12 Songs of Christmas My True Love Gave To Me part three
part two
Home For Christmas
I'm dreaming tonight of a place I love
Even more than I usually do
And although I know it's a long road back
I promise you
2007
Everything moved extremely fast after New Years. By March, Arthur had resigned from his position at The Getty and was traveling the world with Eames, working job-to-job and just being together. And for a while it was wonderful. Complete bliss.
Until Tel Aviv.
In short, an extraction job for an anonymous and very shady client who took failure very seriously- he decided to eliminate each member of the team. Eames and Arthur were on the lamb, trying to flee the country, but it seemed that whoever had hired them remained anonymous because of the political position, because getting out of the country was near impossible.
“This is insane.”
“Yes, Arthur dear, you’ve said so more than enough now,” Eames said. He muttered so that only Arthur could hear, “Very luck that you speak fluent Hebrew and I speak fluent Arabic from my army days.”
Arthur rolled his eyes as he helped Eames pull up the fishing net. The two had posed as minimum wage workers-for-hire near the docks and quickly boarded the first fishing boat that was willing to hire cheap labor.
“As soon as this boat anchors off near enough to Lebanon, we just need to send the coordinates to Mackey,” Eames said.
Mackey was Eames’s friend in Lebanon who had agreed for a certain amount of money and a Monet painting that he’d bring out a boat to meet them if they could get themselves out to sea.
“What makes you think Mackey is reliable?”
“Arthur, trust me, yeah?” Eames said as he heaved the net onto the deck, releasing the trapped fish to flop around.
After Arthur snuck himself down to the radio room to send the coordinates to Mackey, it wasn’t long before Eames and Arthur noticed a speedy motorboat in the distance.
“That’s him!” Eames said as he stripped down to his thinnest layer. Arthur did the same and following Eames overboard. They could hear the other fishermen shouting at them in Hebrew but the two men swam as quickly as they could to the boat slowing down in their direction.
“Mackey!” Eames said as he grabbed the ledge of the boat with one hand and reached out his other to grab a hold of Arthur.
“Eames, my man!” the American greeted. Mackey was a stubby, round man who wore an out-of-style mustache. Eames helped Arthur onto the boat and then hoisted himself up as well.
“Alrighty, back to Lebanon,” Mackey said.
“The planes ready for us?” Arthur asked after he caught his breath.
“Oh, yeah, yeah. As soon as you guys finish getting dressed, I drop you guys off at the spot at 9 tonight,” Mackey said. Arthur narrowed his eyes and studied Mackey, still not trusting him.
“Love, please-Mackey is harmless and we are finally going home,” Eames said. “Well… metaphorical home. Right in time for Christmas, no less; we could even go to Paris after this-well deserved rest I think.”
Paris did sound lovely. They could even visit Miles again. Miles would enjoy the visit-because last he heard Malorie wasn’t doing too well… something about depression as a side effect from the Somnicin.
“Yeah . . . that sounds good.”
It was not good.
They never got to Paris, and Arthur’s first instinct about Mackey was right. Mackey had sold them out to the anonymous client and by the time they finished docking in Lebanon, there were men waiting for them.
In the end Eames had to shoot Mackey straight to the head after Mackey head-locked Arthur and pointed a gun to his temple.
“Just do what these scary looking men want you to do, Eames. Really, I think that’s best,” Mackey said; he tightened his grip on Arthur’s neck as Arthur tried to ring free from.
“Let him go, Mackey. I swear to God I’ll kill you.”
“You’re outnumbered, man! Look around! Its seven against two, and you’ve got one little gun on you,” Mackey taunted, “Come on, man; put your gun down or pretty boy gets it, yeah?”
Arthur looked straight into Eames eyes, trying to make contact, but Eames was looking everywhere but at Arthur.
‘Come on, come on come on!’ Arthur screamed in his head, ‘Take the fucking shot! I’ll grab his gun take the 3 out behind you and you can take the two right here! Take the shot!’
But Eames refused to look at Arthur, and kept his eyes straight at Mackey.
‘Look at me! Damn it, Eames!’ the younger man screamed internally, but it was fruitless.
“Oh come on, Danny boy-” Mackey never got to finish his sentence; Eames skillfully shot him between the eyes. Mackey’s body slumped off, letting Arthur grab a hold of his gun and shot the three dark clothed men behind Eames. Eames gave off two more rounds taking out the men aside from Arthur.
The last of the gunshots echoed through the empty pier. Arthur got himself off the floor to strut over to Eames.
“What the hell was that?!”
“What was what, Arthur?” Eames asked tiredly.
“Why wouldn’t you look at me? Why did you hesitate taking that shot?” Arthur questioned, hands still shaking from the adrenaline. Eames looked away and turned his back to Arthur, avoiding the question.
“Hey! Don’t turn your back to me!” Arthur shouted as he strode towards Eames, grabbed his shoulders and turned him, but Eames whipped around and flung his hands and caged Arthur’s face with them. He crushed onto Arthur a searing kiss, as if he was trying to take all the air out of Arthur’s lungs and take it into his. Arthur gripped the forger’s broad shoulders and the hair on the back of Eames’s head, bringing him closer.
They jumbled their breaths together and raveled their tongues against each other. They both smelled like a dirty fishing boat and sea water, but Eames just buried his face on the side of Arthur’s neck, under his chin and inhaled Arthur in.
Eames was shaking, trembling out a broken breath.
“Shh, it’s okay. I’m here-” Arthur murmured into Eames’s hair, petting him. “I’m here.”
Eames just gripped on tightly to Arthur’s upper arm enough to bruise, and held him closer, tighter, securing Arthur’s lithe body into Eames’ broad chest as if he was trying to press Arthur into where his heart was, trying to physically meld them together…
They found a car not too far away, probably Mackey’s. They drove it to the nearest city, which was Sour (Tyre). They found a change of clothes, stole a car and automatically drove off to Beirut, which was a 2-3 day drive. Through the whole drive, Arthur and Eames rarely spoke to each other. Eames let Arthur drive as he sat in the passenger’s seat and looked out the window. They stopped time to time to refill gas or to change and steal a different car. The only times Eames said anything was to ask if Arthur was okay to keep driving or asking to pull over at the next city.
They finally made it to Beirut, but the tension within Eames did not loosen away. In fact Eames was more alert and apprehensive than Arthur had ever seen him. They needed fake passports and new papers. Eames was sitting at the hotel table, forging papers when Arthur asked from the bed where he sat staring at Eames for the last 10 minutes, “Where we headed?”
“LA,” Eames answered promptly, not looking up from the papers.
“No Paris then.”
“No.”
“And I’m going to guess we’re not going to talk about what happened on the pier?”
“. . . No.”
“Eames,” Arthur started in a deadbeat tone.
“Not now, Arthur-”
“When then?” Eames paused his writing hand, but he was staring intently at the hard, stocky, government-issued paper. Arthur got up from the bed and walked over to Eames, gently prying the pen out of his tightly gripped hand and proceeded to bring the forger’s hand flat against his chest.
“If you’re having a hard time believing that I’m alive, then you have nothing to worry about. I am here.”
Eames looked at his hand on Arthur’s chest then his gaze traveled to Arthur’s.
“Hi,” Arthur greeted at the familiar navy blues.
“Hello. . . .” Eames replied back softly, then suddenly released a heavy sigh, his shoulders collapsing down as if boulders were lifted from them and then starting to slump off his chair. Arthur quickly kneeled in front of him to catch him in his arms.
“Hey, it’s okay, come on-” Arthur said as he helped Eames out of the chair and onto their bed. They lay on top of the covers, facing each other. The younger man just let Eames press an ear firmly on his chest while stroking Eames’s hair.
“When-” Eames started, croaking out past his tired, and dry throat. “When he put that gun against your head, I think I just broke down.”
Dense silence filled the room ‘till Arthur slowly replied, “Okay.”
Eames continued, “And I couldn’t let myself look you in the eye . . . somewhere in the back of my mind I was going, ‘What if this is the last time I look at them and all I see is fear? All I see is him pleading at me?’ and I just . . . I just couldn’t, Arthur.”
“It’s okay,” Arthur soothed as he cradled the older man’s head more snug against his chest. “Shh, I’m right here,” Arthur repeated against Eames’s forehead and planted a kiss.
“Then he called my name in such a way I-” Eames then pushed back to look up at Arthur, “I remembered the first time you called me by my name, Arthur, and I was piss poor drunk then, but I couldn’t forget ever . . . the way you said my name, how it made me feel. . . .”
“How did it make you feel?” Arthur posed as he coddled Eames’s hair with his fingers, “How did it make you feel?” He questioned again as he shifted over to kiss Eames’s temple, then down to his jaw. “Did it make you feel on fire? Cause I feel it every time you touch me, look at me in the eye and call my name,” Arthur continued, kissing underneath Eames’ chin then another at the curve of where the forger’s head and neck meet. “Did it make you feel safe? Secure?” Arthur continued to ask as he climbed on top of the older man’s strong body leisurely. He caged the British man’s head between his arms as he continued to adore him. “Did it make you feel-”
“At home.” Dark blue eyes stared into Arthur’s dark gaze as he answered, “The way you said my name made me feel at home.”
Arthur smiled at the way waves of everything good rolled around in the dark blues of Eames’s eyes and then crashed against him. The way Eames looked so vulnerable and open and candid… he leaned down and brushed his lips against the forger’s.
“Daniel,” Arthur said against Eames’s bottom lip. Eames sighed blissfully, parting his lips to let Arthur in, to let himself taste Arthur. “Daniel,” Arthur repeated again after they broke their kiss for the need of air. He continued to repeat Eames’ name onto the man’s skin as they slowly and idly stripped their cheap clothes and continued to repeat his name like a prayer, a mantra as he filled Eames’ body to give comfort in a language he and Eames had come to write together. . . .
They finally got out of Lebanon. It wasn’t easy, but they managed to get out of the country without raising any flags; but instead of LA, the two of them had decided to go to Mombasa.
The point man felt that something within Eames was . . . not broken but . . . had shifted back in Tel Aviv. There was this constant passive aggressive response to Arthur where Eames seemed to hover around Arthur, never farther away than an arm’s length.
Paranoia seemed to be gripping at Eames, even on the street shops he’d always look back like a man waiting to run at any given time, and never left his gun too far away from his person. A person so looked at them wrong and Eames felt that they had to vacate the vicinity.
By the New Years Arthur couldn’t take it any more.
“You need to stop this.”
“Hm?” Eames asked as he busied himself with cutting his meal, “What do you mean?”
Arthur stared hard at Eames, “You know what I mean. You haven’t let your guard down since we left Lebanon in November. You need to rest. If you feel we’re too compromised in Mombasa we can always go somewhere else, but you need to rest.”
Eames looked up from his plate and gave a crooked smile, “What? I’m well rested! We’ve been just lounging here waiting for things to blow over for the last 5 weeks.”
“Eames, you’ve lost 10 pounds and I know you don’t sleep at night. You’re too busy waking up at every single sound. Tell me in all honesty, do you believe we are compromised here? Do I need to start looking for us to relocate?” Arthur asserted. Eames looked at Arthur for a moment as if in study of Arthur (always studying Arthur, looking at him like an impossible question he can’t answer). Eames then placed his fork and knife down on to the table, leaned back against his chair and sighed. He took his hands and rubbed his face then leaned forward again, close enough so he could speak quietly to Arthur.
“I just can’t stop. I can’t turn this off,” Eames explained. “It’s not that I don’t know you are capable of taking care of yourself, but I just can’t trust myself to let you out of my sight. You understand me, right?”
The younger man gazed at Eames, and he could see the sleepless nights starting to take a toll on him: dark rings around his eyes, cheekbones a bit more defined due to weight loss. Arthur did understand. He had almost lost Eames once himself. He knows full-well the feeling of depression and misery and worthlessness beyond words, but Arthur could just see Eames running himself ragged trying to keep Arthur safe at all cost; and if Arthur had learned anything from Prague, he knew that Eames would try to keep Arthur safe even at the cost of his own life.
He knew and understood where Eames was coming from, but it didn’t mean he had to like it.
Arthur smiled tenderly at Eames, who seemed to find comfort in it.
“You’re a silly man, Mr. Eames,” he told Eames, who smiled brighter and went back to eating his lunch.
It wasn’t hard drugging Eames . . . but it was unimaginably hard to leave him.
“This is for the both of us, yeah?” Arthur asked the unconscious man as he brushed the soft hair out of Eames’s eyes.
“You’re going to burn yourself out and probably get yourself killed because somewhere in your silly head you think you’re doing this for both of us. But you’re not,” Arthur’s eyes began to heat as he spoke his goodbyes to the sleeping man in a hushed voice.
“We need to reorganize, Dan-we need to just take a step back and think about what the hell we’re doing . . . we just jumped into this lifestyle, just went on . . . on impulse, and look where it’s gotten us. Just, just take care of yourself, please? And we’ll see each other again when we both have taken a breather and we know what to do,” Arthur said, then quickly placed a kiss on both of Eames’s eyelids and his lips. He shut his eyes tightly, ignoring the tears welling up behind his eyelids, stood up, grabbed his bags and walked out the door; all in one breath.
‘Walk, keep walking. Don’t look back-one foot after the other-keep walking.’
Arthur purchased a small apartment in Pasadena once he arrived back in California, under an alias that Eames knew. The apartment was small, meant only for one person. He only bought the necessities and lived with a week-to-week plan. He had to forge a new resume because the Arthur, who was a gallery curator for The Getty, was probably flagged for suspicion of corporate espionage, and gained a small part-time job at a local library. When not working, Arthur played around with a cheap classic guitar he bought off at a yard sale near his home and read Alexandre Dumas in French. It was a small and timid life and never once was there an hour where Arthur would not wonder how Eames was.
It was the third week of February when Arthur had a knock on his door. Tucking his gun behind him, he opened the door to find a FedEx man with a rather giant box on a dolly.
“For Mr. French Daniels?” the young man chewing gum asked.
“Yes?”
“Here, if you can sign?” Arthur signed as the FedEx guy moved the box to the middle of Arthur’s living room. “Thanks,” he said after grabbing his clipboard and exiting. Arthur closed the door and locked it before turning around and staring at the box sitting in his small living room.
There was no one else other than Eames who could possibly have sent this package-if the return address to Mombasa wasn’t a give away. Arthur knew only Eames could track down Arthur’s alias and address. A part of Arthur felt relieved, but another part of him felt dread. A sense of foreboding ran through him.
He circled the large box, big enough to fit a bedside table to try to see if he could figure out what possibly could be in the box. The warning labels of ‘Fragile’ were plastered all over the box. Arthur stood in his living room, glaring at the container till he sighed and went to the kitchen to grab a knife.
Arthur wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but empty bottles wrapped in bubble wrap definitely wasn’t it. He found all kinds of bottles. Jack Daniels, Johnny Walker, Gin, Vodka, even a green absinthe bottle. Arthur took each and every bottle out of its bubble wrapping and set them down around him. Once Arthur reached the bottom of the box he found a familiar envelope he hadn’t seen in a while. Gently Arthur reached for it and opened hesitantly.
Arthur’s stomach dropped as he read:
“If I’m a silly man, then you are a lying bastard.
You wouldn’t believe how many times I took a gun to my head thinking I was still in a dream.
The only difference I found, between a dream and reality is that in the dream, you never left me and I didn’t drink alone.
So fuck you, Darling.
And fuck me because I still love you anyways.”
Arthur’s tears had ended up blotching the ink on the card as he gripped the thick stock paper and sobbed without restraint into his hands.
Even though the words were blurred out from the salty droplets, Arthur folded it carefully into his wallet the next day when he woke up in his living room with 38 empty bottles scattered all over the floor.
part four! click to continue!