059
Title: Lelow
Chapter: 5/?
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don’t own Inception.
Pairing/Characters: Arthur/Eames, Phillipa, Mal, James, Cobb
Summary: In which James colors, Phillipa instructs, Cobb is out of jail, Eames is in London, and Arthur gets possibly very drunk.
Author’s Note: This chapter is not much happier, sadly. It is, however, about twice (or maybe even three times almost) as long as my others. I don't even know why. Oh, right, because I had to include the song. And one part would be too short if I cut it in half.
Previous Series: Yellow One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven
Previous Parts: 1 2 3 4
--
He must have fallen asleep, sometime between grey dawn and grey rain. For a few minutes he only feels hollow, empty, but he can’t remember why. He has a drying washcloth over his eyes to block out the pale light. It takes him a moment to realize what woke him. His phone rings again, shakes him firmly out of slumber. He doesn’t even have to search for his phone; it’s already in his hand.
“’lo?” he slurs. He pulls the washcloth off his face and checks the time. Seven in the morning. Seven. Seven hours. His throat goes dry as his stomach clenches. Mal. It all comes back with excruciating detail. “Cobb?” he asks, hope tints his voice.
There’s a scoff on the other end of the phone. “Sorry to disappoint.”
His mind latches onto the familiar voice. Clings to it really, if he’s being honest with himself; he’s not. “Eames? What’s going on?” His hand fumbles with the die, rolls it around and around.
“I’m in London,” Eames explains. “Just landed, bit ahead of time, wasn’t supposed to get here until two thirty, not that I’m complaining.” There’s a pause filled with static. “I’m not going to be able to get out of here until probably around five even if the ticket says four thirty. You know how tickets lie.” Arthur does. “I’ll be landing at six if everything’s on schedule, should be there by seven.” Seven. “Arthur? You still here, Arthur?”
“Hm, oh, yes.” He drops the die back on the table and lies down again. Through the blinds he can see rain falling softly, dreary for November. “Seven you say?” He wonders why everything has to do with seven lately.
“Yeah, seven. I was going to call earlier but I had just enough time to board,” he sighs, sounds exhausted.
“You sound exhausted.”
“So do you,” Eames replies. “Get some sleep before the children get up.” There’s a lengthy pause, Arthur checks the counter on his phone to make sure the call hasn’t been disconnected. “I’ll see you soon,” Eames says finally.
“Yeah, see you.” He hangs up first and burrows his face in the pillow, careful to avoid the smear of blood. He’ll need to do laundry now on top of everything else. Another groan is pulled from him.
--
He opens his eyes to see James bouncing on his chest, peering into his face curiously. He doesn’t remember falling back to sleep. “Uncle Arthur, are you awake now?”
“Yes.” His voice is hoarse and he has to clear it. The clock reads eight thirty and he can’t even muster the energy to groan. He feels tired and helpless, not something he’s used to feeling.
“Good,” James says. “I’m hungry.” He stares at Arthur, waiting.
“Oh, right. Eggs?” he asks finally, “with bacon?”
“Yeah,” James agrees. His smile is bright in the gloom and Arthur can’t even muster a return one. James doesn’t seem fazed by it though, probably assumes he’s still half asleep. “Come on, Uncle Arthur. Get up.” He rolls off of Arthur and begins to jump on the bed instead. “Uppy, uppy, uppy!” he chants.
Arthur groans and sits up. James laughs and jumps off the bed, dashing out the door. Arthur can hear him yelling for Phillipa as he goes. For maybe half a minute he contemplates laying back down and disappearing under the down comforter. He hauls himself up though and stumbles into the kitchen to get breakfast ready. He makes another cup of tea as well.
--
“No, like Mommy does it,” Phillipa instructs. “Or like Eames does,” she adds. Her fingers touch the top of her head and go down the back. “Braided all the way down.”
Arthur undoes the braid, for the third time, and runs the brush through her hair. The good thing about his incompetence is that her hair is now shiny. “I told you, I don’t know how to French braid hair,” he replies. “I can do a regular one,” he doesn’t add the maybe.
Phillipa makes a long suffering sound. Her fingers twist at the caterpillar’s antennae. “Okay,” she says stiffly. “A reg-lar one.” He smiles at that and begins separating her hair again. Fifteen minutes later it’s as good as it’s going to get.
“There,” he says as he finishes tying the band around the end. She feels it and seems satisfied.
“Uncle Arthur?” He makes a humming sound and she half turns to look at him. “We can’t go to the park today,” she tells him.
“Oh?”
Her hand points out the glass doors to the balcony. “It’s still raining.”
“Yes, it is,” he agrees. “What do you want to do instead?” James lies on his stomach and colors a picture in his coloring book. He doesn’t seem to care about their conversation.
“I wanna watch Alvin,” Phillipa replies. She takes a breath. “Alvin!” she screams. Her smile is bright when she looks at him. He thinks she ruptured his eardrum.
“Nice, Pip.” He looks at James. “What are you doing?”
“Coloring. I’m giving it to Mommy for her ann-vers-ree,” James answers.
Arthur checks his phone discretely as he puts the movie in. There’s still no word from Cobb.
--
Cobb arrives just after lunch.
Phillipa and James are watching Alvin for the second time and the rain slaps the windows viciously. Arthur keeps the door open but pushes Cobb out into the hall. The man looks like a train hit him. His dress shirt and trousers are soaked through from the walk into the building. His eyes are puffy and red rimmed, dark circles that would make a raccoon envious ring his eyes.
“Cobb,” Arthur says. He starts to reach out, maybe to pat Cobb on the shoulder or pull him into a hug or punch him for the shit call he gave last night. At the last minute though he crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the wall next to his door. “I’m sorry,” he continues.
“She’s gone, Arthur.” Cobb runs a hand through his hair, over his face. He inhales, exhales, inhales again. “The kids…?”
“Are watching Alvin. I haven’t told them anything.”
Cobb nods. “Thank you.” His voice is raspy, quiet. Arthur hasn’t seen him like this before.
“Cobb…Dom, what happened?” His hand does reach out this time, carefully landing on Cobb’s shoulder. Inside he can hear the kids laughing. It feels like the world has split and he wishes he could cross the threshold back into his apartment, be with them laughing. Then he looks at Cobb and knows he has to be longing for the same thing.
“She jumped out the hotel window and I couldn’t stop her.” He leans against the wall next to Arthur. Arthur swallows.
“Why were you in jail?”
Cobb looks up at him, there’s a look in his eyes almost like betrayal. “She wrote her lawyer that I terrorized her, and the children. She…she wanted me to jump with her. I couldn’t, I couldn’t leave them.”
Arthur’s mouth goes dry. He wants a drink, or twelve. “Why would she do that?”
Cobb doesn’t answer because suddenly Phillipa’s at the door. Her eyes narrow but her smile eases the lines from her face. “Hi, Daddy.” Her eyes dart around, arms wrapped around the caterpillar once more. “Where’s Mommy?”
“Mommy isn’t here right now, Phillipa.”
“Oh.” She darts across the hall to her father and wraps her arms around his legs. “Are we coming home now?”
“Yeah.” His eyes lift to Arthur’s. “You might need to stay with Uncle Arthur again though.” He picks her up and buries his face in her shoulder for a moment, breathes deep. The caterpillar drapes down his back. “Grandma and Grandpa are coming to visit.”
“With presents?” she asks happily. Her fingers pet her father’s hair.
“I don’t know,” he answers. James comes to the door then as well, sees his father and tilts his head.
“Where’s Mommy? I made her a picture.”
Cobb chokes and Phillipa tugs at his hair to get him to raise his head. “Daddy, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”
He looks at Arthur again. “I’ll call you?” Phillipa slides to the ground, tugs on her father’s hand, and repeats her question. James hovers next to Arthur. “Come on, let’s go home. We’ll talk about; we’ll talk about Mommy there.”
Cobb hoists James up, holds Phillipa’s small hand. Her thumb is in her mouth again, eyes wide. Arthur doesn’t watch them leave.
--
When Eames arrives it’s closer to seven-thirty because of some delay on departure and another on arrival and let’s not forget the traffic. He’s been up for twenty hours, in a plane for half that time. He curses as he tosses his coat into the hall closet, not bothering with hangers. His suitcase is dropped at the door to the living room.
The apartment is quiet, only a floor lamp in the living room on. Eames swallows and enters the room. Arthur is lying on the sofa, arm thrown over his face. There’s an empty bottle of vodka on the floor and a half full bottle on the sofa next to him. Eames really hopes the empty bottle hadn’t been full.
Arthur stirs as Eames leans over the sofa to study him. “You sound like an elephant,” Arthur grunts.
Eames smiles. “With a stomach of vodka, I’d imagine so.” He comes around and sits on the coffee table, stares at him.
“I hear you thinking,” Arthur groans.
“Well, one of us has to.” Arthur moves his arm enough to glare at him. Eames affects an unconcerned look. Arthur sits up, sways. Eames catches the bottle before it rolls off the sofa, hides a smile because this is not a smiling time. “Come on, bed. You’re pissed.”
“I am,” Arthur agrees. His body feels heavy, sleepy. His head pounds and his stomach churns as Eames helps him up. “I’m drunk too.”
“Yes, that as well.” He kicks the suitcase out of the way and leads Arthur to the bedroom. Arthur falls back on the bed, stares up at the ceiling. Eames sinks down next to him, pulls Arthur against him. “Why are you angry?”
“Mal,” he says.
His voice breaks and he can’t even say her name anymore. Eames hums, pulls him closer. He can’t even find the words to tell Eames what she’s done, what Cobb says she’s done. Because he knows Mal, she would not have done this. He presses his forehead to Eames’ shoulder, enjoys the feel of Eames’ fingers through his hair. It takes him a moment or so to realize that there are now words instead of humming. It takes another minute to catch the words.
“Ar lan y môr mae 'nghariad inne. Yn cysgu'r nos a chodi'r bore,” Eames sings softly. His voice is deep, husky with exhaustion. Eames’ fingers continue to move across his scalp. Arthur flinches when Eames’ hand comes in contact with the wound from last night.
“What?” Arthur mumbles. His mouth is met with the soft fabric of Eames’ shirt.
“Ar lan y môr mae carreg wastad. Lle bûm yn siarad gair â'm cariad,” Eames murmurs. His lips trail against Arthur’s ear.
“Eames,” Arthur groans. “I am possibly, very drunk. What are you singing?”
Eames huffs a soft laugh. Arthur isn’t sure if it’s the alcohol or his own blood that makes him feel lightheaded all of a sudden. “Ar lan y môr,” he answers. “It’s Welsh for Down By The Sea.”
Arthur grunts and shifts around until he’s comfortable. “Is there a language you don’t know?”
Eames just laughs. “O amgylch hon fe dyf y lili...” Arthur doesn’t hear the rest of the song.
--
Ar lan y môr mae rhosys cochion
Ar lan y môr mae lilis gwynion
Ar lan y môr mae 'nghariad inne
Yn cysgu'r nos a chodi'r bore.
Ar lan y môr mae carreg wastad
Lle bûm yn siarad gair â'm cariad
O amgylch hon fe dyf y lili
Ac ambell gangen o rosmari.
Ar lan y môr mae cerrig gleision
Ar lan y môr mae blodau'r meibion
Ar lan y môr mae pob rinweddau
Ar lan y môr mae nghariad innau.
So, the above song is a traditional Welsh song. That is what my friend (who is Welsh) says anyway. Any mistakes on it are probably a combination of ours. Oops. I have to say that I debated, a lot, on including the song since I was like "omg, you've put three different languages (not including English) in five chapters, what are you thinking?!?!" but in the end I decided to stick it out. So yeah, that's about it. Here is the English translation:
Down by the sea red roses are blooming;
Down by the sea white lilies are gleaming;
Down by the sea my true love is dwelling,
Sleeping all night, rising up in the morning.
Down where the sea laps at the flat rock
My love and I did wander and talk;
All around us grew the white lily,
And there were sprigs of rosemary.
By the seaside are blue stones
By the seaside are the sons’ flowers
By the seaside is every virtue
By the seaside is my sweetheart..
Chapter: 5/?
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don’t own Inception.
Pairing/Characters: Arthur/Eames, Phillipa, Mal, James, Cobb
Summary: In which James colors, Phillipa instructs, Cobb is out of jail, Eames is in London, and Arthur gets possibly very drunk.
Author’s Note: This chapter is not much happier, sadly. It is, however, about twice (or maybe even three times almost) as long as my others. I don't even know why. Oh, right, because I had to include the song. And one part would be too short if I cut it in half.
Previous Series: Yellow One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven
Previous Parts: 1 2 3 4
--
He must have fallen asleep, sometime between grey dawn and grey rain. For a few minutes he only feels hollow, empty, but he can’t remember why. He has a drying washcloth over his eyes to block out the pale light. It takes him a moment to realize what woke him. His phone rings again, shakes him firmly out of slumber. He doesn’t even have to search for his phone; it’s already in his hand.
“’lo?” he slurs. He pulls the washcloth off his face and checks the time. Seven in the morning. Seven. Seven hours. His throat goes dry as his stomach clenches. Mal. It all comes back with excruciating detail. “Cobb?” he asks, hope tints his voice.
There’s a scoff on the other end of the phone. “Sorry to disappoint.”
His mind latches onto the familiar voice. Clings to it really, if he’s being honest with himself; he’s not. “Eames? What’s going on?” His hand fumbles with the die, rolls it around and around.
“I’m in London,” Eames explains. “Just landed, bit ahead of time, wasn’t supposed to get here until two thirty, not that I’m complaining.” There’s a pause filled with static. “I’m not going to be able to get out of here until probably around five even if the ticket says four thirty. You know how tickets lie.” Arthur does. “I’ll be landing at six if everything’s on schedule, should be there by seven.” Seven. “Arthur? You still here, Arthur?”
“Hm, oh, yes.” He drops the die back on the table and lies down again. Through the blinds he can see rain falling softly, dreary for November. “Seven you say?” He wonders why everything has to do with seven lately.
“Yeah, seven. I was going to call earlier but I had just enough time to board,” he sighs, sounds exhausted.
“You sound exhausted.”
“So do you,” Eames replies. “Get some sleep before the children get up.” There’s a lengthy pause, Arthur checks the counter on his phone to make sure the call hasn’t been disconnected. “I’ll see you soon,” Eames says finally.
“Yeah, see you.” He hangs up first and burrows his face in the pillow, careful to avoid the smear of blood. He’ll need to do laundry now on top of everything else. Another groan is pulled from him.
--
He opens his eyes to see James bouncing on his chest, peering into his face curiously. He doesn’t remember falling back to sleep. “Uncle Arthur, are you awake now?”
“Yes.” His voice is hoarse and he has to clear it. The clock reads eight thirty and he can’t even muster the energy to groan. He feels tired and helpless, not something he’s used to feeling.
“Good,” James says. “I’m hungry.” He stares at Arthur, waiting.
“Oh, right. Eggs?” he asks finally, “with bacon?”
“Yeah,” James agrees. His smile is bright in the gloom and Arthur can’t even muster a return one. James doesn’t seem fazed by it though, probably assumes he’s still half asleep. “Come on, Uncle Arthur. Get up.” He rolls off of Arthur and begins to jump on the bed instead. “Uppy, uppy, uppy!” he chants.
Arthur groans and sits up. James laughs and jumps off the bed, dashing out the door. Arthur can hear him yelling for Phillipa as he goes. For maybe half a minute he contemplates laying back down and disappearing under the down comforter. He hauls himself up though and stumbles into the kitchen to get breakfast ready. He makes another cup of tea as well.
--
“No, like Mommy does it,” Phillipa instructs. “Or like Eames does,” she adds. Her fingers touch the top of her head and go down the back. “Braided all the way down.”
Arthur undoes the braid, for the third time, and runs the brush through her hair. The good thing about his incompetence is that her hair is now shiny. “I told you, I don’t know how to French braid hair,” he replies. “I can do a regular one,” he doesn’t add the maybe.
Phillipa makes a long suffering sound. Her fingers twist at the caterpillar’s antennae. “Okay,” she says stiffly. “A reg-lar one.” He smiles at that and begins separating her hair again. Fifteen minutes later it’s as good as it’s going to get.
“There,” he says as he finishes tying the band around the end. She feels it and seems satisfied.
“Uncle Arthur?” He makes a humming sound and she half turns to look at him. “We can’t go to the park today,” she tells him.
“Oh?”
Her hand points out the glass doors to the balcony. “It’s still raining.”
“Yes, it is,” he agrees. “What do you want to do instead?” James lies on his stomach and colors a picture in his coloring book. He doesn’t seem to care about their conversation.
“I wanna watch Alvin,” Phillipa replies. She takes a breath. “Alvin!” she screams. Her smile is bright when she looks at him. He thinks she ruptured his eardrum.
“Nice, Pip.” He looks at James. “What are you doing?”
“Coloring. I’m giving it to Mommy for her ann-vers-ree,” James answers.
Arthur checks his phone discretely as he puts the movie in. There’s still no word from Cobb.
--
Cobb arrives just after lunch.
Phillipa and James are watching Alvin for the second time and the rain slaps the windows viciously. Arthur keeps the door open but pushes Cobb out into the hall. The man looks like a train hit him. His dress shirt and trousers are soaked through from the walk into the building. His eyes are puffy and red rimmed, dark circles that would make a raccoon envious ring his eyes.
“Cobb,” Arthur says. He starts to reach out, maybe to pat Cobb on the shoulder or pull him into a hug or punch him for the shit call he gave last night. At the last minute though he crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the wall next to his door. “I’m sorry,” he continues.
“She’s gone, Arthur.” Cobb runs a hand through his hair, over his face. He inhales, exhales, inhales again. “The kids…?”
“Are watching Alvin. I haven’t told them anything.”
Cobb nods. “Thank you.” His voice is raspy, quiet. Arthur hasn’t seen him like this before.
“Cobb…Dom, what happened?” His hand does reach out this time, carefully landing on Cobb’s shoulder. Inside he can hear the kids laughing. It feels like the world has split and he wishes he could cross the threshold back into his apartment, be with them laughing. Then he looks at Cobb and knows he has to be longing for the same thing.
“She jumped out the hotel window and I couldn’t stop her.” He leans against the wall next to Arthur. Arthur swallows.
“Why were you in jail?”
Cobb looks up at him, there’s a look in his eyes almost like betrayal. “She wrote her lawyer that I terrorized her, and the children. She…she wanted me to jump with her. I couldn’t, I couldn’t leave them.”
Arthur’s mouth goes dry. He wants a drink, or twelve. “Why would she do that?”
Cobb doesn’t answer because suddenly Phillipa’s at the door. Her eyes narrow but her smile eases the lines from her face. “Hi, Daddy.” Her eyes dart around, arms wrapped around the caterpillar once more. “Where’s Mommy?”
“Mommy isn’t here right now, Phillipa.”
“Oh.” She darts across the hall to her father and wraps her arms around his legs. “Are we coming home now?”
“Yeah.” His eyes lift to Arthur’s. “You might need to stay with Uncle Arthur again though.” He picks her up and buries his face in her shoulder for a moment, breathes deep. The caterpillar drapes down his back. “Grandma and Grandpa are coming to visit.”
“With presents?” she asks happily. Her fingers pet her father’s hair.
“I don’t know,” he answers. James comes to the door then as well, sees his father and tilts his head.
“Where’s Mommy? I made her a picture.”
Cobb chokes and Phillipa tugs at his hair to get him to raise his head. “Daddy, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?”
He looks at Arthur again. “I’ll call you?” Phillipa slides to the ground, tugs on her father’s hand, and repeats her question. James hovers next to Arthur. “Come on, let’s go home. We’ll talk about; we’ll talk about Mommy there.”
Cobb hoists James up, holds Phillipa’s small hand. Her thumb is in her mouth again, eyes wide. Arthur doesn’t watch them leave.
--
When Eames arrives it’s closer to seven-thirty because of some delay on departure and another on arrival and let’s not forget the traffic. He’s been up for twenty hours, in a plane for half that time. He curses as he tosses his coat into the hall closet, not bothering with hangers. His suitcase is dropped at the door to the living room.
The apartment is quiet, only a floor lamp in the living room on. Eames swallows and enters the room. Arthur is lying on the sofa, arm thrown over his face. There’s an empty bottle of vodka on the floor and a half full bottle on the sofa next to him. Eames really hopes the empty bottle hadn’t been full.
Arthur stirs as Eames leans over the sofa to study him. “You sound like an elephant,” Arthur grunts.
Eames smiles. “With a stomach of vodka, I’d imagine so.” He comes around and sits on the coffee table, stares at him.
“I hear you thinking,” Arthur groans.
“Well, one of us has to.” Arthur moves his arm enough to glare at him. Eames affects an unconcerned look. Arthur sits up, sways. Eames catches the bottle before it rolls off the sofa, hides a smile because this is not a smiling time. “Come on, bed. You’re pissed.”
“I am,” Arthur agrees. His body feels heavy, sleepy. His head pounds and his stomach churns as Eames helps him up. “I’m drunk too.”
“Yes, that as well.” He kicks the suitcase out of the way and leads Arthur to the bedroom. Arthur falls back on the bed, stares up at the ceiling. Eames sinks down next to him, pulls Arthur against him. “Why are you angry?”
“Mal,” he says.
His voice breaks and he can’t even say her name anymore. Eames hums, pulls him closer. He can’t even find the words to tell Eames what she’s done, what Cobb says she’s done. Because he knows Mal, she would not have done this. He presses his forehead to Eames’ shoulder, enjoys the feel of Eames’ fingers through his hair. It takes him a moment or so to realize that there are now words instead of humming. It takes another minute to catch the words.
“Ar lan y môr mae 'nghariad inne. Yn cysgu'r nos a chodi'r bore,” Eames sings softly. His voice is deep, husky with exhaustion. Eames’ fingers continue to move across his scalp. Arthur flinches when Eames’ hand comes in contact with the wound from last night.
“What?” Arthur mumbles. His mouth is met with the soft fabric of Eames’ shirt.
“Ar lan y môr mae carreg wastad. Lle bûm yn siarad gair â'm cariad,” Eames murmurs. His lips trail against Arthur’s ear.
“Eames,” Arthur groans. “I am possibly, very drunk. What are you singing?”
Eames huffs a soft laugh. Arthur isn’t sure if it’s the alcohol or his own blood that makes him feel lightheaded all of a sudden. “Ar lan y môr,” he answers. “It’s Welsh for Down By The Sea.”
Arthur grunts and shifts around until he’s comfortable. “Is there a language you don’t know?”
Eames just laughs. “O amgylch hon fe dyf y lili...” Arthur doesn’t hear the rest of the song.
--
Ar lan y môr mae rhosys cochion
Ar lan y môr mae lilis gwynion
Ar lan y môr mae 'nghariad inne
Yn cysgu'r nos a chodi'r bore.
Ar lan y môr mae carreg wastad
Lle bûm yn siarad gair â'm cariad
O amgylch hon fe dyf y lili
Ac ambell gangen o rosmari.
Ar lan y môr mae cerrig gleision
Ar lan y môr mae blodau'r meibion
Ar lan y môr mae pob rinweddau
Ar lan y môr mae nghariad innau.
So, the above song is a traditional Welsh song. That is what my friend (who is Welsh) says anyway. Any mistakes on it are probably a combination of ours. Oops. I have to say that I debated, a lot, on including the song since I was like "omg, you've put three different languages (not including English) in five chapters, what are you thinking?!?!" but in the end I decided to stick it out. So yeah, that's about it. Here is the English translation:
Down by the sea red roses are blooming;
Down by the sea white lilies are gleaming;
Down by the sea my true love is dwelling,
Sleeping all night, rising up in the morning.
Down where the sea laps at the flat rock
My love and I did wander and talk;
All around us grew the white lily,
And there were sprigs of rosemary.
By the seaside are blue stones
By the seaside are the sons’ flowers
By the seaside is every virtue
By the seaside is my sweetheart..