[Inception fic] Killing Kittens for the Greater Good [3/6]
Part three.
Arthur got to work early the next morning, like he did every morning. The early air was damp and cool and clean, which was completely ruined as the bus pulled away from him in a thunderhead of exhaust.
He checked to make sure there was no graffiti on the building (last month he'd had to spend all day scrubbing away the rather redundant SPUNK someone had scrawled in neon yellow) and unlocked DreamShare's front door. Inside, he put away his keys and hung up his coat with familiarity.
He started the coffee going, because Dr. Yusuf and half the nursing staff were utterly useless without it, fiddled with the thermostat, and ran an experimental finger over the shelves. He pulled it away dusty and frowned. The cleaning crew was doing a shoddy job. There were going to have to be words.
He set the muffins -- donuts were a special treat for Fridays, and besides, Nurse King was on a diet -- he'd picked up on the edge of his desk for the staff and put the cookies on the little table for the clients.
That done, Arthur sat down at his desk, in the leather chair that fitted him like a glove -- no, like a nice suit. He looked at the dark wood and smiled, just a little. Arthur liked his job. He liked his desk and he liked the people he worked with and he liked the fact that he was good at what he did.
The morning passed quickly and easily, staff members trickling in one by one with muffled yawns and sleepy "hullo, Arthur"s and little waves. He handed out messages and muffins like they were going out of style. Conducting people like this, Arthur always felt a little like air traffic control.
"Good morning, Arthur," Dr. Yusuf said. Arthur handed him his coffee, one sugar, lots of cream, and the doctor gave a sigh of relief. "You are a miracle worker, you know that?"
"Yes," Arthur nodded.
"What's on the schedule for today?" Yusuf asked, cradling the warm mug -- there were little cartoon sperm swimming along the sides.
"You've an appointment with Mrs. Carroll at ten and Mr. and Mr. Pratchett-Stroud at half-past. The Cobbs will be here at eleven, they're bringing their new surrogate. And at one-thirty you're making a house-call to the Fischer residence to collect his donation," Arthur rattled off.
"Excellent," Yusuf said. "So, how'd your date go?"
"Pardon?" Arthur asked, taken aback. "How--"
"The nurses, Arthur. They gossip like their mouths will no longer work if they stop. You're their favourite, you know. Eames had better be careful."
"It went. . . well," Arthur said. Arthur thought of the kiss on the doorstep and in his stomach the damn butterflies fluttered their wings triumphantly. "It was fine."
"Mmm," Dr. Yusuf mused. "Well. That's good. I would hate to see one of most prolific clients torn apart limb by limb by my nurses."
"Yes, he does have excellent sperm, doesn't he?" Arthur said. "Wait. . . I mean. . . that's not. . ."
Yusuf laughed and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Oh, Arthur. You're fun when you're flustered. I think this is good for you."
Arthur nodded mutely, not trusting his tongue.
"Tell Mr. Eames I said hello, then," Yusuf said. "Oh, and Arthur? Tell him if he botches this, next time he's here, I'll cut off his penis. Ta."
The doctor left. Arthur stared after him.
The phone rang, and Arthur shook himself. He clicked answer on his headset and settled back in his chair, fingers steepled.
"Good afternoon, DreamShare Cryobank, where we believe little swimmers can make big dreams come true. Arthur speaking. How may I help you?"
"Hello," the voice on the phone was recognizably nervous. "Hi. This is Robert Fischer, Jr. My father has some. . ."
His voice trailed off quietly. Arthur waited.
"Some. . . sperm. . ."
"Sorry?" Arthur said. "What was that?"
Robert's voice was very, very quiet.
"Sperm."
"Oh, yes," Arthur said. "Sperm. Go on."
"Yes, well, he has some. . . thing. That. . . thing. . . that he is supposed to be donating today. I'm just calling to confirm, exactly, who's coming? We'll need to clear them with my father's guards."
"Dr. Yusuf, whom you met yesterday, will be there at one-thirty, along with a nurse."
"Great. Can you tell me the nurse's name? They'll want to run a background check."
". . . Sorry?"
"A background check. Make sure they're not assassins."
". . . Right. Of course. That makes sense. I will gladly get back to you with that information, Robert, as soon as I find out. . . Will that be all?"
"Um, yes. One-thirty, you said? For the, uh, the thing?"
"Correct."
"Great. Great. We'll, uh, be waiting, then."
"Fantastic," Arthur chirped. "Have a nice day, Robert."
Arthur could make out a "not fucking likely," across the line as Robert hung up the phone.
Arthur shrugged and went back to work.
"Has anyone ever told you you've got a lovely arse?"
"I'm sitting behind a desk, Mr. Eames. You can't see my arse."
"I've an excellent memory and a vivid imagination."
"Apparently you've managed to forget the date, though. It isn't Tuesday, Mr. Eames," Arthur glanced discreetly at his calendar, the one that had different pictures of sperm dressed up as firemen and construction workers and cowboys for every month, just to be sure.
"I couldn't stay away."
"Missed me already?"
"Yup," Eames said unabashedly.
"Well," Arthur looked up at him and allowed a tiny smile. "That's nice to hear."
"How are you?" Eames asked casually, leaning further on Arthur's desk.
"I'm fine, Mr. Eames, thank you. And you?"
"Oh, peachy. I had excellent dreams last night, Arthur dear. Slept like a baby. A very kinky baby."
"Glad to hear it, Mr. Eames."
"Nice tie, by the way, Arthur dear. Looks good on you. Bet it'd look great tying you to my headboard."
"Mr. Eames, this is a ninety-dollar tie. You're not going to stretch it out."
"Take the wind right out my sails, why dontcha, love."
"I'm afraid someone must."
"Dirty job, but somebody's got to do, eh?'
"Absolutely filthy."
"You know you like it, love."
"Oh, Mr. Eames, Dr. Yusuf wanted you to know he may cut off your penis," Arthur informed him.
Eames paused. "I hafta admit, that's a little disconcerting to hear, comin' from my own doctor."
Arthur held up his hands in a "what-can-you-do?" kind of gesture.
"So," Eames said, shaking himself and moving on. "You're doing all right?"
"Yes, Mr. Eames, as I said, I'm fine."
"Well, that's good. I'm just saying, if, for whatever imaginable reason, you weren't fine. . . that'd be understandable, too."
"And you'd be more than willing to "comfort me?" Am I correct in that assumption, Mr. Eames?"
"Oh, absolutely, Arthur love."
"Well, thank you for the offer, Mr. Eames, but as I've assured you, I am fine."
Eames nodded. "All right, Arthur love. All right."
"But thank you," Arthur said quietly. "For. . . thank you. I'll be all right."
Eames smiled. "'Course you will. Now, where's my little plastic cup?"
**
Ariadne was a nice girl. Arthur felt good for the Cobbs.
"So, architecture?" he asked, trying to set the girl at ease. She was collected for the most part, but her eyes kept flicking nervously at the door the Cobbs were behind.
Ariadne nodded. "Yeah, it's what I always wanted to do. Building things. . . I want to see something that I made, something I designed, actually being used by people, you know?"
"It sounds--" Arthur began, before he was interrupted by Eames coming back out of the back rooms.
"Oh, Arthur. I knew you'd trade me in the first time something younger and prettier came along," Eames sighed dramatically.
"Of course, Mr. Eames," Arthur agreed. He turned back to Ariadne. "Ignore him, he's harmless."
"There you go again, ruining my bad-boy image," Eames shook his head and smiled Ariadne. "I'd offer to shake your hand, but most people get creeped out by that in this place."
Ariadne laughed.
"You're a sperm donor?" She asked, interested.
"I prefer philanthropic purveyor of first-grade man-seed, really," Eames corrected.
"Philanthropic doesn't mean what you think it means," Arthur interjected.
"I'd like to philan your thropic, Arthur dear," Eames said.
"I'm sure you would. Now, if you don't mind, I was having a conversation with Ariadne here."
"Oh, I don't mind at all," Eames said, holding up his hands. "I'll just stand here quietly and try to figure out how you make sitting at a desk sexy."
"Practice," Arthur answered.
They talked until Ariadne was called back by the nurse. She gave Arthur an anxious look and Arthur smiled back, encouraging.
"It'll be fine, Ariadne, don't worry," he said, and she nodded.
"Go get 'em, tiger," Eames called after her, and gave her a thumbs-up.
When she was gone Eames slouched in his familiar position over Arthur's desk.
"So, what are you doing Friday?" He asked, tracing circles on the polished wood.
"I don't know," Arthur said. "But I've a feeling you're about to tell me."
"Psychic, darling, I swear you are. Howabout dinner with me? That great restaurant on Harper Street. Up-scale place, you know, cloth napkins and everything. Makes an eggplant parmesan men have killed for."
"I'd like that, Mr. Eames."
"Fantastic. I'll pick you. Say, six o'clock?"
"That's fine, I'll see you then."
"Counting down the minutes, love, counting down the minutes. Wear a cheap tie."
"Not a chance, Mr. Eames. I don't own any."
"'Course you don't. We'll make do."
"I'm sure we will, Mr. Eames. I'm sure we will."
**
Arthur trudged up his front steps, covering a yawn with a splay of fingers. He tugged on the doorknob and then paused.
For the first time in the two years Arthur had lived in these apartments, the door was properly locked. Huh. He pulled out his key with a shrug and let himself in.
Arthur passed his super in the hall and gave a polite nod, then stopped .
"Mr. Leonard?" he said "I see the front door's fixed."
Leonard snorted. "Yeah, some foreign asshole called me at three in the morning last night, threatening to sue and all sorts of shit if I didn't get it locked-up right," he narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "That have anything to do with you?"
Arthur shook his head. "No, Mr. Leonard, I don't know anything about it."
Leonard rolled his eyes. "Whatever."
"Have a good night," Arthur called as Leonard strolled off with a grumble.
Arthur looked back at the door locked behind him and felt a smile on his lips.
Arthur got to work early the next morning, like he did every morning. The early air was damp and cool and clean, which was completely ruined as the bus pulled away from him in a thunderhead of exhaust.
He checked to make sure there was no graffiti on the building (last month he'd had to spend all day scrubbing away the rather redundant SPUNK someone had scrawled in neon yellow) and unlocked DreamShare's front door. Inside, he put away his keys and hung up his coat with familiarity.
He started the coffee going, because Dr. Yusuf and half the nursing staff were utterly useless without it, fiddled with the thermostat, and ran an experimental finger over the shelves. He pulled it away dusty and frowned. The cleaning crew was doing a shoddy job. There were going to have to be words.
He set the muffins -- donuts were a special treat for Fridays, and besides, Nurse King was on a diet -- he'd picked up on the edge of his desk for the staff and put the cookies on the little table for the clients.
That done, Arthur sat down at his desk, in the leather chair that fitted him like a glove -- no, like a nice suit. He looked at the dark wood and smiled, just a little. Arthur liked his job. He liked his desk and he liked the people he worked with and he liked the fact that he was good at what he did.
The morning passed quickly and easily, staff members trickling in one by one with muffled yawns and sleepy "hullo, Arthur"s and little waves. He handed out messages and muffins like they were going out of style. Conducting people like this, Arthur always felt a little like air traffic control.
"Good morning, Arthur," Dr. Yusuf said. Arthur handed him his coffee, one sugar, lots of cream, and the doctor gave a sigh of relief. "You are a miracle worker, you know that?"
"Yes," Arthur nodded.
"What's on the schedule for today?" Yusuf asked, cradling the warm mug -- there were little cartoon sperm swimming along the sides.
"You've an appointment with Mrs. Carroll at ten and Mr. and Mr. Pratchett-Stroud at half-past. The Cobbs will be here at eleven, they're bringing their new surrogate. And at one-thirty you're making a house-call to the Fischer residence to collect his donation," Arthur rattled off.
"Excellent," Yusuf said. "So, how'd your date go?"
"Pardon?" Arthur asked, taken aback. "How--"
"The nurses, Arthur. They gossip like their mouths will no longer work if they stop. You're their favourite, you know. Eames had better be careful."
"It went. . . well," Arthur said. Arthur thought of the kiss on the doorstep and in his stomach the damn butterflies fluttered their wings triumphantly. "It was fine."
"Mmm," Dr. Yusuf mused. "Well. That's good. I would hate to see one of most prolific clients torn apart limb by limb by my nurses."
"Yes, he does have excellent sperm, doesn't he?" Arthur said. "Wait. . . I mean. . . that's not. . ."
Yusuf laughed and clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Oh, Arthur. You're fun when you're flustered. I think this is good for you."
Arthur nodded mutely, not trusting his tongue.
"Tell Mr. Eames I said hello, then," Yusuf said. "Oh, and Arthur? Tell him if he botches this, next time he's here, I'll cut off his penis. Ta."
The doctor left. Arthur stared after him.
The phone rang, and Arthur shook himself. He clicked answer on his headset and settled back in his chair, fingers steepled.
"Good afternoon, DreamShare Cryobank, where we believe little swimmers can make big dreams come true. Arthur speaking. How may I help you?"
"Hello," the voice on the phone was recognizably nervous. "Hi. This is Robert Fischer, Jr. My father has some. . ."
His voice trailed off quietly. Arthur waited.
"Some. . . sperm. . ."
"Sorry?" Arthur said. "What was that?"
Robert's voice was very, very quiet.
"Sperm."
"Oh, yes," Arthur said. "Sperm. Go on."
"Yes, well, he has some. . . thing. That. . . thing. . . that he is supposed to be donating today. I'm just calling to confirm, exactly, who's coming? We'll need to clear them with my father's guards."
"Dr. Yusuf, whom you met yesterday, will be there at one-thirty, along with a nurse."
"Great. Can you tell me the nurse's name? They'll want to run a background check."
". . . Sorry?"
"A background check. Make sure they're not assassins."
". . . Right. Of course. That makes sense. I will gladly get back to you with that information, Robert, as soon as I find out. . . Will that be all?"
"Um, yes. One-thirty, you said? For the, uh, the thing?"
"Correct."
"Great. Great. We'll, uh, be waiting, then."
"Fantastic," Arthur chirped. "Have a nice day, Robert."
Arthur could make out a "not fucking likely," across the line as Robert hung up the phone.
Arthur shrugged and went back to work.
"Has anyone ever told you you've got a lovely arse?"
"I'm sitting behind a desk, Mr. Eames. You can't see my arse."
"I've an excellent memory and a vivid imagination."
"Apparently you've managed to forget the date, though. It isn't Tuesday, Mr. Eames," Arthur glanced discreetly at his calendar, the one that had different pictures of sperm dressed up as firemen and construction workers and cowboys for every month, just to be sure.
"I couldn't stay away."
"Missed me already?"
"Yup," Eames said unabashedly.
"Well," Arthur looked up at him and allowed a tiny smile. "That's nice to hear."
"How are you?" Eames asked casually, leaning further on Arthur's desk.
"I'm fine, Mr. Eames, thank you. And you?"
"Oh, peachy. I had excellent dreams last night, Arthur dear. Slept like a baby. A very kinky baby."
"Glad to hear it, Mr. Eames."
"Nice tie, by the way, Arthur dear. Looks good on you. Bet it'd look great tying you to my headboard."
"Mr. Eames, this is a ninety-dollar tie. You're not going to stretch it out."
"Take the wind right out my sails, why dontcha, love."
"I'm afraid someone must."
"Dirty job, but somebody's got to do, eh?'
"Absolutely filthy."
"You know you like it, love."
"Oh, Mr. Eames, Dr. Yusuf wanted you to know he may cut off your penis," Arthur informed him.
Eames paused. "I hafta admit, that's a little disconcerting to hear, comin' from my own doctor."
Arthur held up his hands in a "what-can-you-do?" kind of gesture.
"So," Eames said, shaking himself and moving on. "You're doing all right?"
"Yes, Mr. Eames, as I said, I'm fine."
"Well, that's good. I'm just saying, if, for whatever imaginable reason, you weren't fine. . . that'd be understandable, too."
"And you'd be more than willing to "comfort me?" Am I correct in that assumption, Mr. Eames?"
"Oh, absolutely, Arthur love."
"Well, thank you for the offer, Mr. Eames, but as I've assured you, I am fine."
Eames nodded. "All right, Arthur love. All right."
"But thank you," Arthur said quietly. "For. . . thank you. I'll be all right."
Eames smiled. "'Course you will. Now, where's my little plastic cup?"
**
Ariadne was a nice girl. Arthur felt good for the Cobbs.
"So, architecture?" he asked, trying to set the girl at ease. She was collected for the most part, but her eyes kept flicking nervously at the door the Cobbs were behind.
Ariadne nodded. "Yeah, it's what I always wanted to do. Building things. . . I want to see something that I made, something I designed, actually being used by people, you know?"
"It sounds--" Arthur began, before he was interrupted by Eames coming back out of the back rooms.
"Oh, Arthur. I knew you'd trade me in the first time something younger and prettier came along," Eames sighed dramatically.
"Of course, Mr. Eames," Arthur agreed. He turned back to Ariadne. "Ignore him, he's harmless."
"There you go again, ruining my bad-boy image," Eames shook his head and smiled Ariadne. "I'd offer to shake your hand, but most people get creeped out by that in this place."
Ariadne laughed.
"You're a sperm donor?" She asked, interested.
"I prefer philanthropic purveyor of first-grade man-seed, really," Eames corrected.
"Philanthropic doesn't mean what you think it means," Arthur interjected.
"I'd like to philan your thropic, Arthur dear," Eames said.
"I'm sure you would. Now, if you don't mind, I was having a conversation with Ariadne here."
"Oh, I don't mind at all," Eames said, holding up his hands. "I'll just stand here quietly and try to figure out how you make sitting at a desk sexy."
"Practice," Arthur answered.
They talked until Ariadne was called back by the nurse. She gave Arthur an anxious look and Arthur smiled back, encouraging.
"It'll be fine, Ariadne, don't worry," he said, and she nodded.
"Go get 'em, tiger," Eames called after her, and gave her a thumbs-up.
When she was gone Eames slouched in his familiar position over Arthur's desk.
"So, what are you doing Friday?" He asked, tracing circles on the polished wood.
"I don't know," Arthur said. "But I've a feeling you're about to tell me."
"Psychic, darling, I swear you are. Howabout dinner with me? That great restaurant on Harper Street. Up-scale place, you know, cloth napkins and everything. Makes an eggplant parmesan men have killed for."
"I'd like that, Mr. Eames."
"Fantastic. I'll pick you. Say, six o'clock?"
"That's fine, I'll see you then."
"Counting down the minutes, love, counting down the minutes. Wear a cheap tie."
"Not a chance, Mr. Eames. I don't own any."
"'Course you don't. We'll make do."
"I'm sure we will, Mr. Eames. I'm sure we will."
**
Arthur trudged up his front steps, covering a yawn with a splay of fingers. He tugged on the doorknob and then paused.
For the first time in the two years Arthur had lived in these apartments, the door was properly locked. Huh. He pulled out his key with a shrug and let himself in.
Arthur passed his super in the hall and gave a polite nod, then stopped .
"Mr. Leonard?" he said "I see the front door's fixed."
Leonard snorted. "Yeah, some foreign asshole called me at three in the morning last night, threatening to sue and all sorts of shit if I didn't get it locked-up right," he narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "That have anything to do with you?"
Arthur shook his head. "No, Mr. Leonard, I don't know anything about it."
Leonard rolled his eyes. "Whatever."
"Have a good night," Arthur called as Leonard strolled off with a grumble.
Arthur looked back at the door locked behind him and felt a smile on his lips.