the place that i call home pt. II
Rating: PG-13
Words: 6355
Betas: eternalsojourn&_la_belle_fille
Part I
In the days following, Eames charms Ariadne by quoting Nietzsche, Homer, Thoreau, Dostoyevsky. Arthur is not charmed, because Arthur is never charmed by what he considers to be showing off (being better at something than he himself is). It’s not intelligent, it’s campy, and Arthur almost pops a blood vessel when Eames recites Arthur’s favorite e.e. cummings poem to Ariadne one night. “Oh! Isn’t that your favorite, Arthur?” she asks, eyes shining.
“No,” Arthur lies, and goes to the kitchen to fetch the whisky.
Ariadne’s eyebrows furrow. “No? I could have sworn--”
“Nope,” Arthur cuts her off over his shoulder.
He needs to stop drinking when he’s upset, but now is not the time.
Yusuf and Eames seem to have picked up where they left off in their friendship and Arthur can’t help feeling a little green-eyed (red-eyed) when he finds them playing Risk in front of the fireplace, or when they go to the pub together, or when they marathon The Office (things that he and Dom used to do, or might have done).
Eames is encroaching on every facet of Arthur’s life that he can sink his claws into, Arthur swears it into his pillow at night. The thing is, Eames doesn’t even need to be doing anything in order to project said loud presence. Sometimes, Eames is just reading on the back porch and Arthur will walk out with Rex, notice him there, and want to scream (there is no escape).
Eames corners him on a Saturday morning--well, Arthur feels he’s been cornered, at any rate. Arthur’s sitting at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper and taking determined pulls from a still-steaming mug of coffee. Eames staggers into the kitchen and goes about fixing himself a toasted bagel. Arthur prays he’ll take it elsewhere to eat, but he doesn’t; he sits down in the chair across from Arthur and smiles. Arthur thinks it’s unnatural to smile in the morning.
“Good morning,” Eames genuinely chirps, despite how gravelly his voice is from sleep.
Arthur doesn’t look up from his newspaper, but inclines his coffee mug in acknowledgment. “Morning.” (Nothing good about it.)
It’s the first time they’ve ever been alone together in the two short (long) weeks Eames has been here, and it’s rather obvious by the breed of silence that’s invading the room. Arthur can practically hear Eames struggling to think of something to talk about; Arthur decides to do him no favors (every man for himself) and keeps quiet.
Eames takes a few bites of bagel, chews, swallows, and then breaks the silence. “So. You’re the one who actually owns this place, right?”
“Yes,” Arthur says.
“Yusuf said your father built it, is that so?”
“Yes. He left it to me when he passed.”
“That’s really quite brilliant,” Eames says through a mouthful of bagel. “The house is gorgeous.”
“My father would appreciate that.” Arthur turns a page of the newspaper. The clock chimes in the other room.
“And the guy who lived here before me was a good friend of yours?”
Arthur’s knuckles tighten around the paper. He flicks it shut and folds it crisply (case closed). “He was a friend to all of us. If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Eames, I need to be getting my day started.”
If Eames is startled he doesn’t show it, merely nods while he chews another bite of bagel and waves at Arthur as he leaves the room.
Arthur’s perusing aisles of the supermarket when Ariadne calls him. He slides his cell phone open warily, lifting it to his ear. “Yes?”
“Can you get me tampons while you’re at the grocery store?”
“Uhg, Ariadne,” he grimaces, eyes darting toward that aisle.
“Please and thank you!” she hangs up. Arthur snorts and stalks off to the feminine products.
He brings the bag up to her room when he gets home, stiffly holding it out to her when she opens her door. “Oh thank you,” she grins. “I’m sure this took all of your willpower.”
“Nearly,” he gripes.
“It’s what you deserve for being rude to Eames for no reason,” she says, and shuts the door in his face. Arthur scowls and strides away, foul mood escalating.
By the time night has rolled around, Arthur’s been stewing in his discontent all day; his hostility rolls off him in waves and everyone, even Rex, seems to take a hint. Everyone except Eames.
Arthur’s commanding the dog towards the back door, leash in hand when Eames comes around the corner. Arthur stays tight-lipped and stoops to clip on Rex’s leash, but Eames will not be ignored. “Want some company?” he asks, leaning against the wall.
A muscle in Arthur’s jaw jumps. “No, Eames, I really don’t.” It’s awful, sneering and barbed, even Arthur can hear it, but he doesn’t look back as he tugs Rex out the door and into the field.
“Who does he think he is?” Arthur seethes to the pup as they go. “The jolly green giant?” Rex whines low in his throat and looks up at Arthur, brown and blue eyes equally sad-seeming. Arthur stops in his tracks and stares down at the dog. “What? You think I’m being an ass?” (Et tu, Brute?) Rex lowers his head, whines again. Arthur rubs a hand over his face and counts to ten, taking as many deep inhales. “Yeah,” he whispers with reluctance. “Maybe you’re right.”
The next morning, Arthur slinks around until he’s able to catch Yusuf alone in the hallway. “Want to go grab a coffee?” Arthur asks, looking at the floor.
Yusuf surveys him. “Sure, Arthur. Just let me brush my teeth, yes?”
Once they’ve settled into a booth at the coffee house, Yusuf wastes no time. “Tell me your troubles,” he invites, slapping a packet of sugar against his palm before ripping it open and stirring it into his mug.
“What?” Arthur looks up from his latte, surprised.
“I assume that if you just wanted coffee, you would have made it at the house. So what’s up?”
“What’s wrong with wanting some company?”
“Arthur please.” Yusuf almost rolls his eyes. “Spare me.”
Arthur’s shoulders slump forward. “Fine. I need your help.” Yusuf stares at him relentlessly, waiting for him to continue. “I need to apologize to Eames.”
“Most people would probably be satisfied with a simple ‘I’m sorry,’ you know.”
“I know,” Arthur says, sullen. “I also need to learn how to like Eames.”
Yusuf hmm’s and sips his café au lait. “Nobody likes everybody, Arthur.”
“Yes, but I have no good reason to dislike him so strongly.” Arthur rubs his eye. “I just...”
“You feel like he’s replacing Dom.”
Arthur barks out a grim laugh. “I wish there was a way to make it sound less like I’m going through a divorce, but, yes.” He takes his hand away from his face and looks at Yusuf, feeling small (exposed).
“Nobody can stop you feeling that way, mate. You just have to recognize that he isn’t. He’s making his own, new place in the house.” Yusuf chortles. “God, I sound like a brochure for the grieving.”
“It’s totally illogical, I realize this,” Arthur says of his feelings, ignoring Yusuf’s self-depreciation. “Irrational. Stupid. I just, I can barely look at him without being angry.”
“Eames is not the catalyst for Dom’s departure. He didn’t push Dom out of the house. Dom didn’t leave because Eames came into town.”
“Can you find just one more way to say it for me, please?” Arthur’s voice is sour, but he smiles, looking tired.
“Just wanted to make sure I was getting through to you,” Yusuf teases. “Sometimes you’re rather thick.”
“Tell me about it.”
“He does want to get to know you, Arthur,” Yusuf reveals quietly. “He thinks you’re quite interesting.”
“Does he now?” Arthur asks, mouth slanting (doubt).
Yusuf casts him a hard look. “Why would I lie?” Arthur shrugs. “Just start by apologizing to him. Then try having a conversation with him. You might have more common ground between you than you think.”
It takes a couple of days to follow Yusuf’s advice--partly because he can’t remember what it’s like to seriously apologize to someone, and partly because Eames becomes elusive--but Arthur comes home one day to find him making a spot of something for dinner and decides to take a chance. He awkwardly clears his throat and takes a few tentative steps onto the threshold, unsure of where to look, or what to do with his hands. He settles for cramming them into his pockets as Eames turns from the stove top, where he’s mixing something in a pan.
“Arthur,” Eames announces, voice carefully neutral save for the tiny upturn of the last syllable, as though it were a question.
“Eames, I, uh,” Arthur fumbles, and one of his hands migrates from a pocket to rub shamefully at the back of his neck. “I just wanted to...apologize. For. You know.” Arthur is finding it difficult to meet Eames’ inquisitive gaze and so stares at the kitchen tiles instead. “Being, y’know, not the easiest person to live with,” he mumbles. Jesus Christ, he thinks, I feel like I’m back in second grade. “Basically, I’m sorry I’ve been an asshole, and I just, thought you might want to know. That.”
Eames half-smiles (mask) and tips his spatula at Arthur. “Duly noted. Don’t worry about it.”
“I--” Arthur begins, but blinks, trying to discern whether Eames is being sincere or just polite. “Yeah,” he swallows. “Okay.” He pivots and flees, cheeks burning, angry at himself but relieved he did, at least, get it the fuck over with. He finds Rex in his room and closes the door, slumping down against it. Rex gets up and goes to him, snuffling over his face and licking at one of his jean-covered knees.
Arthur scratches gently behind one of his pup’s scruffy ears. “Hi boy,” he murmurs. “I’m a fucking idiot.” Rex neither confirms nor denies this, choosing instead to roll over for a belly rub. “You have it so easy,” Arthur says enviously as he rubs up and down Rex’s chest and belly with vigor. “Yes, you have it so easy.” He gets up from the floor and goes to sit at his desk, thinking of getting some work done, but Rex whines, pawing at the bottom of his door.
“Fine,” Arthur assents, opening the door. “Go. Be free.” Rex pads out of his room and down the hallway, probably to investigate the smells coming from the kitchen. Arthur closes his door, turns around to face his bedroom, and suddenly decides that his bed looks more inviting than his computer.
The next time he wakes up, it’s to someone knocking frantically on his door. Arthur groans and rolls over, glimpsing out the window to see that it’s dark outside. He squints at his clock, reading 8:41pm. He curses quietly but before he has the chance to do much more, his door opens a fraction. “Arthur?”
“What?” he croaks, sitting up and rubbing his cheek, feeling the creases in his skin from his pillow. He glances down at himself to realize he’d fallen asleep fully clothed and on top of his blankets. Eames edges into the room.
Eames looks nervous and Arthur can only squint blearily at him. “I’m sorry to wake you,” Eames says, “but I’m afraid we have a problem.” His fingers are drumming a frenetic beat where they’ve grasped the edge of Arthur’s door.
Arthur makes to rise from the bed, legs heavy. “Problem?” he asks, reaching to turn on the bedside table lamp. “What problem?”
Eames bites his lip. “It’s Rex.”
Arthur immediately sobers, drowsiness draining from him. He nearly leaps into motion. “What do you mean?” he demands, striding out the door, forcing Eames back through it. “What’s wrong with Rex?”
“I, ah, I’m afraid he’s run away,” Eames informs him.
“How did he run away?” Arthur is pressing onwards, down the hallway and the stairs.
“I let him out,” Eames says, sounding miserable. “I didn’t know he wasn’t allowed out without a leash. He was whining at the door.”
Arthur groans. “So you just--”
“Opened the door, yes,” Eames says. “And he bolted.”
Yusuf and Ariadne are in the living room when they get to the bottom of the stairs. “Did none of you go after him?” Arthur demands, temper rearing up, afraid for his pup.
“Yes,” Yusuf says.
“That’s the thing,” Ariadne chimes in, loathe to be the bearer of bad news but most resilient to Arthur’s wrath. “We’ve already been looking for him for nearly an hour.”
Arthur wants to hit something. “Why didn’t you wake me?” his voice climbs as he grabs his jacket off a peg near the back door.
“We didn’t want to bother you for nothing, if we could find him,” Eames says.
Arthur rounds on him. “He’s my fucking dog!” (my best friend) he bites, furious. “And now he’s lost, in the dark, and depending on which way he’s run, he could be coyote food!” Or hit by a car, or taken by those freaks who steal pets to experiment on, or hurt himself chasing something--the possibilities seem endless, and all Arthur can envision are those awful scenes from Homeward Bound.
“Okay, Arthur,” Ariadne tries to soothe. “He’s a smart dog, this is just like, a joyride for him or something.”
“Yeah, he’ll be able to find his way back, mate,” Yusuf adds.
“He could be anywhere,” Arthur snarls, grabbing Rex’s leash off it’s hook and his car keys. “I’m going to look.” He means it as a dismissal, but Eames steps up.
“I’ll go with you,” he says, voice determined but shot through with guilt. Arthur barely spares him a glance.
“Whatever, let’s fucking go.”
They drive around with the windows down, radio off, calling Rex’s name loudly into the dark. “I’m so sorry, Arthur,” Eames says wearily.
It takes Arthur a moment to reign in the impulse to snap at him, say something nasty, but he bites it back and stuffs it down, face hard. “It’s not your fault, you didn’t know.” His voice is brittle (an empty courtesy), but it’s better than nothing.
Occasionally Arthur pulls the car over somewhere and they get out to wander a bit, clapping and calling, always keeping one ear open for any telling noises. Rex does not surface, and the hour grows later and later, until Arthur is staggering back to the car after another fruitless bout of searching. “Should’ve brought a flashlight,” he mutters to himself, and he tries to fish for his car keys in his jacket pocket but ends up leaning his forehead against the car door instead.
He feels a hand hesitantly touch his shoulder. “Do you want me to drive?” Eames asks quietly.
Arthur isn’t so far gone that he can’t recognize that the state of his being is probably not optimal for driving anymore--he’s exhausted and distracted, and his rage has succumbed to fear wrought by worst case scenarios playing on loop in his mind.
“Yeah,” he relents. “Okay.” He fishes the keys out at last, turns and places them into Eames’ waiting hand.
Arthur calls Ariadne and Yusuf, but Rex hasn’t come back yet, and he exhales tiredly when he hangs up his phone, watching out the window as Eames drives.
“Just head home,” he directs after another fifteen futile minutes, voice rough (defeated). “I’ll go out and look some more in the morning.”
Eames makes a small noise of consent and turns in the direction of the house. By the time they return, Yusuf and Ariadne are falling asleep on the couch. Ariadne tells Arthur she’ll help him look in the morning and slouches off to bed. Yusuf goes to the kitchen. “I’m telling you,” he says to Arthur. “Dogs have GPS systems in their heads. He knows where he’s fed, he’ll get hungry and come home.”
It’s not that Arthur doesn’t appreciate Yusuf’s reaffirmations, but it’s not exactly what he wants to hear. Acutely, he’s aware that Rex does not love him, must only recognize Arthur’s figure as the one that feeds, walks, and pets him. Obtusely, Arthur refuses to believe that’s all he means to Rex. He needs to believe that Rex has come to love Arthur just as much as Arthur (now realizes) he has come to love his dog.
Arthur thinks it's ridiculous that Rex running away echoes the sting of Dom leaving, but he can't help the sour churning in his gut. The hole in his chest, which had been on the mend, has been ripped asunder by yet another best friend. It's illogical; Arthur knows Rex has no higher conscience, has no intention of causing Arthur pain nor any concept of how highly Arthur esteems his companionship, is only following his doggy impulses. And yet, Arthur can't help but wonder if Rex has found him or his home inadequate, choosing instead to flee for greener pastures.
Eames shifts behind him. “I’m sure he’ll be on the porch come morning,” he says.
But Rex isn’t. Arthur walks around the field behind the house for awhile, calling for his dog in vain. When he returns to the porch, he feels heavy (disappointed) and isolated. Ariadne offers him a cup of coffee as he passes through the kitchen, her hair tangled with sleep but her jacket on. When they get outside, Eames is waiting by the car.
“I didn’t even know you were up,” Ariadne says.
Arthur feels a rush of--of something. “You don’t have to come,” he tells Eames. “You went last night.”
“Six eyes are better than four,” is all Eames says, and so they get in the car without further debate.
They drive along, stopping every few blocks to range out and search. When they pass through town, Ariadne goes in and asks people if they’ve seen such a dog as Rex anywhere around, but nobody has. Every half hour, Arthur calls back to Yusuf. Each time, Yusuf tells him that if Rex had come home, he would have called. Arthur invents new expletives every time he hangs up the phone, and Ariadne looks increasingly like a wilting flower. Eames rarely says anything beyond when he’s cupping his hands around his mouth and calling Rex’s name out.
“Should we just head back?” Ariadne asks after two hours have passed. “This is like, impossible.” She doesn’t say it meanly, and Arthur knows she has no ill intent, but he still feels a flash of irritation before yielding.
“Yeah,” he says. “I guess.”
“If he’s not back by tonight, I’ll help you make up lost fliers for him,” Ariadne tries to console, patting his arm. Arthur nods. Eames says nothing, remaining sullen in the backseat.
Arthur stays outside for most of the afternoon, sitting on the back porch with his gaze fixated on golden stalks of wheat, jumping up at any slight disturbance. Yusuf comes out with a chessboard, and they pass the time a little easier that way, but Arthur can’t fully distract himself from the sick nervousness sitting slimy in his stomach. Eventually, Ariadne gets called into work, Yusuf has a coffee date with a professor, and Eames decides the cupboards are getting a little too bare for comfort. He asks quietly if Arthur wants to come along to the store, but Arthur declines as politely as he can, wanting to be home in case Rex returns.
The house is silent, the absence of his pup more evident when he’s the only one home; Arthur finds himself missing the slightest of things: the noninvasive clicking of Rex’s toenails on the wooden floors, the soft way he’d growl when seeing a squirrel out the window.
He’s sitting on the couch when his phone rings, blaring and grating in the hush around it, startling him to the point where he almost knocks over his nearby glass of water. It’s Eames’ number calling, which Arthur had only programmed into his phone on the insistence of Yusuf when Eames had first moved in, in case of emergencies.
“Hi?” he answers, eyebrows knitting.
“Arthur!” Eames sounds out of breath. “I found Rex, I’ve found him, you have to come--”
Arthur’s already off the couch and grabbing his keys. “Why? What’s happened?” he demands.
“He, he was on the road, Arthur, limping along the shoulder. He’s broken something, by the size of it. I’m taking him to the animal clinic, so just, meet me there? I think he’d like to see you,” Eames pants, and Arthur can hear his pup whimpering in the background.
“Okay,” Arthur says, breathlessly, bounding out the front door, because he doesn’t know what else to say right now. “See you there.”
He doesn’t remember driving to the clinic, only knows the moment of his heart pounding hard as he flings his car door open and sprints across the parking lot to the entrance of the clinic.
When he gets inside, he immediately zeros in on Eames, who is folded up with his elbows on his his knees in the waiting room. He looks up at the sound of Arthur’s rushed approach. “He’s in with the doctors right now,” he says without prompt.
“What happened?” Arthur asks. “Why is your shirt torn?”
Eames straightens up and glances down to where his shirt is obviously torn, as though he’d forgotten about it. “Oh,” he says, glancing back up at Arthur. “He was a bit distressed when I found him. I had to tear my shirt and use a bit of it to muzzle him.” Arthur runs a hand over his face, sighing. “You might as well sit down.” Eames pats the seat beside him. “They said it could be awhile.”
Arthur hovers for a moment, worrying at his lower lip and glancing at the doors leading back into the urgent care facility, before taking the seat. “Thank you,” he says, but it comes out half-strangled so he clears his throat and tries again. “Thanks for taking care of him.”
Eames snorts and shakes his head. “My fault in the first place,” he mutters.
Arthur feels a pang of guilt. “No it’s not,” he presses, and he means it this time. “How were you supposed to know? Nobody told you.”
“I guess I just...” Eames trails, lacing and re-lacing his fingers together. “I just hope it’s nothing serious.”
“Yeah,” Arthur agrees, sitting back in the uncomfortable plastic chair, the back of his head hitting the wall behind him with a dull thump. “Yeah me too.”
The minutes tick by at an agonizing rate, and there is nothing much to be said between them; they let the dull buzz of the TV hanging in the corner of the room talk for them. Eames looks up at it every now and then but doesn’t appear to actually be registering anything.
Eventually the doors swing open, jerking them from their individual reveries, and a veterinarian emerges. “Rex?” he asks, eyebrows raising, looking at the pair of them.
“Yes,” Arthur says, rushing to stand. “Yes, I’m his owner.”
“I’m Dr. Callahan,” the vet declares, reaching out to shake Arthur’s hand. “You’re very lucky. Rex is going to be fine.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his bulbous nose. “We did a radiograph of the paw and found the metacarpal fractured. It’s been bandaged and splinted, which is about all we can do for him. I’ll prescribe some Novox to help him cope with the pain, which you can give once a day with or without food, whichever seems to work best for him.” He pauses to let that sink in before clapping his hands together. “If you’ll just take care of paperwork and payment with Susan,” he points to the smiley woman at the front desk, “I’ll bring Rex right out to you.”
Once the paperwork has been filled out, and payment arranged, Susan hands over a pamphlet on caring for dogs recovering from fractures. Arthur almost drops everything, though, when the double doors swing open and Rex comes limping through, paw wrapped in a little boot of a cast, gentled along on a black lead by Dr. Callahan. He perks up happily upon seeing them, and Arthur has to manfully restrain himself from tackling the pup. He hands the stack of paper to Eames, who takes them without hesitance, and kneels down with relief (excitement) that he doesn’t bother to conceal. Rex weakly licks his face as Arthur’s arms encircle him, petting his sleek head and rubbing at his wriggling sides.
“Oh man, it’s good to see you, you nearly gave me a heart attack, do you hear me, Rex?” he chides, voice devoid of any actual anger. He becomes slowly aware that he’s being watched. With a last tender scratching under Rex’s chin, he stands, clearing his throat. “Right.” He tries to ignore the amused expressions on Eames and Dr. Callahan’s faces. “So I’m assuming he’ll have to come back in?”
The doctor nods. “In about six weeks. We’ll remove the cast and splint, and do another x-ray to make sure all is well.”
That night, after all prescriptions have been obtained and administered, after Rex has made his re-acquaintance with everyone and everything in the house, and life has resumed, Arthur prepares to take Rex on their nightly walk. “It’ll just be a short one, buddy, don’t worry. We’ll go slow. I know. That medicine seems to be doing you one better, though.”
They pass through the living room, Rex hobbling at his side, and Arthur pauses, looking at Eames sprawled on the couch (the specimen in its natural habitat). Eames appears to be immersed in some important literature (Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton) but within seconds, he turns his face to Arthur. “D’you need something, Arthur?” he asks, not unkindly.
Arthur realizes he’s been biting his lip and releases it, mentally shaking himself. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he spares a pointed look for Ethan and Edith, “but, well, I’m taking Rex out and, just thought you might want to go?” Arthur feels the familiar oppression of embarrassment, unsure of what it is about Eames that turns him into a blathering, ineloquent mess.
But Eames smiles at him, a bit of authentic delight darting across his face (Arthur marvels at it). “Sure,” he replies. Arthur privately admires the way Eames wedges a legitimate bookmark between Ethan’s worn pages before shutting it with a reverent caress and placing it on the coffee table. He stands, brushing imaginary lint from his jeans. “Let me get my shoes on,” he says, padding down the hall to his room.
Arthur shifts his weight and catches Rex looking up at him knowingly. “What?” he mouths inaudibly (defensive) at the pup, but Rex just tilts his head innocently.
Eames comes back, stuffed into a flannel coat and a hardy pair of boots. “Ready,” he grins, and Arthur leans down to clip Rex onto his leash. When they push out the front door, onto the street, it’s flurrying harmlessly. As they turn the corner out of the yard, Arthur’s stomach sinks as he tries to come up with something to talk about. He clears his throat. “Nice night out,” he attempts, wrapping Rex’s leash around his knuckles to make sure the dog continues at a slow pace.
“Yeah,” Eames shrugs, “I can’t believe it’s still snowing in April, though. Where I was last, this would be considered apocalyptic.”
Arthur blinks, feeling a soft flake or two melting on the tip of his nose. “Where is that?” he inquires, riding a flash of guilt that he doesn’t even know that much.
Eames doesn’t seem to fault him for it, thankfully, just slides his hands into his jacket pockets and scuffs his boot at the fine layer of snow on the sidewalk, scattering it out into little eddies. “I just spent three years in the south of Spain,” he divulges easily. His seemingly strange accent and dusky tan make sense to Arthur.
“What were you doing in Spain?” Arthur feels obligated to continue the line of questioning, lest he face returning to frivolous comments about the weather.
“Apprenticing for José Manuel Merello, actually.” An expression flits across Eames’ face that Arthur can’t decipher (pride? Fondness? Wistfulness?).
Arthur halts as Rex stops to sniff at something and take a leak, watching with wide eyes as Eames keeps trucking for a couple steps before catching on and turning round. “That’s really cool,” Arthur urges. “That’s...legit awesome.” Eames laughs, and a knot below Arthur’s clavicle eases and dissipates. He finds himself smiling, a small thing of hesitance, but true. “How in the world did you end up here?” he gestures to the space around them.
Eames makes a humming sound in the back of his throat, rocking back on his heels before answering. “Yusuf. He’s been my mate a long time. When I was due back in the States, I didn’t really have a plan for anything, you see. I knew I could count on Yusuf, though, and I was right. He’s always taken good care of me.”
That gives Arthur pause for a moment, reflecting on Yusuf’s caring hands, he finds himself nodding. “Yes,” he murmurs, a shade distant. “He’s a good guy.” He’s been friends with Yusuf since college; Arthur can’t recall Yusuf ever speaking of Eames, but that doesn’t mean he hadn’t. Besides, if Eames was often abroad, it probably stymied communication.
Arthur startles when Rex butts his head against Arthur’s leg. He apologizes, resuming their pace. “I think he’s used to being the center of attention here,” he says of the dog.
“Understandable,” Eames chuckles, falling into step beside Arthur. “How long have you had him?”
Arthur thinks. “Only a couple of months. Wow...feels like much longer.”
“Time’s funny that way, innit?”
“Mhm,” Arthur nods. “Ariadne got him as an early birthday present.”
“Oh,” the corners of Eames’ lips tug up. “I’m sorry, I must have just missed it. Aries, then?”
“March 17th; Pisces. Though I don’t know how well it fits me. What are you?”
“Gemini.”
“I think I’m supposed to avoid you,” Arthur says, side-eyeing Eames with mock suspicion.
“You did,” Eames snorts, baldfaced; Arthur’s a little thrown at his blunt (valid) recollection. Whenever Arthur tries to be that direct, the words taste of vinegar in his mouth, and burn all the way down to his stomach where they lurch uncomfortably. Arthur’s muted by shock (awe, fear) for a few steps.
“I did,” he eventually concedes. He restrains a sigh, absentmindedly scratching the brush of stubble along his jaw. “I am sorry about that.”
Eames shakes his head. “What’s done is done,” he pauses before turning to gaze straight at Arthur. “Look, just because we’re roommates doesn’t mean we have to be friends by any means. I understand that completely. But just so you know, Arthur, I’m a rather good friend,” he smiles cheekily, rounding out the honest speech with a trifle of mirth.
Arthur feels safe to laugh quietly, watching Rex unevenly paw across the pavement. “So sure of yourself,” he dares to tease, attempting to ease his own uncertainty. “I guess I’ll have to see for myself.” He silently thanks Eames’ forward, yet playful, nature for negotiating past their rocky beginning and building a subtle bridge for Arthur and his social ineptitude to cross.
“Sold,” Eames proclaims, and they finish their walk trading light-hearted jests. Arthur’s perceptive enough to know that Eames is testing the waters, keeping the conversation on an even keel, not too serious and not too personal. Still, it ignites something in his belly, and when Rex slows to lick Arthur’s hand, he feels giddy with camaraderie.
Two days later, Yusuf asks them down to the enormous indoor farmer’s market. They pile into the car, Arthur taking shotgun while Yusuf drives.
They meander through the aisles of bread smiths, butcher’s stalls, and craft tents, exchanging chatter and idle humor while otherwise absorbed by deals on fava beans, broccoli, carrots, and beets. They pass vendors selling funnel cakes, hot cocoa, rock candy, and Arthur feels at peace shuffling along below the strung-up lights, straw and dirt underfoot. Eames buys a loaf of sourdough and they watch in amusement as Yusuf tries to haggle the price of a pound of turnips. What Yusuf wants with a pound of turnips, neither dare to ask.
They make their way into the quartered off district of clothing and jewelery vendors, littered with makers of various knickknacks. Arthur tries on a wide-knit scarf, the wool dyed a rich plum color. The woman staffing the tent tells Arthur the scarf simply belongs on him. Arthur knows better than to be flattered, but the good spirit of the morning loosens his frugal tendencies and he buys the thing, forking over the asked price without haggling. He keeps it on, feeling cozy inside its plentiful warmth.
He catches Eames staring at him a few times. “Are you jealous?” he asks, lips quirking, showcasing a single dimple. He knocks Eames’ arm with an elbow.
Eames startles. “Pardon?”
“Are you jealous of my scarf?” Arthur clarifies, burrowing his chin into it to emphasize his point.
“Oh, yes,” Eames turns his head away, a sketch of a smirk on his face. “Very jealous.”
Their last stop before they leave is the pet emporium. It’s a separate section of the barn, though small, and full of birds, kittens, and many a breed of rabbit. One woman runs the operation, and all the animals have been bred or rescued by her. She smiles at the three fully-grown men crouching through the aisles, cooing at different animals.
“Oh my god,” Yusuf dotes upon a miniature lop rabbit. “You guys might have to drag me away before I buy this thing.”
“Rex would be offended,” Arthur teases.
“Rex is cute, but you cannot compare a dog to a bunny,” Yusuf says with determination.
“Rabbits piss everywhere and chew everything up,” Eames says even as he’s trying to reach through the cage to stroke one of the rabbit’s long, silky ears.
“Eames shut up, you watch hours of cute puppy videos, your argument is invalid,” Yusuf murmurs, besotted by the tiny creature.
Eames splutters. “No relevancy! That doesn’t even make sense!”
Arthur has to stifle a snicker as he claps his hands together and tugs at both of their shoulders. “Time to go, children.”
“Goodbye, my love,” Yusuf whispers to the rabbit, who twitches its nose in response.
Things progress evenly from there. Once assured of Arthur’s amiability towards Eames, both Yusuf and Eames become more inclusive of him. Arthur still feels a bit like a satellite, able only to orbit some great, rotating planet that hosts a breed of life (warmth, companionship) that he’s alien to, but the feeling is ebbing with time. He isn’t ready to invest in Eames (to divulge great personal truths; to confide) but he has a brilliant conversation about the short-lived Fauvism movement with Eames that reaffirms Eames’ intelligence and cements Arthur’s desire for his company (a feeling that once had translated into envy).
Ariadne seems amused by the transformation. She comes home one day and breathes a sigh of relief, lingering in the front door. “Ah,” she exhales. “The walls feel friendlier in here today.” She smiles at Arthur and goes about her business.
Rex, too, adapts eagerly to the change, actively seeking attention from Eames as much as Arthur, and whining when not accompanied by both of them on his shortened, gimping walks.
Everything goes pear-shaped when Dom shows up with a champagne flute of a woman on his arm.
Said woman frowns when Yusuf’s reaction to opening the door to find Dom is an uncertain scowl. He ushers them into the kitchen, pulling out chairs at the table for them and nervously making tea while Dom introduces the woman as Mallorie. “Mal, please,” she defers, French accent poured forth from smiling ruby red lips.
“Pleasure,” Yusuf says. “Sugar?”
“Please,” she says and he stirs in a few cubes before setting the mug down in front of her. Once he’s taken his own seat, he fixes Dom with a wary eye.
Dom fidgets. “So how have you been Yusuf?”
“Fine, fine,” Yusuf answers, taking a pull of tea. “But, ah, what are you doing here, Dom?”
A thick line of tense confusion weighs down the corners of Dom’s mouth. “What, I can’t come visit my home?”
Yusuf shakes his head, subdued. “You left.”
Dom shifts back in his chair, wounded but trying to hide it. “I grew up in this town. I lived in this house as long as you have. I’m your friend, Yusuf, you’re not even happy to see me?”
Yusuf makes a placating gesture with his hands, bowing his head. “No, no, I’m sorry. It is good to see you, Dom,” he flashes a small grin. “And lovely to meet you, Mal,” he glances briefly at the woman. “It’s just, I’m a little preoccupied by...Arthur.”
“Preoccupied by Arthur? What are you talking about, where is he anyway?” Dom turns a little in his chair, as if expecting to see Arthur hovering in the doorway.
“At the vet, right now. He, well, Ariadne got him a dog, and the dog broke its paw a few weeks back. He and Eames are at the vet getting the cast taken off today.”
Dom’s eyebrows knit as he attempts to rapidly absorb the information. “Who’s Eames?” he asks, in favor of dwelling over the dog.
Yusuf shrugs. “An old friend of mine who moved into your bedroom.”
Dom’s jaw works as he processes this. “Okay. So, I’m confused still...” he trails off, looking pointedly at Yusuf.
Yusuf drums his fingers on the table. “Arthur didn’t take it well when you left, Dom,” he says finally, quiet.
Mal looks down and takes a sip of her tea. Dom scoffs. “He knew I was going to leave. I asked him to come with me and he said no, Yusuf!”
Yusuf looks up and meets Dom’s indignant gaze. “He didn’t take it well when you left, Dom,” he repeats, tilting his head to further underscore his meaning.
Dom’s face falls a little (concern, fear). “What do you mean?” he asks, voice wavering on the edge some precipice.
Yusuf rubs a hand down one side of his face. “I found him half frozen in the back field, he’d been laying out in the snow for hours. He didn’t speak for days, didn’t come out of his room, and refused to eat either.”
“Jesus Christ,” Dom rasps as he presses his forehead into the heel of his palm, other hand clenched around his mug. “What the fuck?”
“Needless to say, I don’t think he’ll be too happy to see you here,” Yusuf finishes softly.
one more part to go! if you're reading this, thank you so much for your patience!
Words: 6355
Betas: eternalsojourn&_la_belle_fille
Part I
In the days following, Eames charms Ariadne by quoting Nietzsche, Homer, Thoreau, Dostoyevsky. Arthur is not charmed, because Arthur is never charmed by what he considers to be showing off (being better at something than he himself is). It’s not intelligent, it’s campy, and Arthur almost pops a blood vessel when Eames recites Arthur’s favorite e.e. cummings poem to Ariadne one night. “Oh! Isn’t that your favorite, Arthur?” she asks, eyes shining.
“No,” Arthur lies, and goes to the kitchen to fetch the whisky.
Ariadne’s eyebrows furrow. “No? I could have sworn--”
“Nope,” Arthur cuts her off over his shoulder.
He needs to stop drinking when he’s upset, but now is not the time.
Yusuf and Eames seem to have picked up where they left off in their friendship and Arthur can’t help feeling a little green-eyed (red-eyed) when he finds them playing Risk in front of the fireplace, or when they go to the pub together, or when they marathon The Office (things that he and Dom used to do, or might have done).
Eames is encroaching on every facet of Arthur’s life that he can sink his claws into, Arthur swears it into his pillow at night. The thing is, Eames doesn’t even need to be doing anything in order to project said loud presence. Sometimes, Eames is just reading on the back porch and Arthur will walk out with Rex, notice him there, and want to scream (there is no escape).
Eames corners him on a Saturday morning--well, Arthur feels he’s been cornered, at any rate. Arthur’s sitting at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper and taking determined pulls from a still-steaming mug of coffee. Eames staggers into the kitchen and goes about fixing himself a toasted bagel. Arthur prays he’ll take it elsewhere to eat, but he doesn’t; he sits down in the chair across from Arthur and smiles. Arthur thinks it’s unnatural to smile in the morning.
“Good morning,” Eames genuinely chirps, despite how gravelly his voice is from sleep.
Arthur doesn’t look up from his newspaper, but inclines his coffee mug in acknowledgment. “Morning.” (Nothing good about it.)
It’s the first time they’ve ever been alone together in the two short (long) weeks Eames has been here, and it’s rather obvious by the breed of silence that’s invading the room. Arthur can practically hear Eames struggling to think of something to talk about; Arthur decides to do him no favors (every man for himself) and keeps quiet.
Eames takes a few bites of bagel, chews, swallows, and then breaks the silence. “So. You’re the one who actually owns this place, right?”
“Yes,” Arthur says.
“Yusuf said your father built it, is that so?”
“Yes. He left it to me when he passed.”
“That’s really quite brilliant,” Eames says through a mouthful of bagel. “The house is gorgeous.”
“My father would appreciate that.” Arthur turns a page of the newspaper. The clock chimes in the other room.
“And the guy who lived here before me was a good friend of yours?”
Arthur’s knuckles tighten around the paper. He flicks it shut and folds it crisply (case closed). “He was a friend to all of us. If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Eames, I need to be getting my day started.”
If Eames is startled he doesn’t show it, merely nods while he chews another bite of bagel and waves at Arthur as he leaves the room.
Arthur’s perusing aisles of the supermarket when Ariadne calls him. He slides his cell phone open warily, lifting it to his ear. “Yes?”
“Can you get me tampons while you’re at the grocery store?”
“Uhg, Ariadne,” he grimaces, eyes darting toward that aisle.
“Please and thank you!” she hangs up. Arthur snorts and stalks off to the feminine products.
He brings the bag up to her room when he gets home, stiffly holding it out to her when she opens her door. “Oh thank you,” she grins. “I’m sure this took all of your willpower.”
“Nearly,” he gripes.
“It’s what you deserve for being rude to Eames for no reason,” she says, and shuts the door in his face. Arthur scowls and strides away, foul mood escalating.
By the time night has rolled around, Arthur’s been stewing in his discontent all day; his hostility rolls off him in waves and everyone, even Rex, seems to take a hint. Everyone except Eames.
Arthur’s commanding the dog towards the back door, leash in hand when Eames comes around the corner. Arthur stays tight-lipped and stoops to clip on Rex’s leash, but Eames will not be ignored. “Want some company?” he asks, leaning against the wall.
A muscle in Arthur’s jaw jumps. “No, Eames, I really don’t.” It’s awful, sneering and barbed, even Arthur can hear it, but he doesn’t look back as he tugs Rex out the door and into the field.
“Who does he think he is?” Arthur seethes to the pup as they go. “The jolly green giant?” Rex whines low in his throat and looks up at Arthur, brown and blue eyes equally sad-seeming. Arthur stops in his tracks and stares down at the dog. “What? You think I’m being an ass?” (Et tu, Brute?) Rex lowers his head, whines again. Arthur rubs a hand over his face and counts to ten, taking as many deep inhales. “Yeah,” he whispers with reluctance. “Maybe you’re right.”
The next morning, Arthur slinks around until he’s able to catch Yusuf alone in the hallway. “Want to go grab a coffee?” Arthur asks, looking at the floor.
Yusuf surveys him. “Sure, Arthur. Just let me brush my teeth, yes?”
Once they’ve settled into a booth at the coffee house, Yusuf wastes no time. “Tell me your troubles,” he invites, slapping a packet of sugar against his palm before ripping it open and stirring it into his mug.
“What?” Arthur looks up from his latte, surprised.
“I assume that if you just wanted coffee, you would have made it at the house. So what’s up?”
“What’s wrong with wanting some company?”
“Arthur please.” Yusuf almost rolls his eyes. “Spare me.”
Arthur’s shoulders slump forward. “Fine. I need your help.” Yusuf stares at him relentlessly, waiting for him to continue. “I need to apologize to Eames.”
“Most people would probably be satisfied with a simple ‘I’m sorry,’ you know.”
“I know,” Arthur says, sullen. “I also need to learn how to like Eames.”
Yusuf hmm’s and sips his café au lait. “Nobody likes everybody, Arthur.”
“Yes, but I have no good reason to dislike him so strongly.” Arthur rubs his eye. “I just...”
“You feel like he’s replacing Dom.”
Arthur barks out a grim laugh. “I wish there was a way to make it sound less like I’m going through a divorce, but, yes.” He takes his hand away from his face and looks at Yusuf, feeling small (exposed).
“Nobody can stop you feeling that way, mate. You just have to recognize that he isn’t. He’s making his own, new place in the house.” Yusuf chortles. “God, I sound like a brochure for the grieving.”
“It’s totally illogical, I realize this,” Arthur says of his feelings, ignoring Yusuf’s self-depreciation. “Irrational. Stupid. I just, I can barely look at him without being angry.”
“Eames is not the catalyst for Dom’s departure. He didn’t push Dom out of the house. Dom didn’t leave because Eames came into town.”
“Can you find just one more way to say it for me, please?” Arthur’s voice is sour, but he smiles, looking tired.
“Just wanted to make sure I was getting through to you,” Yusuf teases. “Sometimes you’re rather thick.”
“Tell me about it.”
“He does want to get to know you, Arthur,” Yusuf reveals quietly. “He thinks you’re quite interesting.”
“Does he now?” Arthur asks, mouth slanting (doubt).
Yusuf casts him a hard look. “Why would I lie?” Arthur shrugs. “Just start by apologizing to him. Then try having a conversation with him. You might have more common ground between you than you think.”
It takes a couple of days to follow Yusuf’s advice--partly because he can’t remember what it’s like to seriously apologize to someone, and partly because Eames becomes elusive--but Arthur comes home one day to find him making a spot of something for dinner and decides to take a chance. He awkwardly clears his throat and takes a few tentative steps onto the threshold, unsure of where to look, or what to do with his hands. He settles for cramming them into his pockets as Eames turns from the stove top, where he’s mixing something in a pan.
“Arthur,” Eames announces, voice carefully neutral save for the tiny upturn of the last syllable, as though it were a question.
“Eames, I, uh,” Arthur fumbles, and one of his hands migrates from a pocket to rub shamefully at the back of his neck. “I just wanted to...apologize. For. You know.” Arthur is finding it difficult to meet Eames’ inquisitive gaze and so stares at the kitchen tiles instead. “Being, y’know, not the easiest person to live with,” he mumbles. Jesus Christ, he thinks, I feel like I’m back in second grade. “Basically, I’m sorry I’ve been an asshole, and I just, thought you might want to know. That.”
Eames half-smiles (mask) and tips his spatula at Arthur. “Duly noted. Don’t worry about it.”
“I--” Arthur begins, but blinks, trying to discern whether Eames is being sincere or just polite. “Yeah,” he swallows. “Okay.” He pivots and flees, cheeks burning, angry at himself but relieved he did, at least, get it the fuck over with. He finds Rex in his room and closes the door, slumping down against it. Rex gets up and goes to him, snuffling over his face and licking at one of his jean-covered knees.
Arthur scratches gently behind one of his pup’s scruffy ears. “Hi boy,” he murmurs. “I’m a fucking idiot.” Rex neither confirms nor denies this, choosing instead to roll over for a belly rub. “You have it so easy,” Arthur says enviously as he rubs up and down Rex’s chest and belly with vigor. “Yes, you have it so easy.” He gets up from the floor and goes to sit at his desk, thinking of getting some work done, but Rex whines, pawing at the bottom of his door.
“Fine,” Arthur assents, opening the door. “Go. Be free.” Rex pads out of his room and down the hallway, probably to investigate the smells coming from the kitchen. Arthur closes his door, turns around to face his bedroom, and suddenly decides that his bed looks more inviting than his computer.
The next time he wakes up, it’s to someone knocking frantically on his door. Arthur groans and rolls over, glimpsing out the window to see that it’s dark outside. He squints at his clock, reading 8:41pm. He curses quietly but before he has the chance to do much more, his door opens a fraction. “Arthur?”
“What?” he croaks, sitting up and rubbing his cheek, feeling the creases in his skin from his pillow. He glances down at himself to realize he’d fallen asleep fully clothed and on top of his blankets. Eames edges into the room.
Eames looks nervous and Arthur can only squint blearily at him. “I’m sorry to wake you,” Eames says, “but I’m afraid we have a problem.” His fingers are drumming a frenetic beat where they’ve grasped the edge of Arthur’s door.
Arthur makes to rise from the bed, legs heavy. “Problem?” he asks, reaching to turn on the bedside table lamp. “What problem?”
Eames bites his lip. “It’s Rex.”
Arthur immediately sobers, drowsiness draining from him. He nearly leaps into motion. “What do you mean?” he demands, striding out the door, forcing Eames back through it. “What’s wrong with Rex?”
“I, ah, I’m afraid he’s run away,” Eames informs him.
“How did he run away?” Arthur is pressing onwards, down the hallway and the stairs.
“I let him out,” Eames says, sounding miserable. “I didn’t know he wasn’t allowed out without a leash. He was whining at the door.”
Arthur groans. “So you just--”
“Opened the door, yes,” Eames says. “And he bolted.”
Yusuf and Ariadne are in the living room when they get to the bottom of the stairs. “Did none of you go after him?” Arthur demands, temper rearing up, afraid for his pup.
“Yes,” Yusuf says.
“That’s the thing,” Ariadne chimes in, loathe to be the bearer of bad news but most resilient to Arthur’s wrath. “We’ve already been looking for him for nearly an hour.”
Arthur wants to hit something. “Why didn’t you wake me?” his voice climbs as he grabs his jacket off a peg near the back door.
“We didn’t want to bother you for nothing, if we could find him,” Eames says.
Arthur rounds on him. “He’s my fucking dog!” (my best friend) he bites, furious. “And now he’s lost, in the dark, and depending on which way he’s run, he could be coyote food!” Or hit by a car, or taken by those freaks who steal pets to experiment on, or hurt himself chasing something--the possibilities seem endless, and all Arthur can envision are those awful scenes from Homeward Bound.
“Okay, Arthur,” Ariadne tries to soothe. “He’s a smart dog, this is just like, a joyride for him or something.”
“Yeah, he’ll be able to find his way back, mate,” Yusuf adds.
“He could be anywhere,” Arthur snarls, grabbing Rex’s leash off it’s hook and his car keys. “I’m going to look.” He means it as a dismissal, but Eames steps up.
“I’ll go with you,” he says, voice determined but shot through with guilt. Arthur barely spares him a glance.
“Whatever, let’s fucking go.”
They drive around with the windows down, radio off, calling Rex’s name loudly into the dark. “I’m so sorry, Arthur,” Eames says wearily.
It takes Arthur a moment to reign in the impulse to snap at him, say something nasty, but he bites it back and stuffs it down, face hard. “It’s not your fault, you didn’t know.” His voice is brittle (an empty courtesy), but it’s better than nothing.
Occasionally Arthur pulls the car over somewhere and they get out to wander a bit, clapping and calling, always keeping one ear open for any telling noises. Rex does not surface, and the hour grows later and later, until Arthur is staggering back to the car after another fruitless bout of searching. “Should’ve brought a flashlight,” he mutters to himself, and he tries to fish for his car keys in his jacket pocket but ends up leaning his forehead against the car door instead.
He feels a hand hesitantly touch his shoulder. “Do you want me to drive?” Eames asks quietly.
Arthur isn’t so far gone that he can’t recognize that the state of his being is probably not optimal for driving anymore--he’s exhausted and distracted, and his rage has succumbed to fear wrought by worst case scenarios playing on loop in his mind.
“Yeah,” he relents. “Okay.” He fishes the keys out at last, turns and places them into Eames’ waiting hand.
Arthur calls Ariadne and Yusuf, but Rex hasn’t come back yet, and he exhales tiredly when he hangs up his phone, watching out the window as Eames drives.
“Just head home,” he directs after another fifteen futile minutes, voice rough (defeated). “I’ll go out and look some more in the morning.”
Eames makes a small noise of consent and turns in the direction of the house. By the time they return, Yusuf and Ariadne are falling asleep on the couch. Ariadne tells Arthur she’ll help him look in the morning and slouches off to bed. Yusuf goes to the kitchen. “I’m telling you,” he says to Arthur. “Dogs have GPS systems in their heads. He knows where he’s fed, he’ll get hungry and come home.”
It’s not that Arthur doesn’t appreciate Yusuf’s reaffirmations, but it’s not exactly what he wants to hear. Acutely, he’s aware that Rex does not love him, must only recognize Arthur’s figure as the one that feeds, walks, and pets him. Obtusely, Arthur refuses to believe that’s all he means to Rex. He needs to believe that Rex has come to love Arthur just as much as Arthur (now realizes) he has come to love his dog.
Arthur thinks it's ridiculous that Rex running away echoes the sting of Dom leaving, but he can't help the sour churning in his gut. The hole in his chest, which had been on the mend, has been ripped asunder by yet another best friend. It's illogical; Arthur knows Rex has no higher conscience, has no intention of causing Arthur pain nor any concept of how highly Arthur esteems his companionship, is only following his doggy impulses. And yet, Arthur can't help but wonder if Rex has found him or his home inadequate, choosing instead to flee for greener pastures.
Eames shifts behind him. “I’m sure he’ll be on the porch come morning,” he says.
But Rex isn’t. Arthur walks around the field behind the house for awhile, calling for his dog in vain. When he returns to the porch, he feels heavy (disappointed) and isolated. Ariadne offers him a cup of coffee as he passes through the kitchen, her hair tangled with sleep but her jacket on. When they get outside, Eames is waiting by the car.
“I didn’t even know you were up,” Ariadne says.
Arthur feels a rush of--of something. “You don’t have to come,” he tells Eames. “You went last night.”
“Six eyes are better than four,” is all Eames says, and so they get in the car without further debate.
They drive along, stopping every few blocks to range out and search. When they pass through town, Ariadne goes in and asks people if they’ve seen such a dog as Rex anywhere around, but nobody has. Every half hour, Arthur calls back to Yusuf. Each time, Yusuf tells him that if Rex had come home, he would have called. Arthur invents new expletives every time he hangs up the phone, and Ariadne looks increasingly like a wilting flower. Eames rarely says anything beyond when he’s cupping his hands around his mouth and calling Rex’s name out.
“Should we just head back?” Ariadne asks after two hours have passed. “This is like, impossible.” She doesn’t say it meanly, and Arthur knows she has no ill intent, but he still feels a flash of irritation before yielding.
“Yeah,” he says. “I guess.”
“If he’s not back by tonight, I’ll help you make up lost fliers for him,” Ariadne tries to console, patting his arm. Arthur nods. Eames says nothing, remaining sullen in the backseat.
Arthur stays outside for most of the afternoon, sitting on the back porch with his gaze fixated on golden stalks of wheat, jumping up at any slight disturbance. Yusuf comes out with a chessboard, and they pass the time a little easier that way, but Arthur can’t fully distract himself from the sick nervousness sitting slimy in his stomach. Eventually, Ariadne gets called into work, Yusuf has a coffee date with a professor, and Eames decides the cupboards are getting a little too bare for comfort. He asks quietly if Arthur wants to come along to the store, but Arthur declines as politely as he can, wanting to be home in case Rex returns.
The house is silent, the absence of his pup more evident when he’s the only one home; Arthur finds himself missing the slightest of things: the noninvasive clicking of Rex’s toenails on the wooden floors, the soft way he’d growl when seeing a squirrel out the window.
He’s sitting on the couch when his phone rings, blaring and grating in the hush around it, startling him to the point where he almost knocks over his nearby glass of water. It’s Eames’ number calling, which Arthur had only programmed into his phone on the insistence of Yusuf when Eames had first moved in, in case of emergencies.
“Hi?” he answers, eyebrows knitting.
“Arthur!” Eames sounds out of breath. “I found Rex, I’ve found him, you have to come--”
Arthur’s already off the couch and grabbing his keys. “Why? What’s happened?” he demands.
“He, he was on the road, Arthur, limping along the shoulder. He’s broken something, by the size of it. I’m taking him to the animal clinic, so just, meet me there? I think he’d like to see you,” Eames pants, and Arthur can hear his pup whimpering in the background.
“Okay,” Arthur says, breathlessly, bounding out the front door, because he doesn’t know what else to say right now. “See you there.”
He doesn’t remember driving to the clinic, only knows the moment of his heart pounding hard as he flings his car door open and sprints across the parking lot to the entrance of the clinic.
When he gets inside, he immediately zeros in on Eames, who is folded up with his elbows on his his knees in the waiting room. He looks up at the sound of Arthur’s rushed approach. “He’s in with the doctors right now,” he says without prompt.
“What happened?” Arthur asks. “Why is your shirt torn?”
Eames straightens up and glances down to where his shirt is obviously torn, as though he’d forgotten about it. “Oh,” he says, glancing back up at Arthur. “He was a bit distressed when I found him. I had to tear my shirt and use a bit of it to muzzle him.” Arthur runs a hand over his face, sighing. “You might as well sit down.” Eames pats the seat beside him. “They said it could be awhile.”
Arthur hovers for a moment, worrying at his lower lip and glancing at the doors leading back into the urgent care facility, before taking the seat. “Thank you,” he says, but it comes out half-strangled so he clears his throat and tries again. “Thanks for taking care of him.”
Eames snorts and shakes his head. “My fault in the first place,” he mutters.
Arthur feels a pang of guilt. “No it’s not,” he presses, and he means it this time. “How were you supposed to know? Nobody told you.”
“I guess I just...” Eames trails, lacing and re-lacing his fingers together. “I just hope it’s nothing serious.”
“Yeah,” Arthur agrees, sitting back in the uncomfortable plastic chair, the back of his head hitting the wall behind him with a dull thump. “Yeah me too.”
The minutes tick by at an agonizing rate, and there is nothing much to be said between them; they let the dull buzz of the TV hanging in the corner of the room talk for them. Eames looks up at it every now and then but doesn’t appear to actually be registering anything.
Eventually the doors swing open, jerking them from their individual reveries, and a veterinarian emerges. “Rex?” he asks, eyebrows raising, looking at the pair of them.
“Yes,” Arthur says, rushing to stand. “Yes, I’m his owner.”
“I’m Dr. Callahan,” the vet declares, reaching out to shake Arthur’s hand. “You’re very lucky. Rex is going to be fine.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his bulbous nose. “We did a radiograph of the paw and found the metacarpal fractured. It’s been bandaged and splinted, which is about all we can do for him. I’ll prescribe some Novox to help him cope with the pain, which you can give once a day with or without food, whichever seems to work best for him.” He pauses to let that sink in before clapping his hands together. “If you’ll just take care of paperwork and payment with Susan,” he points to the smiley woman at the front desk, “I’ll bring Rex right out to you.”
Once the paperwork has been filled out, and payment arranged, Susan hands over a pamphlet on caring for dogs recovering from fractures. Arthur almost drops everything, though, when the double doors swing open and Rex comes limping through, paw wrapped in a little boot of a cast, gentled along on a black lead by Dr. Callahan. He perks up happily upon seeing them, and Arthur has to manfully restrain himself from tackling the pup. He hands the stack of paper to Eames, who takes them without hesitance, and kneels down with relief (excitement) that he doesn’t bother to conceal. Rex weakly licks his face as Arthur’s arms encircle him, petting his sleek head and rubbing at his wriggling sides.
“Oh man, it’s good to see you, you nearly gave me a heart attack, do you hear me, Rex?” he chides, voice devoid of any actual anger. He becomes slowly aware that he’s being watched. With a last tender scratching under Rex’s chin, he stands, clearing his throat. “Right.” He tries to ignore the amused expressions on Eames and Dr. Callahan’s faces. “So I’m assuming he’ll have to come back in?”
The doctor nods. “In about six weeks. We’ll remove the cast and splint, and do another x-ray to make sure all is well.”
That night, after all prescriptions have been obtained and administered, after Rex has made his re-acquaintance with everyone and everything in the house, and life has resumed, Arthur prepares to take Rex on their nightly walk. “It’ll just be a short one, buddy, don’t worry. We’ll go slow. I know. That medicine seems to be doing you one better, though.”
They pass through the living room, Rex hobbling at his side, and Arthur pauses, looking at Eames sprawled on the couch (the specimen in its natural habitat). Eames appears to be immersed in some important literature (Ethan Frome by Edith Wharton) but within seconds, he turns his face to Arthur. “D’you need something, Arthur?” he asks, not unkindly.
Arthur realizes he’s been biting his lip and releases it, mentally shaking himself. “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he spares a pointed look for Ethan and Edith, “but, well, I’m taking Rex out and, just thought you might want to go?” Arthur feels the familiar oppression of embarrassment, unsure of what it is about Eames that turns him into a blathering, ineloquent mess.
But Eames smiles at him, a bit of authentic delight darting across his face (Arthur marvels at it). “Sure,” he replies. Arthur privately admires the way Eames wedges a legitimate bookmark between Ethan’s worn pages before shutting it with a reverent caress and placing it on the coffee table. He stands, brushing imaginary lint from his jeans. “Let me get my shoes on,” he says, padding down the hall to his room.
Arthur shifts his weight and catches Rex looking up at him knowingly. “What?” he mouths inaudibly (defensive) at the pup, but Rex just tilts his head innocently.
Eames comes back, stuffed into a flannel coat and a hardy pair of boots. “Ready,” he grins, and Arthur leans down to clip Rex onto his leash. When they push out the front door, onto the street, it’s flurrying harmlessly. As they turn the corner out of the yard, Arthur’s stomach sinks as he tries to come up with something to talk about. He clears his throat. “Nice night out,” he attempts, wrapping Rex’s leash around his knuckles to make sure the dog continues at a slow pace.
“Yeah,” Eames shrugs, “I can’t believe it’s still snowing in April, though. Where I was last, this would be considered apocalyptic.”
Arthur blinks, feeling a soft flake or two melting on the tip of his nose. “Where is that?” he inquires, riding a flash of guilt that he doesn’t even know that much.
Eames doesn’t seem to fault him for it, thankfully, just slides his hands into his jacket pockets and scuffs his boot at the fine layer of snow on the sidewalk, scattering it out into little eddies. “I just spent three years in the south of Spain,” he divulges easily. His seemingly strange accent and dusky tan make sense to Arthur.
“What were you doing in Spain?” Arthur feels obligated to continue the line of questioning, lest he face returning to frivolous comments about the weather.
“Apprenticing for José Manuel Merello, actually.” An expression flits across Eames’ face that Arthur can’t decipher (pride? Fondness? Wistfulness?).
Arthur halts as Rex stops to sniff at something and take a leak, watching with wide eyes as Eames keeps trucking for a couple steps before catching on and turning round. “That’s really cool,” Arthur urges. “That’s...legit awesome.” Eames laughs, and a knot below Arthur’s clavicle eases and dissipates. He finds himself smiling, a small thing of hesitance, but true. “How in the world did you end up here?” he gestures to the space around them.
Eames makes a humming sound in the back of his throat, rocking back on his heels before answering. “Yusuf. He’s been my mate a long time. When I was due back in the States, I didn’t really have a plan for anything, you see. I knew I could count on Yusuf, though, and I was right. He’s always taken good care of me.”
That gives Arthur pause for a moment, reflecting on Yusuf’s caring hands, he finds himself nodding. “Yes,” he murmurs, a shade distant. “He’s a good guy.” He’s been friends with Yusuf since college; Arthur can’t recall Yusuf ever speaking of Eames, but that doesn’t mean he hadn’t. Besides, if Eames was often abroad, it probably stymied communication.
Arthur startles when Rex butts his head against Arthur’s leg. He apologizes, resuming their pace. “I think he’s used to being the center of attention here,” he says of the dog.
“Understandable,” Eames chuckles, falling into step beside Arthur. “How long have you had him?”
Arthur thinks. “Only a couple of months. Wow...feels like much longer.”
“Time’s funny that way, innit?”
“Mhm,” Arthur nods. “Ariadne got him as an early birthday present.”
“Oh,” the corners of Eames’ lips tug up. “I’m sorry, I must have just missed it. Aries, then?”
“March 17th; Pisces. Though I don’t know how well it fits me. What are you?”
“Gemini.”
“I think I’m supposed to avoid you,” Arthur says, side-eyeing Eames with mock suspicion.
“You did,” Eames snorts, baldfaced; Arthur’s a little thrown at his blunt (valid) recollection. Whenever Arthur tries to be that direct, the words taste of vinegar in his mouth, and burn all the way down to his stomach where they lurch uncomfortably. Arthur’s muted by shock (awe, fear) for a few steps.
“I did,” he eventually concedes. He restrains a sigh, absentmindedly scratching the brush of stubble along his jaw. “I am sorry about that.”
Eames shakes his head. “What’s done is done,” he pauses before turning to gaze straight at Arthur. “Look, just because we’re roommates doesn’t mean we have to be friends by any means. I understand that completely. But just so you know, Arthur, I’m a rather good friend,” he smiles cheekily, rounding out the honest speech with a trifle of mirth.
Arthur feels safe to laugh quietly, watching Rex unevenly paw across the pavement. “So sure of yourself,” he dares to tease, attempting to ease his own uncertainty. “I guess I’ll have to see for myself.” He silently thanks Eames’ forward, yet playful, nature for negotiating past their rocky beginning and building a subtle bridge for Arthur and his social ineptitude to cross.
“Sold,” Eames proclaims, and they finish their walk trading light-hearted jests. Arthur’s perceptive enough to know that Eames is testing the waters, keeping the conversation on an even keel, not too serious and not too personal. Still, it ignites something in his belly, and when Rex slows to lick Arthur’s hand, he feels giddy with camaraderie.
Two days later, Yusuf asks them down to the enormous indoor farmer’s market. They pile into the car, Arthur taking shotgun while Yusuf drives.
They meander through the aisles of bread smiths, butcher’s stalls, and craft tents, exchanging chatter and idle humor while otherwise absorbed by deals on fava beans, broccoli, carrots, and beets. They pass vendors selling funnel cakes, hot cocoa, rock candy, and Arthur feels at peace shuffling along below the strung-up lights, straw and dirt underfoot. Eames buys a loaf of sourdough and they watch in amusement as Yusuf tries to haggle the price of a pound of turnips. What Yusuf wants with a pound of turnips, neither dare to ask.
They make their way into the quartered off district of clothing and jewelery vendors, littered with makers of various knickknacks. Arthur tries on a wide-knit scarf, the wool dyed a rich plum color. The woman staffing the tent tells Arthur the scarf simply belongs on him. Arthur knows better than to be flattered, but the good spirit of the morning loosens his frugal tendencies and he buys the thing, forking over the asked price without haggling. He keeps it on, feeling cozy inside its plentiful warmth.
He catches Eames staring at him a few times. “Are you jealous?” he asks, lips quirking, showcasing a single dimple. He knocks Eames’ arm with an elbow.
Eames startles. “Pardon?”
“Are you jealous of my scarf?” Arthur clarifies, burrowing his chin into it to emphasize his point.
“Oh, yes,” Eames turns his head away, a sketch of a smirk on his face. “Very jealous.”
Their last stop before they leave is the pet emporium. It’s a separate section of the barn, though small, and full of birds, kittens, and many a breed of rabbit. One woman runs the operation, and all the animals have been bred or rescued by her. She smiles at the three fully-grown men crouching through the aisles, cooing at different animals.
“Oh my god,” Yusuf dotes upon a miniature lop rabbit. “You guys might have to drag me away before I buy this thing.”
“Rex would be offended,” Arthur teases.
“Rex is cute, but you cannot compare a dog to a bunny,” Yusuf says with determination.
“Rabbits piss everywhere and chew everything up,” Eames says even as he’s trying to reach through the cage to stroke one of the rabbit’s long, silky ears.
“Eames shut up, you watch hours of cute puppy videos, your argument is invalid,” Yusuf murmurs, besotted by the tiny creature.
Eames splutters. “No relevancy! That doesn’t even make sense!”
Arthur has to stifle a snicker as he claps his hands together and tugs at both of their shoulders. “Time to go, children.”
“Goodbye, my love,” Yusuf whispers to the rabbit, who twitches its nose in response.
Things progress evenly from there. Once assured of Arthur’s amiability towards Eames, both Yusuf and Eames become more inclusive of him. Arthur still feels a bit like a satellite, able only to orbit some great, rotating planet that hosts a breed of life (warmth, companionship) that he’s alien to, but the feeling is ebbing with time. He isn’t ready to invest in Eames (to divulge great personal truths; to confide) but he has a brilliant conversation about the short-lived Fauvism movement with Eames that reaffirms Eames’ intelligence and cements Arthur’s desire for his company (a feeling that once had translated into envy).
Ariadne seems amused by the transformation. She comes home one day and breathes a sigh of relief, lingering in the front door. “Ah,” she exhales. “The walls feel friendlier in here today.” She smiles at Arthur and goes about her business.
Rex, too, adapts eagerly to the change, actively seeking attention from Eames as much as Arthur, and whining when not accompanied by both of them on his shortened, gimping walks.
Everything goes pear-shaped when Dom shows up with a champagne flute of a woman on his arm.
Said woman frowns when Yusuf’s reaction to opening the door to find Dom is an uncertain scowl. He ushers them into the kitchen, pulling out chairs at the table for them and nervously making tea while Dom introduces the woman as Mallorie. “Mal, please,” she defers, French accent poured forth from smiling ruby red lips.
“Pleasure,” Yusuf says. “Sugar?”
“Please,” she says and he stirs in a few cubes before setting the mug down in front of her. Once he’s taken his own seat, he fixes Dom with a wary eye.
Dom fidgets. “So how have you been Yusuf?”
“Fine, fine,” Yusuf answers, taking a pull of tea. “But, ah, what are you doing here, Dom?”
A thick line of tense confusion weighs down the corners of Dom’s mouth. “What, I can’t come visit my home?”
Yusuf shakes his head, subdued. “You left.”
Dom shifts back in his chair, wounded but trying to hide it. “I grew up in this town. I lived in this house as long as you have. I’m your friend, Yusuf, you’re not even happy to see me?”
Yusuf makes a placating gesture with his hands, bowing his head. “No, no, I’m sorry. It is good to see you, Dom,” he flashes a small grin. “And lovely to meet you, Mal,” he glances briefly at the woman. “It’s just, I’m a little preoccupied by...Arthur.”
“Preoccupied by Arthur? What are you talking about, where is he anyway?” Dom turns a little in his chair, as if expecting to see Arthur hovering in the doorway.
“At the vet, right now. He, well, Ariadne got him a dog, and the dog broke its paw a few weeks back. He and Eames are at the vet getting the cast taken off today.”
Dom’s eyebrows knit as he attempts to rapidly absorb the information. “Who’s Eames?” he asks, in favor of dwelling over the dog.
Yusuf shrugs. “An old friend of mine who moved into your bedroom.”
Dom’s jaw works as he processes this. “Okay. So, I’m confused still...” he trails off, looking pointedly at Yusuf.
Yusuf drums his fingers on the table. “Arthur didn’t take it well when you left, Dom,” he says finally, quiet.
Mal looks down and takes a sip of her tea. Dom scoffs. “He knew I was going to leave. I asked him to come with me and he said no, Yusuf!”
Yusuf looks up and meets Dom’s indignant gaze. “He didn’t take it well when you left, Dom,” he repeats, tilting his head to further underscore his meaning.
Dom’s face falls a little (concern, fear). “What do you mean?” he asks, voice wavering on the edge some precipice.
Yusuf rubs a hand down one side of his face. “I found him half frozen in the back field, he’d been laying out in the snow for hours. He didn’t speak for days, didn’t come out of his room, and refused to eat either.”
“Jesus Christ,” Dom rasps as he presses his forehead into the heel of his palm, other hand clenched around his mug. “What the fuck?”
“Needless to say, I don’t think he’ll be too happy to see you here,” Yusuf finishes softly.
one more part to go! if you're reading this, thank you so much for your patience!