058
Title: Lelow
Chapter: 4/?
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don’t own Inception.
Pairing/Characters: Arthur/Eames, Phillipa, Mal, James, Cobb
Summary: In which there are three phone calls, confusion, and chamomile tea.
Author’s Note: It is that chapter. ::hands tissues:: I'm sorry. Again, if you see anything wrong with the language(s) used, please let me know. Off to class now, yay. Edit: Thank you allaire for once again pointing out my subconscious love of the formal tense. Lol.
Previous Series: Yellow One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven
Previous Parts: 1 2 3
--
“Bonsoir, Arthur. J'espère que je ne t'aie pas réveillé de ton sommeil de beauté.” Eames exclaims. Arthur groans and lies back in bed.
“What happened to the German?” Arthur asks, French words spilling effortlessly. He’s always enjoyed speaking French. He’s amused despite himself and he knows Eames can hear it in his voice. “I hadn’t fallen asleep, yet,” he adds, switching back to English.
There’s a rustle and he imagines Eames settling in as well. “Good to hear. You’re always so grouchy when I wake you up.”
Arthur snorts and looks at the clock. “Yet you call at a quarter after twelve when you know I’ve spent the afternoon watching two toddlers.” He pauses. “Yes, I see your reasoning.”
“Oh, shut up. I’m bored, all right? Germany’s got terrible weather this time of year. Ever since you went semi-legit to work with Cobb doing mind militarization of all things, the jobs just haven’t been as fun.”
“I’m touched.” He rolls onto his side to flick off the light. “The offer’s still open if you want a permanent position,” he adds. “I can put in a good word with Cobb.”
“Nah, his wife never cared much for my true passion and you know he’ll do anything to please her,” Eames answers. They’re silent for awhile, just breathing down the airwaves. “How’re the ankle biters?”
Arthur shrugs even though Eames can’t see it. “Okay, I suppose. I’m worried about Phillipa, something seems off.” Eames hums in question. “I found a bruise on her arm, she said Mal did it.”
“Kids get bruised all the time. My mum wrenched my arm out of its socket once to keep me from falling off the ferry. C’est la vie.”
“If you were anything like how you are today I imagine there might’ve been ulterior motives on your mother’s behalf,” Arthur mutters. Eames chuckles but doesn’t deny it. Arthur glances at the clock, twelve-thirty. “Any reason you called, besides to annoy me that is?”
“Thought your voice would be the bright spot of my morning,” Eames answers. “Or maybe I wanted to make sure you had gute Träume by being the last thing you heard.”
“I don’t dream anymore,” Arthur mutters. He frowns to hide his smile. “Good morning, Mr. Eames.”
He can hear Eames’ smile through the phone. “Good night, Darling.”
--
He wakes to the shrill sound of his cell phone. His hand fumbles for it and accidentally sends it spinning off the bedside table to the ground. “Fuck,” he mutters. He grabs it finally and flips it open on the last ring. “Eames, if this is you, I’m going to kill you.”
“Arthur?”
He sits up fast and his head hits the headboard. “Cobb?” he grits out. His hand reaches to massage the back of his head and he blinks hard to dispel the bright lights in his eyes. “Cobb?” Cobb doesn’t say anything but he can hear him breathing. “Dom!”
Arthur’s hand fumbles on the table until he flips the switch on the lamp cord. The bedroom is bathed in a soft yellow glow. The clock reads 2:15 now. Cobb should not be calling. Cobb wouldn’t be calling unless… “Dom, is it…did something happen?”
“She’s gone.” His voice is broken. Arthur swallows hard, scrubs a hand across his eyes, through his hair. His fingertips come away red and sticky. “She’s gone, Arthur. She’s gone.”
He won’t believe it, not until Cobb says the words himself. Not until…
“She jumped. She jumped out the window and I couldn’t stop her. I couldn’t…”
His voice cuts away and Arthur swallows hard. He grabs his die off the bedside table and rolls it again and again. Still the same, still reality. He can hear Cobb crying, it isn’t the happy sniffles when Phillipa was born, or the relieved sob when James arrived two weeks early and healthy. This is the sound of pure despair. Arthur forces down his own rising sob and swallows hard. He clears his throat before speaking again.
“Dom, it’ll-” he stops because there’s nothing to say. It won’t be okay, not for awhile. He looks to the partially open bedroom door. He can hear the soft snores of James coming down the hallway. How do you look at a child and tell them their mother won’t be coming home? “Dom, I’m sorry. When did, when did it happen?”
“Seven hours ago.” Seven hours. Mal’s been dead for seven hours. Seven hours ago he had been loading a dishwasher before making sure the bathwater was warm, the bubbles plentiful without over spilling the tub. Seven hours.
“Why didn’t you call before?” He doesn’t ask if Cobb’s contacted her parents yet.
Cobb takes a deep breath. “I had to talk to the police, Arthur. It’s not…it’s not looking good.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I have to go now,” Cobb says. He sounds more put together suddenly. “I should be there tomorrow. I’ll tell the kids, okay? My lawyer says they can’t keep me.”
“Lawyer? Cobb what are you talking about?”
The line goes dead though. “Fuck!” he yells. He punches the pillow but it doesn’t ease the anger. Ripping the light from the wall and hurling that at the wall? That helps a little, even though he needs to clean now. “Fuck,” he repeats, hand wiping at his face.
--
Eames answers on the second ring. “I knew you couldn’t resist me!” Eames exclaims.
“Eames….”
“Remind me why I take jobs in Europe again? Terrible ideas, Arthur, terrible. The weather’s crummy as always and it’s cold. This is the last job in Europe. I’ll relocate someplace warmer, hm?” He pauses for a breath. “What are you doing calling me at three in the morning, your time anyway?”
“Eames, shut-up.” Eames falls silent, apparently hearing the edge to Arthur’s voice. Arthur inhales deeply. “Cobb just called,” he murmurs. Eames has to strain to hear Arthur, even with the volume on high. “Mal’s gone, Eames.”
No noise and Arthur’s about to speak again when he finally hears Eames. “She left him, on their anniversary?” His words are careful, he’s trying to gauge without actually having someone to look at. Arthur doesn’t respond and he hears Eames inhale. “How?”
“Jumped from a window.”
“Damn,” Eames breathes. Arthur hears something thump and frowns. “I’ll catch the first flight out, alright? Do the kids know yet? How’s Cobb holding up, he’s there with you I imagine?”
Arthur has to replay Eames’ words a few times before they make sense in his muddled brain. “Eames, no. You’re on a job. You can wait until it’s finished, I’m sure the funeral won’t be until after then, maybe in France with her family.”
“As convenient as that is, no. I’m leaving on the next flight,” Eames replies without hesitation. “How’s Cobb?”
“In jail.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. He didn’t say. He should be out tomorrow.” He hates the way his voice sounds small and uncertain. He makes sure he’s never uncertain. But Cobb shouldn’t be in jail. He doesn’t understand it and he doesn’t know why Cobb wouldn’t tell him. He doesn’t want to believe, can’t believe, Cobb had anything to do with Mal’s death, not with the way he sounded on the phone.
“Well, that settles it then, I’m coming home. I’ll call you when I get flight info, okay? And don’t worry; I’ll take a cab from the airport.” Arthur starts to protest. “Make yourself a cup of chamomile tea, put a warm washcloth over your face, and lie down,” Eames instructs firmly. He pauses. “Arthur?”
Arthur inhales deeply, finds he doesn’t have to force the smile or warmth into his voice. “I know,” he murmurs. “I’ll see you when you get here.”
He hangs up and looks in on the children on his way to the kitchen. They’re asleep, James snoring and Phillipa wrapped around her toy. He closes the door softly and makes himself a cup of tea. While he waits for it to steep he refuses to think about how he’ll tell them if Cobb doesn’t get out of jail.