so she spent most of her free time here - and she jerks awake when she realizes she's being lifted straight out and off of her chair.
"What the-"
The words die in her throat when she looks up to see Uncle Eames smiling down at her, and then there are no words. Phillipa shrieks in joy and lunges upwards, hugging his neck. From beside them, Uncle Arthur smiles at them and makes as if to stand up off the bed - and is abruptly pulled back by Phillpa's arm snagging the back of his jacket. He falls ungracefully back onto the bed and she throws an arm around his neck as well, hugging both men close as the tears start to fall.
* - * - *
Phillipa is eleven and a half the first time she truly understands that when Uncle Arthur makes a promise, he keeps it.