067
Title: Lelow
Chapter: 13/?
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don’t own Inception.
Pairing/Characters: Arthur, Eames, Phillipa, James, randoms.
Summary: In which World War III is a reality, Eames hates flying, Arthur is a porcupine, James needs tissues, and Phillipa breaks.
Author’s Note: Omg, I am so, so, so sorry to the three months since I last updated. I honestly don't know where the time went. ::sigh:: I've been terrible. I promise it's almost over though so no more waiting. I won't make a promise on when the next part will be out since I seem to have a deadline problem, but I hope it will be soon.
Previous Series: Yellow One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven
Previous Parts: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12
Eames hates flying.
He thinks he should be used to it now, after years of running, searching, working. But he isn’t and has barely built up a tolerable tolerance to it. He grumbles as he disembarks in Chicago, curses as his flight to Dallas is delayed, and gratefully slinks out of the Miami International Airport five hours later than was expected. Is there no such thing as a direct flight anymore?
The man at customs is burly as well as surly. He checks the passport, frowns at all the stamps and tries to find a spare page. “Anything to declare?”
“No,” Eames replies. He watches the way the man moves and catalogues the actions for future references. The stamp makes a loud thunk as it presses into the booklet.
“Visiting family?”
Eames assumes the question is supposed to sound politely curious but it falls flat coming from the man’s mouth. It sounds like nothing more than information gathering. Eames hitches a shoulder and offers a grimace. “Unfortunately.”
The man actually smiles at this. “Welcome to Miami, Mr. Lyle. Enjoy your stay.”
“Ta.” He grabs the passport back and stuffs it in his inside coat pocket.
By the time he’s waiting in line for a cab he’s drunk half a cup of coffee, liberated two passports and four wallets, and eaten three doughnuts. Overall, a successful trip after all.
--
Arthur yawns and rolls over. He buries his head deeper into the pillow to avoid the sunlight. It takes a moment but he hears the knock come again, echoing down the hallway. “Eames, door,” he grumbles. It takes another knock for his sleep addled brain to remember that Eames isn’t here anymore.
He jerks awake and grabs the gun off the nightstand. He finger-combs his hair as he heads down the hallway. The clock in the kitchen tells him it’s a quarter after ten and he frowns. Checking the peephole in the door he sighs and steps back, stashes the gun in the hall closet before opening the front door.
“Arthur,” Cobb greets. He blinks at him a moment, then squints slightly. “Were you sleeping?”
“What’s up?” Arthur answers instead. He hears a giggle and it takes a second for him to make sure it isn’t from Cobb. He looks down and sees James and Phillipa looking up at him. Phillipa’s face is buried in her caterpillar while James is grinning.
“You look like a porcupine,” he says. “I saw one in Phillipa’s book. Its hair looks like yours.”
“Does it now?” Arthur asks. James nods gleefully. “Dom?”
“Mal’s parents are at the…they’re finishing up with the arrangements.”
“And you need to go back in.”
Cobb looks at him, long and hard. He glances down at his children and then back at Arthur. “No, I need to see my attorney. Marie or I will be by in an hour or so. I thought you would be awake.”
“I’m awake, it’s fine.” He takes the bag Cobb thrusts into his hands.
“Thanks.” Arthur is really starting to hate that word.
--
“Here you are, Mr. Stanton,” the woman behind the counter says. She flashes him a smile that’s too white against tan skin. “Have a wonderful time in South Florida.” She slides the rental key across to him and tosses her hair back again.
“Thank you, Maria,” Eames replies. He gives her his own smile as he pockets the key. “It’s certainly been pleasant so far.” So far he’s spent his days on white sand beaches and his nights in strobe light lit dance clubs drinking colorful concoctions he can’t remember the names of. Her giggles follow him out the door.
Eames takes I-95 North toward Fort Lauderdale then transfers to 441. A thirty-six minute drive turned to an hour and forty-five minutes without it even being rush hour. He looks to his phone, plugged into the cigarette lighter. It’s a new one he picked up at the airport three days ago, when he’d first tried to get in contact with Franz.
He exits at Sheridan and contemplates the phone again as he turns onto Seminole Way. He picks up the phone, flips it open, presses the first five numbers automatically and then stops. Closes it as he waits at a traffic light. He opens it again, closes it, opens it. He wants to call Arthur, he really does. But he knows at the same time that if the roles were switched and Arthur was on a job he wouldn’t call Eames.
Except no one they knew ever had a funeral when they had a job before.
He tosses the phone into the console and guns it all the way to Stirling Road; takes it fast until he turns hard into the Seminole Hard Rock Café and Casino. When he enters the casino he breathes in deep, lets it out slow. He sees Franz in his usual corner, mumbling to himself as he pulls the lever over and over again.
“Two years you’ve been here and not once have you won. That’s just sad, mate,” Eames mutters. He drops onto the stool next him. Franz turns to him, scowls, and inserts another coin.
“Eames, you found me. What do you need?”
“The usual.” Franz snorts. “By tomorrow.”
Franz tilts his head at that. “Tomorrow? You’re crazy. There’s no way in hell I can get the papers printed by tomorrow.”
“I’ve already got them written up,” Eames replies. “Ink’s drying on them as we speak.”
“Doesn’t make a difference,” Franz says petulantly. He searches his pockets for another quarter for the slot machine, comes up empty. “I can’t have them done by tomorrow.”
Eames smiles, leans forward slightly to look at Franz. The other man frowns, eyes darting around nervously. “Oh, I think you can.”
--
By the time he’s changed into something more presentable World War III has started in his living room. He exits his room to the sound of screaming and what might be his late grandmother’s vase shattering. Wincing, he makes his way down the hall quickly.
“What’s going on?” Arthur demands. James has Phillipa by the hair, hitting her with some toy. She screams loud enough to break eardrums and bites down on his hand. “Phillipa! James!”
It takes nearly five minutes to pull the two apart and Arthur’s grateful no one else is around to see the ordeal. He’ll have to come up with a reason as to the black eye though. James has a bloody nose from where Phillipa’s heel caught him. He sits on the coffee table wailing. When Arthur turns around to assess Phillipa she’s gone and he can hear the office door slamming.
“Hold still, James,” he sighs. He has James lean forward, a wad of tissues held in front of his nose. Five minutes of holding a nearly three-year-old’s nose is a lesson in patience he could have, and would have, done without. Finally he removes the pressure and checks for continued bleeding. “Sit here, okay? Don’t blow your nose, don’t cry anymore. I’ll be back after I check on your sister.”
“Leave her alone, I don’t like her anymore,” James grumbles. He stops though when the TV is turned on and Arthur is free to search out the other Cobb child.
--
“What’s so urgent about this anyway? You’ve known where I’ve been for two years, could have dropped a line anytime,” Franz grumbles.
“Could have,” Eames agrees. He leans against a column next to the Baccarat table, smiles when the attendant catches his eye. “You’re a gambling man, Franz. I’ll make you a wager.”
“What kind of wager?” Franz swipes the sweat off his forehead with a rumpled bandana and studies Eames suspiciously. “Last time I wagered with you I had to run through Papeete in my shorts.”
“Good thing it was warm, hm?” The girl smiles at him as she explains the rules, voice heavily overlaid with a Spanish accent. He watches the way she twists an earring, smiles enigmatically. He files it away in the mental folder labeled exotic.
“So…this wager?” Franz questions.
“Right.” He claps his hands together and smiles as he turns to the shorter man. “The bank wins this round, hell, the next two rounds, and you do my papers. Have them ready by my flight tomorrow afternoon.” Franz opens his mouth but Eames waves him off. “The bank loses and I give you enough money to last another two months in this establishment.”
Franz squints at him, dabs at his forehead, and shifts from foot to foot. “Two months? You got the cash on you?”
“Sure do,” Eames replies. “Make up your mind quick now.”
“Yes, fine. We’ve got a wager,” Franz mutters. He holds out his hand and Eames shakes it with forced joviality. “Two months…” Franz hums, pleased. Eames wipes his hand on his trousers and studies the South American attendant.
--
“Pip,” Arthur calls softly. He pushes open the door and pauses. Phillipa sits with her back to him. She hums softly as she twists the caterpillar’s antennae tightly together. “Phillipa.”
She turns to face him and she looks pale with dark circles around her eyes. He thinks one of them might be swelling from a punch. “Did I hurt him bad?” she asks as she turns back to the wall.
“Nothing’s broken.” He closes the door partway, just in case James needs him, and sits on the edge of the sofa. Phillipa returns to contemplating the pictures on the wall. “Phillipa.”
She turns back to face him. “He wants a puppy,” she informs him. Her fingers clench the pink puff tighter, twist harder. “He wants a puppy because now Mommy can’t be allergic anymore!”
Before he can react the caterpillar is hurled across the room. It smacks into the lamp and they both fall to the floor. She shudders, body trembling. “Sh, Pip, sh. It’s okay.” He reaches for her and she slides off the chair and onto the sofa silently. “It’s okay,” he repeats. Shivers continue to course through her body and Arthur presses a hand to her forehead. “What is it?”
Her eyes are trained on the door that hasn’t moved. “I dream about Mommy, lots,” she says finally. “I dream about her alive and playing with me and my dolls and I don’t want to wake up, Uncle Arthur, because its fun and we’re both happy and smiling and I have the good cookies for the tea party and Mommy is wearing her pretty party dress.” He starts to tell her that it’s understandable but she’s only stopped long enough to draw in oxygen.
“I have dreams of her angry and mean and I don’t like those dreams and I want to wake up but I can’t, I can’t, Uncle Arthur. And then James says he wants a puppy like he doesn’t even miss Mommy and I get so mad at him, Uncle Arthur. How come he wants a puppy when Mommy is dead like Goldie and Daddy cries all the time? It’s not fair that he’s happy and I can’t be because I know Mommy wasn’t but sometimes she is and sometimes she isn’t and it isn’t fair, Uncle Arthur! I want Mommy back, I want her happy. I want her to smile when I put Miss Muffet’s bonnet on James!”
She breaks down crying and her face is buried in Arthur’s shoulder. He pats her back and strokes her hair, whispers consoling words he doesn’t remember. She sniffles, and rubs at her face with a hand. “Sh, you’re alright,” he tells her. He picks her up and heads back to the living room, ignoring the feeling of her fingers playing with the hair at the base of his neck. James is curled up on the sofa, tissues clutched in his hand and sleeping soundly. Carefully he sits on the sofa next to him and tries to reposition Phillipa into a more comfortable position.
“I don’t want to dream no more, Uncle Arthur,” Phillipa sighs.
Her fingers still and soon she’s as deeply asleep as James. Arthur checks on James’ nose and notes no further bleeding. He tries to reach for the remote but Phillipa clenches tighter to his neck and he values air over adult television so he settles in to watch Sesame Street and hope that Cobb arrives on time for once.
Chapter: 13/?
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I don’t own Inception.
Pairing/Characters: Arthur, Eames, Phillipa, James, randoms.
Summary: In which World War III is a reality, Eames hates flying, Arthur is a porcupine, James needs tissues, and Phillipa breaks.
Author’s Note: Omg, I am so, so, so sorry to the three months since I last updated. I honestly don't know where the time went. ::sigh:: I've been terrible. I promise it's almost over though so no more waiting. I won't make a promise on when the next part will be out since I seem to have a deadline problem, but I hope it will be soon.
Previous Series: Yellow One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven
Previous Parts: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12
Eames hates flying.
He thinks he should be used to it now, after years of running, searching, working. But he isn’t and has barely built up a tolerable tolerance to it. He grumbles as he disembarks in Chicago, curses as his flight to Dallas is delayed, and gratefully slinks out of the Miami International Airport five hours later than was expected. Is there no such thing as a direct flight anymore?
The man at customs is burly as well as surly. He checks the passport, frowns at all the stamps and tries to find a spare page. “Anything to declare?”
“No,” Eames replies. He watches the way the man moves and catalogues the actions for future references. The stamp makes a loud thunk as it presses into the booklet.
“Visiting family?”
Eames assumes the question is supposed to sound politely curious but it falls flat coming from the man’s mouth. It sounds like nothing more than information gathering. Eames hitches a shoulder and offers a grimace. “Unfortunately.”
The man actually smiles at this. “Welcome to Miami, Mr. Lyle. Enjoy your stay.”
“Ta.” He grabs the passport back and stuffs it in his inside coat pocket.
By the time he’s waiting in line for a cab he’s drunk half a cup of coffee, liberated two passports and four wallets, and eaten three doughnuts. Overall, a successful trip after all.
--
Arthur yawns and rolls over. He buries his head deeper into the pillow to avoid the sunlight. It takes a moment but he hears the knock come again, echoing down the hallway. “Eames, door,” he grumbles. It takes another knock for his sleep addled brain to remember that Eames isn’t here anymore.
He jerks awake and grabs the gun off the nightstand. He finger-combs his hair as he heads down the hallway. The clock in the kitchen tells him it’s a quarter after ten and he frowns. Checking the peephole in the door he sighs and steps back, stashes the gun in the hall closet before opening the front door.
“Arthur,” Cobb greets. He blinks at him a moment, then squints slightly. “Were you sleeping?”
“What’s up?” Arthur answers instead. He hears a giggle and it takes a second for him to make sure it isn’t from Cobb. He looks down and sees James and Phillipa looking up at him. Phillipa’s face is buried in her caterpillar while James is grinning.
“You look like a porcupine,” he says. “I saw one in Phillipa’s book. Its hair looks like yours.”
“Does it now?” Arthur asks. James nods gleefully. “Dom?”
“Mal’s parents are at the…they’re finishing up with the arrangements.”
“And you need to go back in.”
Cobb looks at him, long and hard. He glances down at his children and then back at Arthur. “No, I need to see my attorney. Marie or I will be by in an hour or so. I thought you would be awake.”
“I’m awake, it’s fine.” He takes the bag Cobb thrusts into his hands.
“Thanks.” Arthur is really starting to hate that word.
--
“Here you are, Mr. Stanton,” the woman behind the counter says. She flashes him a smile that’s too white against tan skin. “Have a wonderful time in South Florida.” She slides the rental key across to him and tosses her hair back again.
“Thank you, Maria,” Eames replies. He gives her his own smile as he pockets the key. “It’s certainly been pleasant so far.” So far he’s spent his days on white sand beaches and his nights in strobe light lit dance clubs drinking colorful concoctions he can’t remember the names of. Her giggles follow him out the door.
Eames takes I-95 North toward Fort Lauderdale then transfers to 441. A thirty-six minute drive turned to an hour and forty-five minutes without it even being rush hour. He looks to his phone, plugged into the cigarette lighter. It’s a new one he picked up at the airport three days ago, when he’d first tried to get in contact with Franz.
He exits at Sheridan and contemplates the phone again as he turns onto Seminole Way. He picks up the phone, flips it open, presses the first five numbers automatically and then stops. Closes it as he waits at a traffic light. He opens it again, closes it, opens it. He wants to call Arthur, he really does. But he knows at the same time that if the roles were switched and Arthur was on a job he wouldn’t call Eames.
Except no one they knew ever had a funeral when they had a job before.
He tosses the phone into the console and guns it all the way to Stirling Road; takes it fast until he turns hard into the Seminole Hard Rock Café and Casino. When he enters the casino he breathes in deep, lets it out slow. He sees Franz in his usual corner, mumbling to himself as he pulls the lever over and over again.
“Two years you’ve been here and not once have you won. That’s just sad, mate,” Eames mutters. He drops onto the stool next him. Franz turns to him, scowls, and inserts another coin.
“Eames, you found me. What do you need?”
“The usual.” Franz snorts. “By tomorrow.”
Franz tilts his head at that. “Tomorrow? You’re crazy. There’s no way in hell I can get the papers printed by tomorrow.”
“I’ve already got them written up,” Eames replies. “Ink’s drying on them as we speak.”
“Doesn’t make a difference,” Franz says petulantly. He searches his pockets for another quarter for the slot machine, comes up empty. “I can’t have them done by tomorrow.”
Eames smiles, leans forward slightly to look at Franz. The other man frowns, eyes darting around nervously. “Oh, I think you can.”
--
By the time he’s changed into something more presentable World War III has started in his living room. He exits his room to the sound of screaming and what might be his late grandmother’s vase shattering. Wincing, he makes his way down the hall quickly.
“What’s going on?” Arthur demands. James has Phillipa by the hair, hitting her with some toy. She screams loud enough to break eardrums and bites down on his hand. “Phillipa! James!”
It takes nearly five minutes to pull the two apart and Arthur’s grateful no one else is around to see the ordeal. He’ll have to come up with a reason as to the black eye though. James has a bloody nose from where Phillipa’s heel caught him. He sits on the coffee table wailing. When Arthur turns around to assess Phillipa she’s gone and he can hear the office door slamming.
“Hold still, James,” he sighs. He has James lean forward, a wad of tissues held in front of his nose. Five minutes of holding a nearly three-year-old’s nose is a lesson in patience he could have, and would have, done without. Finally he removes the pressure and checks for continued bleeding. “Sit here, okay? Don’t blow your nose, don’t cry anymore. I’ll be back after I check on your sister.”
“Leave her alone, I don’t like her anymore,” James grumbles. He stops though when the TV is turned on and Arthur is free to search out the other Cobb child.
--
“What’s so urgent about this anyway? You’ve known where I’ve been for two years, could have dropped a line anytime,” Franz grumbles.
“Could have,” Eames agrees. He leans against a column next to the Baccarat table, smiles when the attendant catches his eye. “You’re a gambling man, Franz. I’ll make you a wager.”
“What kind of wager?” Franz swipes the sweat off his forehead with a rumpled bandana and studies Eames suspiciously. “Last time I wagered with you I had to run through Papeete in my shorts.”
“Good thing it was warm, hm?” The girl smiles at him as she explains the rules, voice heavily overlaid with a Spanish accent. He watches the way she twists an earring, smiles enigmatically. He files it away in the mental folder labeled exotic.
“So…this wager?” Franz questions.
“Right.” He claps his hands together and smiles as he turns to the shorter man. “The bank wins this round, hell, the next two rounds, and you do my papers. Have them ready by my flight tomorrow afternoon.” Franz opens his mouth but Eames waves him off. “The bank loses and I give you enough money to last another two months in this establishment.”
Franz squints at him, dabs at his forehead, and shifts from foot to foot. “Two months? You got the cash on you?”
“Sure do,” Eames replies. “Make up your mind quick now.”
“Yes, fine. We’ve got a wager,” Franz mutters. He holds out his hand and Eames shakes it with forced joviality. “Two months…” Franz hums, pleased. Eames wipes his hand on his trousers and studies the South American attendant.
--
“Pip,” Arthur calls softly. He pushes open the door and pauses. Phillipa sits with her back to him. She hums softly as she twists the caterpillar’s antennae tightly together. “Phillipa.”
She turns to face him and she looks pale with dark circles around her eyes. He thinks one of them might be swelling from a punch. “Did I hurt him bad?” she asks as she turns back to the wall.
“Nothing’s broken.” He closes the door partway, just in case James needs him, and sits on the edge of the sofa. Phillipa returns to contemplating the pictures on the wall. “Phillipa.”
She turns back to face him. “He wants a puppy,” she informs him. Her fingers clench the pink puff tighter, twist harder. “He wants a puppy because now Mommy can’t be allergic anymore!”
Before he can react the caterpillar is hurled across the room. It smacks into the lamp and they both fall to the floor. She shudders, body trembling. “Sh, Pip, sh. It’s okay.” He reaches for her and she slides off the chair and onto the sofa silently. “It’s okay,” he repeats. Shivers continue to course through her body and Arthur presses a hand to her forehead. “What is it?”
Her eyes are trained on the door that hasn’t moved. “I dream about Mommy, lots,” she says finally. “I dream about her alive and playing with me and my dolls and I don’t want to wake up, Uncle Arthur, because its fun and we’re both happy and smiling and I have the good cookies for the tea party and Mommy is wearing her pretty party dress.” He starts to tell her that it’s understandable but she’s only stopped long enough to draw in oxygen.
“I have dreams of her angry and mean and I don’t like those dreams and I want to wake up but I can’t, I can’t, Uncle Arthur. And then James says he wants a puppy like he doesn’t even miss Mommy and I get so mad at him, Uncle Arthur. How come he wants a puppy when Mommy is dead like Goldie and Daddy cries all the time? It’s not fair that he’s happy and I can’t be because I know Mommy wasn’t but sometimes she is and sometimes she isn’t and it isn’t fair, Uncle Arthur! I want Mommy back, I want her happy. I want her to smile when I put Miss Muffet’s bonnet on James!”
She breaks down crying and her face is buried in Arthur’s shoulder. He pats her back and strokes her hair, whispers consoling words he doesn’t remember. She sniffles, and rubs at her face with a hand. “Sh, you’re alright,” he tells her. He picks her up and heads back to the living room, ignoring the feeling of her fingers playing with the hair at the base of his neck. James is curled up on the sofa, tissues clutched in his hand and sleeping soundly. Carefully he sits on the sofa next to him and tries to reposition Phillipa into a more comfortable position.
“I don’t want to dream no more, Uncle Arthur,” Phillipa sighs.
Her fingers still and soon she’s as deeply asleep as James. Arthur checks on James’ nose and notes no further bleeding. He tries to reach for the remote but Phillipa clenches tighter to his neck and he values air over adult television so he settles in to watch Sesame Street and hope that Cobb arrives on time for once.