Spin! [2/2]
[previous part]
"It feels like New Year's Eve," Eames says to no one in particular. "Doesn't it? Like we're all sitting here waiting for the ball to drop. Shouldn't we have champagne for this?"
"Real Americans drink beer," calls Arthur. "All other drinks test terribly, Monsieur le Conseiller."
Eames catches the can Arthur tosses him. For all of the candidate's personal down-home appeal, Cobb's campaign HQ has always been a sparse affair, a fortress of metal and glass. Accessories for interior decoration are strictly limited to whiteboards and water coolers. It must be Arthur's doing; environmental assimilation, he thinks, houses and pets grow to take after their owners, but he doesn't hate the way that the Miles campaign has turned his temple of electoral victory into a living room. He rather likes it.
They're gathered in the main workspace with the cubicles pushed to the walls, ESPN droning on in the background because they're too antsy for any other channel. It's a week after the end of the American Unity Tour, and an independent polling organization has set up camp upstairs, conducting a nationwide survey on whether the Tour has achieved its purpose. The Miles campaign drove over from Kansas with bright upholstered couches and enough pita chips to fill an inflatable pool.
Cobb and Mal are discussing something over the spinach dip, voices hushed, but it doesn't sound dire. Eames has commandeered the last remaining couch chair. It seems a bit stuffy to drag over a folding chair to sit on, so Arthur balances himself on the arm of Eames's couch, legs dangling off the edge.
"You should send someone up to check," says Eames. "I can't do it, if I ask anyone to do anything, I just sound like I'm ordering around a butler."
Arthur does, but the staffer doesn't return. Gradually the room notices, and the general conversation drops in pitch, in careful anticipation for some sort of news to arrive.
"I feel like Noah in the ark," says Arthur. "If the dove fails to come back, it's probably found land somewhere--"
"Guys," says the staffer from the top of the staircase, "we're up."
The living room bursts into cheers. Cobb and Mal beam at each other, shake hands, then decide to go in for a full triumphal embrace. Arthur feels the tension drain out of him-- the hurdle's down, they've leveled out again, back on familiar territory. It was worth it, thinks Arthur, worth the whole week of budget hotel rooms and bus-induced nausea, endless luncheons and not enough fundraisers. Worth every day of it.
He turns and Eames is smiling, handing him a red Solo Cup.
"Turns out someone brought champagne after all," says Eames.
"Oh, this is so classy," says Arthur, and can't help laughing as he takes it. "This is perfect."
Whoever brought the champagne didn't stop at one bottle, and there's plenty flowing free to refill his cup, Eames's cup, Cobb's cup, and then Mal tips her head back and laughs as he pours her another, making him feel oddly chivalrous, like he's done something very nice for her. It's not a bad feeling. The room is bustling all of a sudden, and he clinks his cup with Eames's, though the plastic makes no sound and it's slightly unsatisfying.
"To the hacks," says Arthur.
"Clink," says Eames. "Get out the word, tell the journos we're back."
Arthur finds a quieter room on the second floor and calls Ariadne, leaves a voice message when she doesn't pick up. He's a bit tipsy, maybe-- he finds himself drifting off in the chair. He could go back downstairs and just get some air outside, but in a mood like this, he wants to be as high up as possible. Like he's physically on top of the world, looking down on all that he's conquered. He climbs the stairs to the designated rooftop smoking area, chuckling at the good news and a job well done.
The sun is setting when he gets there, a little winded, and it stains the clouds champagne and rose. The evening wind stirs his hair-- he lights up and puts his hands on the railing, coughing a little when it occurs to him that he hasn't really smoked in months. The cigarette tastes foul, probably gone bad in the meanwhile. Too busy even for addiction.
The door behind him creaks open, and Eames steps onto the roof.
"There you are," says Eames. "I was beginning to wonder where you'd disappeared to."
"Thought the air would clear my head," says Arthur, watching Eames stumble a little. "Same as you."
"Good air, yeah," says Eames. "Sobered right up. Do you have a spare?"
Arthur hands him a cigarette. The sun's low enough for the wind to take a tinge of chill, and Eames leans his head into the flickering bloom of Arthur's lighter, the cupped shelter of his hand, touching the tip of his cigarette to the flame. He sucks in, the cherry sparks sizzling alight.
"Oh, fucking--" says Eames, pulling a face and nearly spitting out the smoke, "that's disgusting, that is. Do you honestly smoke this shit?"
"Well, it brings me down a notch," says Arthur. "Sometimes I get a little uppity, after a brilliant, astonishing, flawlessly executed comeback plan like this one. The offensive flavor of stale cigarettes reminds me that I, too, am only human."
Eames flicks his butt into the ossified interior of the trash can, layers of old ash and tobacco like a sedimentary record of the years. Arthur follows suit. They look out over Chicago, its lights beginning to speckle the curtain of dusk, the blur of the lake like someone's thumbprint in the distance.
It's beautiful -- it's home -- but there's always a faint urgency in sunsets, watching a ball of fire tip over the edge of the world. Like it's the last time you'll ever see the sun, and you're only left with that precious sliver of time to do all the things you meant to do. Like making a wish before the shooting star fizzes out.
"I wish," Arthur blurts out, his grip tight around the railing, "I wish you were on my team, Eames," and the next thing he knows, they're kissing.
Beneath the dusty trace of cigarette that Arthur laps away as thoroughly as he can, Eames still tastes of celebratory champagne, provocative as victory. There on the rooftop so close to the sky, Arthur melts open for him-- because there's nothing he needs to explain to Eames, nothing Arthur needs to struggle to phrase. They're two of a kind, when it comes down to it, like a rare breed of tiger wandering in the wild, ploughing through three feet of subartic snow in search for something or someone to understand what they mean. They're operatives, the text of their lives scrolling by too fast for anyone else to read, for anyone else to grasp why they won't stop sprinting on this hamster wheel.
Dimly, Arthur feels Eames's hand at the back of his head, tangling in his hair and tugging him closer. Arthur gasps, nearly breaking the kiss, but Eames is insistent-- only venturing further into him, making him shudder with every hot brush of his tongue. This is Eames, thinks Arthur, feeling like he ought to laugh, or scream, or cry, something bubbling up and building in him, the way speechwriters feel before the words gush onto the page. Eames, brilliant and incisive, still a mystery to him. Arthur knows almost nothing about him yet, what he was doing in Maine, how he boarded this campaign, but all the frivolous details don't seem to matter, lacunae he can piece together in time. The indelible shape of him -- the terrifying acumen of his political mind, the pastrami still warm in the sub sandwich he sent, the press of his body against Arthur's -- that, Arthur knows already. It feels right.
"I lied, before," says Eames when they part for breath. "Now I'm sober."
"Yeah," pants Arthur, hands still fisted in Eames's shirt. "God, Eames."
"I mean, this isn't how I planned it at all," says Eames. "I had a line and everything, I was just saving it for the best possible moment. I worked on that line, I thought it wasn't half bad-- would you like to hear it?"
"You-- you what?" asks Arthur. "You worked on-- well, yes, tell me, please."
"If I were the state legislature," says Eames, "I'd redistrict my bed to include your seat. Do you get it? Your seat, not as in your-- your congressional sector, but as in your arse--"
"No, yes, I'm well aware," says Arthur, and he starts to laugh. "Come on. I'm taking you home with me."
+
Yes, it was good, thanks for asking. It was amazing. Did he enjoy it? I presume he did, judging by the number of condoms we went through. That's about as delicate an answer as I can give.
You know, though, he told me something crazy. He said that-- there was that time we were at this fair in New Jersey, and I was getting ice cream for Cobb, only I took some kid's order by mistake and it was melting all over my hand by the time I gave it back to her. In retrospect, I probably should have bought her another one, but the point is-- the point is, Eames said that the picture they got of me from that whole screw-up, the one that ended up on the web-- he jacked off to it later that night.
Isn't that crazy? I mean, what was there to jack off to? I asked him about it, I was like, Are you serious? I was handing an ice cream cone to a little kid, were you beating yourself to the thought of what a great dad I'd make? And he said something like, I don't know, It wasn't that, it was your wrists, there was this trail of melted ice cream running down your wrists, and you had your sleeves rolled up, whatever. Something tenuous.
But the thing is, I get that. It sounds stupid, but yeah, it's the stupidly little things that stick with you, when you really want someone like that. Even if you don't realize it at the time. Like, I remember the pie-eating contest in Texas, that's the time Eames's picture got plastered all over the blogs. And I remember I was so fucking angry because it was distracting from the message, the real objective of the tour-- but it wasn't just that. They took that picture from behind me, when he was in the middle of talking to me, and I guess I was also pretty pissed that nobody seeing that picture online knew that. I mean-- it was our moment, excuse the platitude, but it was our damn moment.
It's a bunch of things like that. When Mal announced her bid in front of the Governor's Mansion and Eames was caught on camera, and I told Cobb something like, look at him, Mal isn't going to leave him alone. What did I mean by that? It wasn't about Mal, not really. What I meant was, if I were Mal, I probably wouldn't leave him alone. And that time when Fischer's escort scandal broke and Eames allowed himself that tiny window of celebration, hunting for the minibar in my room, and he just looked so happy, I remember that. I wanted him then, I think-- only I never took the time to listen to myself say so.
The kiss, that was-- what that did for me was-- right, say that you're running a presidential campaign. The primary's close, but the GOP isn't putting up much of a fight, which doesn't apply to this year because Fischer's a formidable son of a bitch but let's not talk about Fischer right now. The primary's close, so that's where the real race is. Say that you've been clawing your way up for months and months, and then suddenly, caucus time rolls around, and you win Iowa. That's when you first realize, you're not just running. You could actually win this thing. It's possible, your candidate could actually become President of the United States. It's like you're standing in front of this huge door, and then all of a sudden it gets knocked down-- and there's this incredible road starting right at your feet, leading from the door, stretching as far as you can see. The road was always there, you just never knew it until the door got knocked down. You know? That was the kiss. Like a cannonball driving through the door.
There's this rule that Eames lives by-- politics is an affective game. That's why he's so lenient on process stories, so focused on the life narrative of the candidate. Personally, I prefer a different approach to my campaigns, but I think that there's something for me to take away there. The bottom line is, I took Eames home to my apartment and I let him finger me open, and I lay him down and I fucking rode him until neither of us could see straight-- and his name in my mouth, his mouth on my skin, that was more than anything I can explain with numbers. That was affect.
+
Arthur wakes to the sound of Eames's voice saying, "Your phone's ringing," and he hears the sizzle from the kitchen and the soft pad of Eames's footsteps across the carpet before the buzzing from his bedside table.
"Are you making bacon naked?" asks Arthur, blearily. "Isn't that dangerous?"
"Good morning," says Eames, pressing a kiss to his forehead, ridiculous and sweet. Well; Arthur didn't exactly expect him to bolt, knowing where he works and all, but breakfast in bed is an unexpected luxury. Then again-- it's a funny picture Eames makes sauntering back to the kitchen, buck naked and frying pan held at a wary arm's distance.
"You only stayed so you could make bacon naked," Arthur calls after him. "You're not doing this to feed me, you're just doing it for the laughs."
"Let me get one out of you, then," Eames calls back. Arthur shoots him a good-natured ha and answers his phone.
"Hey, Ariadne," he says, stretching. "Did you get my message from yesterday?"
"Arthur," demands Ariadne, all in a rush, "are you sleeping with Eames?"
Shit-- god, what the fuck--
--he's wide awake, heart pounding, the back of his neck running instantly cold. What? How does she know already, who else knows, is it a problem-- is it a problem? Why is she asking it like that? Why is she scared? Is there something that slipped their minds, some way Fischer's oppo team could spin this-- betrayal to their respective campaigns? But that's a straw man conspicuous enough to shoot down from miles away-- it can't be that, so what is it? What did they miss?
Eames cranes his neck into the bedroom at the sudden spell of silence. "Who is it?" he asks.
"Oh my god, you are," gasps Ariadne. "You are sleeping with him, fuck, Arthur, you're--"
Numb to his fingertips, Arthur snaps his phone closed, squeezing it in his hand like he could ball it up and will it to disappear. Something's wrong. Him and Eames, it's not an issue, it shouldn't be-- they might be minor accidental celebrities, visible and photogenic, but in the end they're private citizens. Their personal lives shouldn't be under scrutiny like this, there's no reason why Ariadne should sound so alarmed by the prospect--
"It's Ariadne," Arthur tells Eames. "I don't know what it is, but there's some sort of problem-- she knows about this, Eames. She knows about us."
"That's all right, though, isn't it?" asks Eames, frowning, stepping into his boxers. "This is-- we're all right?"
"I thought so," says Arthur, "but she seemed-- god, my phone's ringing again, it's her-- what's going on?"
"If she knows this soon," says Eames, "and if she's calling you before work, her sources were probably both direct and credible enough that their information must have raised some red flags with her."
"Eyewitness," says Arthur. "Someone saw us leave together, or arriving here together, whichever. But that doesn't explain why this is fit to print anywhere but in the gossip column--"
His phone chimes; it's a voice message from Ariadne. When Arthur swallows back his trepidation and plays it, she sounds a little less dire-- and a little soothing, a little hushed, like she's trying to help him stomach something terrible and bitter.
"You've got to call me back," she says. "I need to talk to you about this, but there's also something else that you might consider even more important. It's about the campaign, Arthur."
He calls her back. This is how Arthur learns that Dominic Cobb and Mallorie Miles are in love.
"Off the plane now," says Eames, hours later. "What did Cobb say?"
"Well, he-- I'm think I'm still reeling," Arthur says into his phone. "There was a-- we failed to reach an agreement. He said that I ought to know better than to assume that he'd let his personal life interfere with the campaign, and that he would deal with the media fallout if the story went public at any point in time. And that if I were to unwisely insist on his making a choice between the two, then he'd-- then he'd choose Mal over his presidential campaign. He said he'd rather choose her. He'd rather be with her than be President of the United States."
"So," says Eames, "him too, huh."
"Is that what Mal said?" asks Arthur. "God, these candidates."
"I've seen her argue for things before," says Eames, "but never like this. Actually, she's a bit peeved with me at the moment, we've switched over to the motorcade but she told me she needed some time alone, and that maybe I should go find a different car to sit in."
"Yeah," says Arthur, "I'm in a second-floor office right now, Cobb effectively kicked me out of his. There's no convincing them, is there?"
"No chance at all," says Eames. "Best we can do is cover for them until the story breaks, as it inevitably must-- I'd give it a couple weeks at most, vague as the leads are so far."
"What's Yusuf's position?" asks Arthur. "Is he going to hold off on the story?"
"Same as Ariadne," says Eames. "After the eyewitness approaches him about us, he'll also stall that story for as long as possible, though eventually I suppose they'll just go to Nash or someone similarly scummy. About Cobb and Mal, that's a no go-- as soon as enough surfaces on that front to build a story out of, he's going to print it. That's actual news, that can't be helped."
"I suppose not," admits Arthur. "Especially since it's more or less a given that whoever doesn't win the primary will end up on the VP slot of the ticket."
"It's going to test terribly," groans Eames. "No, forget testing, it's complete and utter suicide. A VP in a relationship with the President? Possibly married to the President? A regular royal family, Jesus Christ. It's going to sit uneasy with even our most loyal voter base."
"We're not so averse to royal families in our politics," says Arthur, only half his heart in the joke, "we always leave room for the Kennedys."
"Yes, well, you pull the Kennedys into a fight, you automatically lose," says Eames. "I feel like we're on a plane headed straight for an enormous mountain, and all the while you and I are screaming, There's a mountain, for heaven's sake, we're going to fly into the fucking mountain, and Cobb and Mal won't let us steer, and they keep telling us, We'll face the mountain if we have to, because we're in love with the damn mountain. And I guess the most tragic part of it is, it's our responsibility to peel them out of the hillside wreck and whisk them into the Oval Office somehow. That's our job, isn't it?"
It is their job. Arthur looks out of his window. There's a fine haze settled over the city, a film of gauze rolling into every alleyway, stranding him like an island in a sea of mist. And just last night, he thinks, it was so clear. You could see all the way to Lake Michigan. He clears his drying throat.
"I guess that--" he begins, "so-- I guess that still means-- that we can't--?"
"Arthur," says Eames, his voice weary and broken, all the resolute humor drained out of it. "Please, don't make me say-- that's not fair, you know it isn't. You know I--"
"I know," says Arthur, and closes his eyes. "Yeah. I'm sorry-- I know."
+
Simply put, it's this: one instance of inappropriate fraternization may be imprudent, but two starts to look like a conspiracy. It starts to seem suspiciously premeditated. Some sort of dynastic union, poised for the monarchist takeover of the United States, and that's strange enough to raise anyone's eyebrow.
We're not supposed to be the story. Unless somehow, our stumbling into the spotlight takes some of the unwanted attention away from our candidates-- but this isn't like that, you understand, this would only compound the disaster. It would be a synergistic clusterfuck. Fucking publicity nuclear armageddon. If Eames and I--
--if Eames and I continued to--
--right, so. About Ariadne? About Ariadne. What she offered to do was, she would keep stringing the eyewitness along, as far as she possibly could. Pretend to be interested in the story, like a little chatter about what a couple of operatives are doing with their dicks would be worth anything more than a few off-color jokes. Of course, the whole problem is that it actually is worth more than that, but only because of Cobb and Mal's own story in the works. Without that, the bit about us is completely worthless. But the eyewitness doesn't know that-- the eyewitness doesn't know that there is a Cobb and Mal story.
So the eyewitness keeps shopping their dirt around, vaguely hopeful that someone might be interested, but unaware that any major media outlet would pounce at the chance. They think it's too small for anyone but independent bloggers to touch. Ariadne makes like she wants to buy the story, but at the last minute, she backs out. She turns the story over to Yusuf instead, recommends him very highly. Really he comes with his own recommendation, he's every bit as well-known as Ariadne is, big names, both of them.
Yusuf goes through the same spiel. The eyewitness won't fall for it forever, yeah, that's obvious. Sooner or later they'll get fed up, go crawling to Nash. He's a sorry bastard too, that Nash, he broke the Fischer scandal and still he amounts to nothing more than some third-rate rag-- like all that journalistic cred he wanted slipped right off his greasy back. But what the hell are we talking about Nash for? The point is that Nash will print it -- Nash will print anything -- and when the Cobb and Mal thing hits the stands, it'll be so much the worse for that.
The hope is that by the time our story goes live, we'll have found some sort of angle to diffuse it. Just the one witness, just the one sighting, it'll be doable. Or we could hedge our bets on Fischer stealing our thunder by getting married, having an affair, and fathering a child out of wedlock-- but that's a bit much to expect from him in just a couple of weeks, not to mention a bit much for the fetus as well. See, look, that's a joke, I'm not so-- I'm not as bad off as you think, I'm-- we're okay. We're not-- it's not like one of us is dead, all right? We're--
--listen. Someone had to break it off, and it wasn't going to be Cobb and Mal. What? No, there's nothing noble about it, this isn't sacrifice the way you think it is. Are we-- would we rather not? Yeah. Of course. But what's the alternative? We're operatives-- we're sharks. Every waking minute of the day is dedicated to ensuring the victory of our own campaign, and everything we do, we do because we're terrified of losing. This isn't sacrifice. It's as much for us as it is for the candidates.
The Miles campaign was leaving town, so Eames had to go regroup. Before he left, we talked it over, agreed that we'd have to just-- you know. Stay on separate sides of Missouri. And to keep the bit about us quiet to Cobb and Mal, because what good would it do for them to know, anyway. It doesn't matter. Cobb and Mal's own story won't stay buried forever, and we'll be busy spinning as hard as we can.
What bacon? Oh, you mean-- Eames's, the bacon that he-- I don't know, I don't remember. I had to-- we had to go to work, so we couldn't--
--we couldn't. I wish we could have.
+
"Arthur, call for you on line two," says a staffer, poking her head into Cobb's office. "It's Mayor Saito."
In the middle of gesticulating fervidly at a map in order to demonstrate the paramount importance of wooing the Midwestern States, Arthur freezes. Cobb freezes along with him, unsure of the appropriate response.
"Are you in trouble?" asks Cobb.
"I don't think so," says Arthur. "It's probably the usual-- he did an interview about his re-election campaign that they printed this morning. It contained a fleeting but now requisite reference to scouting me, and maybe he's wondering if I'll actually take the trouble to formulate an official response, this time."
"Can I formulate an official response?" wonders Cobb. "If I categorically excise any possibility that you might go work for Saito either before or after this campaign, then wouldn't he have no choice but to stop asking? I'm only looking out for you, Arthur, you go in and there's no knowing if you might ever come out. I've heard things about the gravitational singularity of the Chicago mayoralty."
"He's a mayor, not a mob boss," says Arthur, and sounds unconvincing even to his own ears.
But when he takes the call, Cobb steepling his fingers in anxiety across the desk from him, it turns out Saito isn't really asking about the scouting offer at all. Arthur fumbles with the pen he's been spinning. It rolls down beneath his chair, and he slams his head on the edge of the desk as he comes up with it.
"Fuck," he exclaims, rubbing frantically at his scalp, "sorry, that wasn't-- no, not you, sir, I dropped something, and--"
"What is it?" hisses Cobb. "What? What did he say?"
"He's endorsing you," Arthur blurts out in excitement, even though he's still on the phone and Saito can hear every giddy word. But there's nothing to bargain for, nothing to hold hostage; Saito knows just how valuable his endorsement is. He has phenomenal clout with the Democratic Party, respected and admired and not just a little bit feared. A rockstar superdelegate with the deportment of an emperor.
Cobb leaps up from his chair, jabs the air with a rapid series of fist pumps, and yells, "Mayor, I'll give you Arthur."
"Is that Senator Cobb?" asks Saito. "Is he saying something?"
"No, he's just... expressing his sincere gratitude for your support," says Arthur. "We really appreciate this, Mayor. If there's ever anything within our power that would benefit Chicago--"
"Aside from you coming to run my re-election campaign, you mean," says Saito. "Don't worry-- you'll be working for me someday, sooner than you think."
"What the hell, stop being so ominous," says Arthur, "you can't tell me who I'm going to be working for! You're a mayor, not a mob boss!"
"I don't need to be a mob boss," says Saito, and chuckles. "I'm the Mayor of Chicago. Functionally, Arthur, I own you."
"At least make an attempt to wine and dine me first," Arthur yells into the phone, as the line clicks dead.
The important thing is that they have Saito's endorsement, a sudden bolt of luck that could change the race, and Arthur's happy enough to sing. He hangs up the receiver and leans back in his chair, mind racing with how best to unleash the news. Should they go public, or should they wait for Saito to make his own statement? Should they unveil it right away, or should they let the rumors ferment for a few thrilling days?
"I didn't mean it, you know," says Cobb. "About giving you to Saito. Please don't leave me."
Arthur swears Cobb to secrecy three times over, and Cobb has the nerve to feign taking offense.
"Of course I wouldn't tell her," he says, straightening his tie. "This is strictly pleasure. It's not as though I want to take her out on a date in the capacity of a man running against her-- how do I look?"
"Electable," says Arthur, and Cobb punctuates it with another vehement fist pump.
If he concentrates hard enough, Arthur can taste the barest hint of something bitter at the back of his throat. It's Friday evening and Mal has a speaking engagement in California. It's nothing at all for Cobb to fly back to his home state to meet with old friends, old supporters-- to meet with Mal. Perhaps especially because they all know the inevitability of the story they're heading for.
The mountain we're steering ourselves into, thinks Arthur, remembering Eames's voice. With Cobb on his way to California and the team members heading home for the weekend, the lights at HQ begin to blink out one by one. Arthur feels the weight of his phone lodged heavy in his pocket, turns it over in his hands, contemplative.
It's a terrible idea. They talk, regularly enough; they even trade the same barbs they used to. But there's something thin and fragile about it, like they've swapped their weapons for spears made of paper and glass. Calling him at a time like this, the building growing dark and his footsteps a lone echo in the corridor, that's just asking for trouble. I'll probably end up telling him about Saito's endorsement, thinks Arthur, and then my social security number, my bank PIN number, my mother's maiden name next.
He switches on the lights in the press briefing room. Once, Eames -- why is it always Eames -- once, he said that if Cobb won the election, then Arthur would end up entering the White House as a policy advisor.
"Though it's a moot point," said Eames, "because we all know he's not going to win."
"In the off chance that Mal wins," said Arthur, "what would you be?"
"It's a bit obvious, when you think about it," said Eames. "I'd be press sec."
Arthur runs his hand across the curve of the microphone stand. It's true, Eames would make a great press secretary, slippery as an eel. He'd lean against his elbow, jocular and rumpled, and never give an inch.
Gripping at the sides of the podium, Arthur clears his throat. The word that leaves him, We--, is timid in the empty room, falling flat to the floor. His eyes flicker to the door, self-conscious. He tries again.
"We've been consistently inspired by the leadership and character of Abraham Lincoln throughout the course of our campaign, and we've decided to take some cues from his trenchant political insight." He shrugs, makes an effort at a crooked grin. "After all, marriage is the original Team of Rivals."
It's nothing he can ever use-- and besides, he thinks, no one said anything about marriage. Don't take this too fast, it's not even your relationship. More brazen now with the sound of his own voice, he steps out from behind the podium and points at a vacant chair.
"Yes, Jake Tapper," he says. "What's that? Is the Cobb campaign not concerned that the close personal bond between Senator Cobb and Governor Miles will lead to undue political influence in the eventuality that either of them gains victory in the general election? My answer to you is that the American people should be appreciative of the great bargain they're getting. You elect one, you get one free-- it's a deal! We're practically giving these candidates away!"
He beats a little rimshot with his hands. It comes out a bit hollow, in the bareness of the room.
The next time Arthur has Eames on the phone for longer than five minutes, it's for the last possible reason he'd like to have Eames on the phone. It's been a couple days and the Saito endorsement is out of the bag, promising but no deal-breaker. Arthur should be finalizing the last-minute plans for a scheduled fundraiser, but instead he's pacing the floor of his office, too restless to be the wildcat in its cage, his steps quick and furiously clipped.
"Yusuf had family business to attend to, so he couldn't be there," says Eames. "But Ariadne went, didn't she? What did she say about it?"
"That it went down like a spoonful of fucking sugar," says Arthur. "They ate it right up."
Peter Browning is in the final lame-duck stretch of his presidency. For the annual WHCA dinner, however, it appears that he has finally managed what he hasn't been able to accomplish for the past eight years; to make himself likable. A recording of his farewell video is already available online, and Arthur is in despair.
For Browning, it's a fine time to win hearts. He's stepping out of office in just a couple of months. Arthur doesn't mind that so much, only-- it's the surprise cameo appearance in Browning's farewell video that has him glued to his phone in dread.
Onscreen, Browning plods into the Oval Office, a stack of construction paper in his hand. He fiddles with a pair of scissors, a jar of glitter, a stapler, and then admires the flimsy paper crown he's made. Then the camera pulls back and -- with an audible murmur from the audience that explodes into laughter -- Robert Fischer is there, bending his head to receive the crown.
"It's brash as fucking balls," says Arthur. "I can't believe Fischer agreed to do this-- how the hell did he know it would work? It's such a fine line with jokes like this, either you win them over or you get stoned to death, what a lucky asshole."
"Lampshades the whole successor argument, doesn't it?" asks Eames. "He's given up the moderate reformer angle and positioned himself solidly within party lines. If he's going for that, then he'll be announcing a Browning fundraiser before the day is out."
"Oh, yeah," says Arthur, "he's got that one in the bag. Jesus, isn't there some way we can turn this on him? His father, the businessman-- the ex-President, practically an uncle to Fischer-- it's almost dynastic, that's what it is."
"But we can't take the royal family angle for obvious reasons," says Eames. "Didn't you run a poll like this, way back when? Something about how Fischer would test if he aligned himself with the pro-business, pro-energy crowd?"
"Funny story, about that poll," says Arthur. "Obviously a lot of things have changed since then, but still-- he actually tested a lot better with the more conservative platform. Seemed like most left-of-center voters would fail to be convinced by his moderate stance, but any hard-right demographic like business would be quick to take him in as one of their own, when before they scorned him as some sort of thin-skinned traitor. So it actually gave him a leg up on us in the general. 55-43, for fuck's sake, what are those numbers?"
"Like you said, that was a long time ago," says Eames. "And numbers do lie. Politics--"
"--is an affective game, yes, I know," groans Arthur. "God, I miss when Mal used to be the only enemy I'd need to worry about. When Fischer didn't rock the goddamn boat like this."
"Arthur," says Eames, his voice suddenly so quiet that it almost seems loud, soft as the faint buzz of static behind him.
"I'm sorry, I know," says Arthur, "I haven't forgotten the hard-earned lessons from the cross-country tour, it's just that-- god, this game keeps changing right underneath my feet, I don't know how anyone's supposed to keep their balance like this. We're fucking great at what we do, Eames, we really are, and still we always feel like we're floundering. Triumph only comes in tiny pinprick starts."
"Do you know," says Eames, "what Cobb looks like on paper?"
"What? Yeah," says Arthur. "Like a stodge, through and through. Even his passionate love for baseball has something pedantic about it. Everything out of his mouth, you'd expect it to be weighed down with a whole string of ten-cent words."
"Right, but he's really rather down-to-earth in person," says Eames. "Very relatable."
"Thank you," says Arthur, "but I'm not sure what this--"
"Now Mal, on paper she reads like a human softball," says Eames. "People can't stop thinking of her as the girl from Kansas-- the slightest misstep and she becomes a caricature. But she's nothing like that, you know she's not. If anything she's the analytical one, a politician of the brain, to Cobb's wonk of the heart."
"Wonk of the heart," repeats Arthur. "He'll like that."
"But Mal and I, we can't play that up," says Eames. "People think they want an intelligent President, sure, but eight times out of ten the line between pretension and intelligence is too thin to mind. Cobb's better at fundraisers, but Mal's better at debates. Cobb's better at working a room, but Mal's better at holding it sway. Cobb's a folksy city boy, Mal's a cosmopolitan small-town girl."
"Both of them are excellent whistlers," says Arthur.
"Neither of them like vegetables, much," says Eames. "And they're in love with each other. Arthur-- that's affect. That's all we've got, because the numbers lie. We're not our numbers, we're not our supporters, we're not what we run on. We try so hard to polarize our campaigns, in hopes that we'll tap into some vein of sweet water we never knew was there, some bloc that will decide to love us and follow us wherever we go. But really, we're all of us a bigger tangle than that. Anything as clean-cut as numbers can't keep you on your feet, can it?"
"I'm not an affect operative," says Arthur, miserable. "I don't know how to read affect like you do." What he doesn't say is, And the only time I ever thought I knew what affect meant-- the one moment when I thought I could grasp it, what it meant to resonate with someone beyond every rational boundary-- like a bridge shivering and falling to pieces in the right wind, like a glass blown to shards at the right piercing note--
"You're not as bad at it as you think you are," says Eames. "None of us are as anything as we think we are-- we're not the names we've given for ourselves. Mal isn't the smart one, or the sharp one, or the quiet one. And she's not your enemy."
Arthur leans his head against the floor-to-ceiling window, feeling like he's on the bare edge of his foothold. Like there's nothing between him and the concrete but seven stories of freefall. The sound of his coffee mug against the glass is cold and delicate.
"Arthur," says Eames, "talk to her."
+
A scant three hours before the Saito fundraiser, Arthur skids into his seat across the table from Mal. The coffeeshop is nearly empty, a broken-down hovel run by an elderly retired couple, sadly devoid of any counterculture appeal due to the abysmal quality of its coffee. From what Arthur can tell, the few customers freckling the room are just members of Mal's security detail, itching in their unfamiliar casual clothes. She's in Chicago for an event, traveling light with minimal entourage.
"So," says Mal, "I suppose you're here to warn me off your candidate."
Her voice is fine and unyielding, steel thread weaving in and out of his skin. He winces, half from the bluntness of her approach, half from the taste of the coffee.
"I wouldn't presume to hold that much influence," says Arthur. "As precariously close to babysitting as my job seems at times, in the end candidates do have the liberty of making their own decisions. Operatives can hardly resort to physical violence toward a potential Commander in Chief."
"Oh?" asks Mal, tucking a curl of hair behind her ear. She looks surprised. "You're not going to reprimand me for sabotaging your campaign?"
"If anything, both of you are sabotaging your own campaigns," says Arthur. "The worst I could threaten to do is quit, and there's no chance in hell that either Eames or I would seriously consider anything of the sort. We're a bit invested in the two of you. For better or for worse."
"That's what you think, then?" asks Mal. "That you're stuck with us?"
"Not because of any mistake," says Arthur. "I'm running Cobb's campaign because I think he ought to be President-- and Eames is running your campaign because he thinks the same about you. Maybe what I should have said is, for better or for worse, we believe in the two of you."
It sounds a bit more earnest than he means it to. Mal peers at him over the rim of her mug, and the back of Arthur's neck prickles with something like shame.
"And now, if you'll excuse me," he mumbles, "they'll be collecting my heartless PR hack membership card any moment now. We'll just keep an eye on that door, right? That'll work."
"You know," says Mal, "that's why Dom and I like the two of you. We want that kind of faith."
"I don't know what you mean," says Arthur. "You shouldn't be looking for naivete in your operatives, Governor. The handbook says you have to starve it out of them."
"It's not a mistake that we're in this race, either," says Mal. "He's running because he thinks he ought to be President, and I'm running because I think the same about myself. Between you and me, he's wrong, but I expect you'd respectfully disagree."
"I could-- I could also disagree disrespectfully, if you prefer that," says Arthur.
"We didn't just stumble onto this campaign trail," says Mal. "First and foremost, we're candidates, Arthur. We're well aware. And as much as Dom and I want to be with each other, if we thought our careers would suffer for it, we'd agree that we probably can't give our relationship the chance that it deserves."
"You can't be serious," exclaims Arthur. "Of course your careers would suffer for it! Governor, we're heading into a shitstorm. Even if you two somehow manage to survive the primaries-- a husband-and-wife ticket against Robert Fischer? A royal family in the White House? God, it's never going to fly in a million years. You can't have everything, you can't be--"
"Can't I?" asks Mal. "Would you stop me from fighting for what I want?"
She rests her cup on the tabletop, the steam curling between them like incense, like a soothsayer's chant, like something on the horizon too large to make out at once. She's beautiful and ruthless, in that moment, all the quixotic stars in her eyes turned to talons from closer up, and Arthur can't give her an answer.
"How could anyone stop me," she says, "when all this nation ever wanted was that right to fight, for its people to be able to grasp for the things they dreamed of? How can I give up what I want and trade it in for a political position, when the only reason I want that position at all -- when the only reason anyone should want it -- is so that someday, everyone can know the luxury of being allowed to want?"
"It's greedy," stammers Arthur. "You shouldn't--"
"But don't you see, I should," says Mal. "I have to, until that last moment when everyone can. If they want to question my objectivity, that somehow I'll be soft on Dom because of what we are-- then let them, that's easy, that's something I can show them and prove them wrong. And if they won't elect me because I'm weak on EP, or because I don't yet have the experience on me-- then I'd bolster myself as best as I could, but I'd accept it. I'd understand."
She leans toward him, closing the space between them. Her talons flashing fire.
"Only, if they're going to challenge my right to fight to have it all," she says, "if it's some nebulous and untenable objection against my god-given privilege to love whoever the hell I please, to run for whichever office I'm qualified for, then I don't care how many campaigns it takes or how many years it'll cost me. If that's what they want to bring against me, then I'll fucking war with them, tooth and nail until death or victory stops me. Being President isn't my career-- that's my career. Do you believe me, Arthur? Do you believe I'd do that?"
"Yes, Governor," says Arthur, helpless, a little bit enchanted. "I think-- I think that you would. I believe you."
Her hand is warm from the heat of the coffee, from the blood churning inside her. She brushes a thumb across his cheekbone, a small, soothing touch.
"Because we're all allowed to be greedy," says Mal. "Even you."
The banquet hall they've rented is packed sardine-tight, benefactors flying in from out of state just for a glimpse at the mythical Mayor Saito from across the room. Superdelegate, thinks Arthur. He must be the only one there with the express intent of avoiding Saito, in no mood to dodge jokes about joining the re-election campaign, unwilling to be pinned and questioned in a crowd with no easy escape route. Saito is a helpful ally, but with a bit too much of a wicked streak to keep very close.
All evening long Arthur has been floundering through the crowd, wading as far away as he can whenever a swell of conversation drifts too near for comfort. A bizarre and fugitive game of Marco Polo. There's an excited flurry of voices now cresting somewhere to the right of him, Saito probably holding court in the eye of the storm. The schmoozing is in full swing and Cobb won't need him any longer-- Arthur turns toward the exit, inching to fresh air step by laborious step.
He has only the distant square landmark of an open doorway to guide him, winking in and out of sight with the shuffle of the mob. A novice at celestial navigation, preoccupied with the negotiation of traffic, Arthur doesn't realize that it isn't a doorway until he's already stumbling through the gauzy curtains. He finds himself on an empty balcony instead, the sudden rush of night air like a splash of water on his skin. It's an unexpected relief. Freed from smothering, blissfully alone, he sets his champagne flute on the railing and breathes deep.
The commotion is muffled behind him, faraway and cryptic as interstellar noise. The balcony looks out over a bite-sized lawn, tucked in away from the street entrance, far from prying eyes. It seems well-kept and dainty, but barely lit. Arthur keeps one ear on the muted murmur from inside, just in case someone might disturb his slice of serenity. His mind is still simmering with the sound of Mal's voice, her words bubbling to the surface, breaking in fragrant, ardent whiffs of hope. His heart feels a little lighter. Like there's the barest hint of a breeze stirring his pinion feathers, like he might fly if only he knew the right way to hold his wings. If only, he thinks, I knew how to catch the wind--
Right then, like the undead breaking free of the grave, a hand shoots up from below the balcony, gripping the railing, knuckles white with strain. Arthur starts back in shock and barely manages to stop himself from yelling; the first thing that flashes through his head is assassination attempt, but before he can shout for security or do something significantly less advisable like crack his champagne flute over the intruder's head, an elbow hooks against the railing for balance, and the top of a head pokes over into sight.
"Eames," chokes Arthur, "what the hell are you doing here?"
It takes Eames a moment to swing himself onto the balcony, and another moment to catch his breath, slumped against the railing with his hands on his knees. In his tux he looks like a spy in training, an apprentice decked out in the well-cut mantle of his mentor. He looks up, eyes bright with exhaustion and an incurable, undeniable fondness. There's a faint sheen of sweat at his temples, and caught with the want to dab it away, Arthur curls his hands into fists inside his pockets.
"O Arthur, Arthur," says Eames, throwing out his arm in a dramatically arrested pose, "wherefore art thou a Cobb supporter? That which we call a liberal by any other name would still be in favor of repealing Browning-era tax cuts--"
He pauses to suck in another thirsty breath, and Arthur lifts his champagne flute to his face, biting down on the glass to keep his lips from quirking.
"Is this okay?" asks Arthur. "Shouldn't I be out on the lawn for this?"
"No," says Eames, and catches his sleeve. "Stay."
It's hardly necessary-- Arthur isn't really going anywhere. But god, how perfect that feels, Eames's hand circling his wrist and holding him in place. Like a band of heat, warming him through. Arthur falters, losing the right timing to shake him off like a joke. Eames doesn't say anything else, and the moment stretches into something quiet, something significant, the whole world tapering down into the two of them out on the balcony, in the gentle haze of filtered light seeping through the curtains.
"You can't look at me like that," says Eames, faintly, sounding a little strangled, "and not expect me to do something about it."
"I'm sorry," says Arthur, "but I think my heart is breaking," and what he means is, not like someone's thrown it to the ground, not like it's lying there in shards-- no, it's like-- it feels like it's pounding too fast, swelling, full and aching, too big for the confines of his ribcage, straining and translucent like a balloon blown too large, like it wants to reach straight out of his chest and fold itself into the palm of Eames's hand. Like that's the only place it'll ever fit.
Eames opens his mouth to answer, even that beat of silence something tender, but then-- there's a sudden commotion from inside the banquet hall, voices surging to a fever pitch, a hurricane of chaos that manages the difficult feat of putting Saito's entrance to shame. There isn't any screaming, no one yelling 911, so it doesn't seem to be an emergency-- but Arthur turns toward the room, unsure.
"Do we need to be in there?" he asks. "What's going on?"
"It's Mal," says Eames. "Mal is here."
"What?" asks Arthur, craning his neck to peer between the curtains, reluctant to break the contact of Eames's hand around his wrist. "But what's she doing here? Are you here with her? Why are either of you-- doesn't she have some sort of event tonight, that's what she told me when I--"
"She's here," says Eames, "because the man she loves and respects is holding the most important fundraiser of his campaign. She came for him."
"Oh," says Arthur, as it dawns on him. "This is the event. This is what she was in town for."
"And as for me-- well," says Eames, "I'm here for someone else."
There's a slow breath of air that stirs the curtains, a graceful billow like a waterfall made of light. The glow of the chandelier from inside is soft on Eames's face, and the hubbub of the crowd sounds only like a whisper, the rustle of a brook, curling around them, filling the air almost thick enough to touch.
Here's the wind I've been waiting for, thinks Arthur, and I'm greedy enough to want to catch it, as he turns his hand in Eames's grip, bringing his palm against his, touching his fingers to the racing pulse beneath the cuff of Eames's shirt.
+
Reader, I married him.
Or if you want to pick at semantics, fine, go ahead and do that-- I'm telling you, it all amounts to the same thing. We snuck out of the fundraiser, past the endless flash photography, safely clear of the crossfire but still half blind by the time we tumbled out onto the street. We ran past reporters clutching their phones, driven to their wits' end, too distraught to notice us. Shouting at their editors, That's what I said, Mallorie Miles is here. We ran for blocks and it felt reckless, like a secret. Like breaking the oldest rule in the book.
On the L, we called Ariadne to release the moratorium on our story. For a while she didn't say anything and I thought that maybe I wasn't making any sense, I was talking too fast or laughing too much, dizzy, reeling, on fire. But when she did speak, you know what she told me-- you know what she said? I'm not going to print it because it isn't fucking news, just like that. And then, The problems of two little campaign operatives don't amount to a hill of beans, in her worst Humphrey Bogart.
Some journalist, isn't she? She's great. I heard from her that Yusuf said he'd do the same, and they were both sorry they wouldn't be able to stop Nash from breaking the story. But that's okay, and I told her that. It's going to be dirty, but isn't it always? Isn't politics a full-contact sport, bare-knuckle brawling in the mud, more affect than numbers? Isn't that how it's always been?
See. We've been making mountains out of molehills and then complaining about the climb. The best packaging sets off what's inside, it doesn't obscure it and lie about it. Fischer's no moderate, Cobb and Mal aren't enemies, and when you're in love, you're in love to all the world. I'm not a dissembler; I'm a fucking spin doctor. I'll use all the insidious weapons in my arsenal to persuade people that what we want is what they want, but it's not my job to lie about what we want, what Cobb wants or what he believes in-- or what I want. What I believe in.
Jesus, maybe it's got me soft. But soft comes with Eames pressing his mouth to my throat, hitching my legs up over his shoulder, moving in me slowly with his breath held quiet in his lungs like he can't believe what he's got underneath him. The bright, scalding sound of my name on his tongue.
Yeah. There are worse things to be than soft.
+
Here is the coda to the story:
Arthur knows Eames slid out of bed at half past two, remembers the touch of Eames's lips briefly burning through his sleep. Is it time already, he muttered, and Eames said, I'll see you later, Ferret, kissing the shell of his ear.
So in the morning he already knows he'll be the only one in the room, and in his nocturnal petulance he blamed Topeka for being so far away, but he gets up with the sun beginning to glimmer through his curtains and it's really not that bad after all. Eames's side of the bed is still disheveled, somehow still warm, heavy with his scent. Arthur buries his nose into it, and smiles.
The night before, Eames's arm thrown slack over the small of his back, Arthur lay in bed and scribbled his way through a notepad. The torn-up pages are crumpled in the wastebasket near the door, some stray balls of paper lying scattered around it from each time he didn't quite make the shot. But eventually, when he managed to end up with something he liked enough, he set the pad on top of his dresser with some measure of pride before he switched the lamp off and snuck a bit closer toward Eames.
What he wrote there was, Cobb/Miles 2018: Dare to Dream-- only when he rolls over and reaches for it, Eames has crossed out the names and replaced it with Miles/Cobb instead, adding a scrawled I like it to the margin. God, this gorgeous upstart nobody from Maine. Arthur lets the page drop to shade his eyes, laughing, completely done for.
Here I am, six in the morning, he thinks, with a slogan in my hand and my fucking wartime paramour speeding to his fortress of solitude two states away. Working for the wrong damn campaign, but what can you do?
Though the streets are quiet still, hours until the city shakes itself to life, Arthur thinks he can almost hear the wolves at his door. Milling around at the scent of blood, hungry to sink their teeth in him. That's no problem. It's his job to fight, tooth and nail. It's his job to win.
He takes the day's first cup of coffee.
"It feels like New Year's Eve," Eames says to no one in particular. "Doesn't it? Like we're all sitting here waiting for the ball to drop. Shouldn't we have champagne for this?"
"Real Americans drink beer," calls Arthur. "All other drinks test terribly, Monsieur le Conseiller."
Eames catches the can Arthur tosses him. For all of the candidate's personal down-home appeal, Cobb's campaign HQ has always been a sparse affair, a fortress of metal and glass. Accessories for interior decoration are strictly limited to whiteboards and water coolers. It must be Arthur's doing; environmental assimilation, he thinks, houses and pets grow to take after their owners, but he doesn't hate the way that the Miles campaign has turned his temple of electoral victory into a living room. He rather likes it.
They're gathered in the main workspace with the cubicles pushed to the walls, ESPN droning on in the background because they're too antsy for any other channel. It's a week after the end of the American Unity Tour, and an independent polling organization has set up camp upstairs, conducting a nationwide survey on whether the Tour has achieved its purpose. The Miles campaign drove over from Kansas with bright upholstered couches and enough pita chips to fill an inflatable pool.
Cobb and Mal are discussing something over the spinach dip, voices hushed, but it doesn't sound dire. Eames has commandeered the last remaining couch chair. It seems a bit stuffy to drag over a folding chair to sit on, so Arthur balances himself on the arm of Eames's couch, legs dangling off the edge.
"You should send someone up to check," says Eames. "I can't do it, if I ask anyone to do anything, I just sound like I'm ordering around a butler."
Arthur does, but the staffer doesn't return. Gradually the room notices, and the general conversation drops in pitch, in careful anticipation for some sort of news to arrive.
"I feel like Noah in the ark," says Arthur. "If the dove fails to come back, it's probably found land somewhere--"
"Guys," says the staffer from the top of the staircase, "we're up."
The living room bursts into cheers. Cobb and Mal beam at each other, shake hands, then decide to go in for a full triumphal embrace. Arthur feels the tension drain out of him-- the hurdle's down, they've leveled out again, back on familiar territory. It was worth it, thinks Arthur, worth the whole week of budget hotel rooms and bus-induced nausea, endless luncheons and not enough fundraisers. Worth every day of it.
He turns and Eames is smiling, handing him a red Solo Cup.
"Turns out someone brought champagne after all," says Eames.
"Oh, this is so classy," says Arthur, and can't help laughing as he takes it. "This is perfect."
Whoever brought the champagne didn't stop at one bottle, and there's plenty flowing free to refill his cup, Eames's cup, Cobb's cup, and then Mal tips her head back and laughs as he pours her another, making him feel oddly chivalrous, like he's done something very nice for her. It's not a bad feeling. The room is bustling all of a sudden, and he clinks his cup with Eames's, though the plastic makes no sound and it's slightly unsatisfying.
"To the hacks," says Arthur.
"Clink," says Eames. "Get out the word, tell the journos we're back."
Arthur finds a quieter room on the second floor and calls Ariadne, leaves a voice message when she doesn't pick up. He's a bit tipsy, maybe-- he finds himself drifting off in the chair. He could go back downstairs and just get some air outside, but in a mood like this, he wants to be as high up as possible. Like he's physically on top of the world, looking down on all that he's conquered. He climbs the stairs to the designated rooftop smoking area, chuckling at the good news and a job well done.
The sun is setting when he gets there, a little winded, and it stains the clouds champagne and rose. The evening wind stirs his hair-- he lights up and puts his hands on the railing, coughing a little when it occurs to him that he hasn't really smoked in months. The cigarette tastes foul, probably gone bad in the meanwhile. Too busy even for addiction.
The door behind him creaks open, and Eames steps onto the roof.
"There you are," says Eames. "I was beginning to wonder where you'd disappeared to."
"Thought the air would clear my head," says Arthur, watching Eames stumble a little. "Same as you."
"Good air, yeah," says Eames. "Sobered right up. Do you have a spare?"
Arthur hands him a cigarette. The sun's low enough for the wind to take a tinge of chill, and Eames leans his head into the flickering bloom of Arthur's lighter, the cupped shelter of his hand, touching the tip of his cigarette to the flame. He sucks in, the cherry sparks sizzling alight.
"Oh, fucking--" says Eames, pulling a face and nearly spitting out the smoke, "that's disgusting, that is. Do you honestly smoke this shit?"
"Well, it brings me down a notch," says Arthur. "Sometimes I get a little uppity, after a brilliant, astonishing, flawlessly executed comeback plan like this one. The offensive flavor of stale cigarettes reminds me that I, too, am only human."
Eames flicks his butt into the ossified interior of the trash can, layers of old ash and tobacco like a sedimentary record of the years. Arthur follows suit. They look out over Chicago, its lights beginning to speckle the curtain of dusk, the blur of the lake like someone's thumbprint in the distance.
It's beautiful -- it's home -- but there's always a faint urgency in sunsets, watching a ball of fire tip over the edge of the world. Like it's the last time you'll ever see the sun, and you're only left with that precious sliver of time to do all the things you meant to do. Like making a wish before the shooting star fizzes out.
"I wish," Arthur blurts out, his grip tight around the railing, "I wish you were on my team, Eames," and the next thing he knows, they're kissing.
Beneath the dusty trace of cigarette that Arthur laps away as thoroughly as he can, Eames still tastes of celebratory champagne, provocative as victory. There on the rooftop so close to the sky, Arthur melts open for him-- because there's nothing he needs to explain to Eames, nothing Arthur needs to struggle to phrase. They're two of a kind, when it comes down to it, like a rare breed of tiger wandering in the wild, ploughing through three feet of subartic snow in search for something or someone to understand what they mean. They're operatives, the text of their lives scrolling by too fast for anyone else to read, for anyone else to grasp why they won't stop sprinting on this hamster wheel.
Dimly, Arthur feels Eames's hand at the back of his head, tangling in his hair and tugging him closer. Arthur gasps, nearly breaking the kiss, but Eames is insistent-- only venturing further into him, making him shudder with every hot brush of his tongue. This is Eames, thinks Arthur, feeling like he ought to laugh, or scream, or cry, something bubbling up and building in him, the way speechwriters feel before the words gush onto the page. Eames, brilliant and incisive, still a mystery to him. Arthur knows almost nothing about him yet, what he was doing in Maine, how he boarded this campaign, but all the frivolous details don't seem to matter, lacunae he can piece together in time. The indelible shape of him -- the terrifying acumen of his political mind, the pastrami still warm in the sub sandwich he sent, the press of his body against Arthur's -- that, Arthur knows already. It feels right.
"I lied, before," says Eames when they part for breath. "Now I'm sober."
"Yeah," pants Arthur, hands still fisted in Eames's shirt. "God, Eames."
"I mean, this isn't how I planned it at all," says Eames. "I had a line and everything, I was just saving it for the best possible moment. I worked on that line, I thought it wasn't half bad-- would you like to hear it?"
"You-- you what?" asks Arthur. "You worked on-- well, yes, tell me, please."
"If I were the state legislature," says Eames, "I'd redistrict my bed to include your seat. Do you get it? Your seat, not as in your-- your congressional sector, but as in your arse--"
"No, yes, I'm well aware," says Arthur, and he starts to laugh. "Come on. I'm taking you home with me."
+
Yes, it was good, thanks for asking. It was amazing. Did he enjoy it? I presume he did, judging by the number of condoms we went through. That's about as delicate an answer as I can give.
You know, though, he told me something crazy. He said that-- there was that time we were at this fair in New Jersey, and I was getting ice cream for Cobb, only I took some kid's order by mistake and it was melting all over my hand by the time I gave it back to her. In retrospect, I probably should have bought her another one, but the point is-- the point is, Eames said that the picture they got of me from that whole screw-up, the one that ended up on the web-- he jacked off to it later that night.
Isn't that crazy? I mean, what was there to jack off to? I asked him about it, I was like, Are you serious? I was handing an ice cream cone to a little kid, were you beating yourself to the thought of what a great dad I'd make? And he said something like, I don't know, It wasn't that, it was your wrists, there was this trail of melted ice cream running down your wrists, and you had your sleeves rolled up, whatever. Something tenuous.
But the thing is, I get that. It sounds stupid, but yeah, it's the stupidly little things that stick with you, when you really want someone like that. Even if you don't realize it at the time. Like, I remember the pie-eating contest in Texas, that's the time Eames's picture got plastered all over the blogs. And I remember I was so fucking angry because it was distracting from the message, the real objective of the tour-- but it wasn't just that. They took that picture from behind me, when he was in the middle of talking to me, and I guess I was also pretty pissed that nobody seeing that picture online knew that. I mean-- it was our moment, excuse the platitude, but it was our damn moment.
It's a bunch of things like that. When Mal announced her bid in front of the Governor's Mansion and Eames was caught on camera, and I told Cobb something like, look at him, Mal isn't going to leave him alone. What did I mean by that? It wasn't about Mal, not really. What I meant was, if I were Mal, I probably wouldn't leave him alone. And that time when Fischer's escort scandal broke and Eames allowed himself that tiny window of celebration, hunting for the minibar in my room, and he just looked so happy, I remember that. I wanted him then, I think-- only I never took the time to listen to myself say so.
The kiss, that was-- what that did for me was-- right, say that you're running a presidential campaign. The primary's close, but the GOP isn't putting up much of a fight, which doesn't apply to this year because Fischer's a formidable son of a bitch but let's not talk about Fischer right now. The primary's close, so that's where the real race is. Say that you've been clawing your way up for months and months, and then suddenly, caucus time rolls around, and you win Iowa. That's when you first realize, you're not just running. You could actually win this thing. It's possible, your candidate could actually become President of the United States. It's like you're standing in front of this huge door, and then all of a sudden it gets knocked down-- and there's this incredible road starting right at your feet, leading from the door, stretching as far as you can see. The road was always there, you just never knew it until the door got knocked down. You know? That was the kiss. Like a cannonball driving through the door.
There's this rule that Eames lives by-- politics is an affective game. That's why he's so lenient on process stories, so focused on the life narrative of the candidate. Personally, I prefer a different approach to my campaigns, but I think that there's something for me to take away there. The bottom line is, I took Eames home to my apartment and I let him finger me open, and I lay him down and I fucking rode him until neither of us could see straight-- and his name in my mouth, his mouth on my skin, that was more than anything I can explain with numbers. That was affect.
+
Arthur wakes to the sound of Eames's voice saying, "Your phone's ringing," and he hears the sizzle from the kitchen and the soft pad of Eames's footsteps across the carpet before the buzzing from his bedside table.
"Are you making bacon naked?" asks Arthur, blearily. "Isn't that dangerous?"
"Good morning," says Eames, pressing a kiss to his forehead, ridiculous and sweet. Well; Arthur didn't exactly expect him to bolt, knowing where he works and all, but breakfast in bed is an unexpected luxury. Then again-- it's a funny picture Eames makes sauntering back to the kitchen, buck naked and frying pan held at a wary arm's distance.
"You only stayed so you could make bacon naked," Arthur calls after him. "You're not doing this to feed me, you're just doing it for the laughs."
"Let me get one out of you, then," Eames calls back. Arthur shoots him a good-natured ha and answers his phone.
"Hey, Ariadne," he says, stretching. "Did you get my message from yesterday?"
"Arthur," demands Ariadne, all in a rush, "are you sleeping with Eames?"
Shit-- god, what the fuck--
--he's wide awake, heart pounding, the back of his neck running instantly cold. What? How does she know already, who else knows, is it a problem-- is it a problem? Why is she asking it like that? Why is she scared? Is there something that slipped their minds, some way Fischer's oppo team could spin this-- betrayal to their respective campaigns? But that's a straw man conspicuous enough to shoot down from miles away-- it can't be that, so what is it? What did they miss?
Eames cranes his neck into the bedroom at the sudden spell of silence. "Who is it?" he asks.
"Oh my god, you are," gasps Ariadne. "You are sleeping with him, fuck, Arthur, you're--"
Numb to his fingertips, Arthur snaps his phone closed, squeezing it in his hand like he could ball it up and will it to disappear. Something's wrong. Him and Eames, it's not an issue, it shouldn't be-- they might be minor accidental celebrities, visible and photogenic, but in the end they're private citizens. Their personal lives shouldn't be under scrutiny like this, there's no reason why Ariadne should sound so alarmed by the prospect--
"It's Ariadne," Arthur tells Eames. "I don't know what it is, but there's some sort of problem-- she knows about this, Eames. She knows about us."
"That's all right, though, isn't it?" asks Eames, frowning, stepping into his boxers. "This is-- we're all right?"
"I thought so," says Arthur, "but she seemed-- god, my phone's ringing again, it's her-- what's going on?"
"If she knows this soon," says Eames, "and if she's calling you before work, her sources were probably both direct and credible enough that their information must have raised some red flags with her."
"Eyewitness," says Arthur. "Someone saw us leave together, or arriving here together, whichever. But that doesn't explain why this is fit to print anywhere but in the gossip column--"
His phone chimes; it's a voice message from Ariadne. When Arthur swallows back his trepidation and plays it, she sounds a little less dire-- and a little soothing, a little hushed, like she's trying to help him stomach something terrible and bitter.
"You've got to call me back," she says. "I need to talk to you about this, but there's also something else that you might consider even more important. It's about the campaign, Arthur."
He calls her back. This is how Arthur learns that Dominic Cobb and Mallorie Miles are in love.
"Off the plane now," says Eames, hours later. "What did Cobb say?"
"Well, he-- I'm think I'm still reeling," Arthur says into his phone. "There was a-- we failed to reach an agreement. He said that I ought to know better than to assume that he'd let his personal life interfere with the campaign, and that he would deal with the media fallout if the story went public at any point in time. And that if I were to unwisely insist on his making a choice between the two, then he'd-- then he'd choose Mal over his presidential campaign. He said he'd rather choose her. He'd rather be with her than be President of the United States."
"So," says Eames, "him too, huh."
"Is that what Mal said?" asks Arthur. "God, these candidates."
"I've seen her argue for things before," says Eames, "but never like this. Actually, she's a bit peeved with me at the moment, we've switched over to the motorcade but she told me she needed some time alone, and that maybe I should go find a different car to sit in."
"Yeah," says Arthur, "I'm in a second-floor office right now, Cobb effectively kicked me out of his. There's no convincing them, is there?"
"No chance at all," says Eames. "Best we can do is cover for them until the story breaks, as it inevitably must-- I'd give it a couple weeks at most, vague as the leads are so far."
"What's Yusuf's position?" asks Arthur. "Is he going to hold off on the story?"
"Same as Ariadne," says Eames. "After the eyewitness approaches him about us, he'll also stall that story for as long as possible, though eventually I suppose they'll just go to Nash or someone similarly scummy. About Cobb and Mal, that's a no go-- as soon as enough surfaces on that front to build a story out of, he's going to print it. That's actual news, that can't be helped."
"I suppose not," admits Arthur. "Especially since it's more or less a given that whoever doesn't win the primary will end up on the VP slot of the ticket."
"It's going to test terribly," groans Eames. "No, forget testing, it's complete and utter suicide. A VP in a relationship with the President? Possibly married to the President? A regular royal family, Jesus Christ. It's going to sit uneasy with even our most loyal voter base."
"We're not so averse to royal families in our politics," says Arthur, only half his heart in the joke, "we always leave room for the Kennedys."
"Yes, well, you pull the Kennedys into a fight, you automatically lose," says Eames. "I feel like we're on a plane headed straight for an enormous mountain, and all the while you and I are screaming, There's a mountain, for heaven's sake, we're going to fly into the fucking mountain, and Cobb and Mal won't let us steer, and they keep telling us, We'll face the mountain if we have to, because we're in love with the damn mountain. And I guess the most tragic part of it is, it's our responsibility to peel them out of the hillside wreck and whisk them into the Oval Office somehow. That's our job, isn't it?"
It is their job. Arthur looks out of his window. There's a fine haze settled over the city, a film of gauze rolling into every alleyway, stranding him like an island in a sea of mist. And just last night, he thinks, it was so clear. You could see all the way to Lake Michigan. He clears his drying throat.
"I guess that--" he begins, "so-- I guess that still means-- that we can't--?"
"Arthur," says Eames, his voice weary and broken, all the resolute humor drained out of it. "Please, don't make me say-- that's not fair, you know it isn't. You know I--"
"I know," says Arthur, and closes his eyes. "Yeah. I'm sorry-- I know."
+
Simply put, it's this: one instance of inappropriate fraternization may be imprudent, but two starts to look like a conspiracy. It starts to seem suspiciously premeditated. Some sort of dynastic union, poised for the monarchist takeover of the United States, and that's strange enough to raise anyone's eyebrow.
We're not supposed to be the story. Unless somehow, our stumbling into the spotlight takes some of the unwanted attention away from our candidates-- but this isn't like that, you understand, this would only compound the disaster. It would be a synergistic clusterfuck. Fucking publicity nuclear armageddon. If Eames and I--
--if Eames and I continued to--
--right, so. About Ariadne? About Ariadne. What she offered to do was, she would keep stringing the eyewitness along, as far as she possibly could. Pretend to be interested in the story, like a little chatter about what a couple of operatives are doing with their dicks would be worth anything more than a few off-color jokes. Of course, the whole problem is that it actually is worth more than that, but only because of Cobb and Mal's own story in the works. Without that, the bit about us is completely worthless. But the eyewitness doesn't know that-- the eyewitness doesn't know that there is a Cobb and Mal story.
So the eyewitness keeps shopping their dirt around, vaguely hopeful that someone might be interested, but unaware that any major media outlet would pounce at the chance. They think it's too small for anyone but independent bloggers to touch. Ariadne makes like she wants to buy the story, but at the last minute, she backs out. She turns the story over to Yusuf instead, recommends him very highly. Really he comes with his own recommendation, he's every bit as well-known as Ariadne is, big names, both of them.
Yusuf goes through the same spiel. The eyewitness won't fall for it forever, yeah, that's obvious. Sooner or later they'll get fed up, go crawling to Nash. He's a sorry bastard too, that Nash, he broke the Fischer scandal and still he amounts to nothing more than some third-rate rag-- like all that journalistic cred he wanted slipped right off his greasy back. But what the hell are we talking about Nash for? The point is that Nash will print it -- Nash will print anything -- and when the Cobb and Mal thing hits the stands, it'll be so much the worse for that.
The hope is that by the time our story goes live, we'll have found some sort of angle to diffuse it. Just the one witness, just the one sighting, it'll be doable. Or we could hedge our bets on Fischer stealing our thunder by getting married, having an affair, and fathering a child out of wedlock-- but that's a bit much to expect from him in just a couple of weeks, not to mention a bit much for the fetus as well. See, look, that's a joke, I'm not so-- I'm not as bad off as you think, I'm-- we're okay. We're not-- it's not like one of us is dead, all right? We're--
--listen. Someone had to break it off, and it wasn't going to be Cobb and Mal. What? No, there's nothing noble about it, this isn't sacrifice the way you think it is. Are we-- would we rather not? Yeah. Of course. But what's the alternative? We're operatives-- we're sharks. Every waking minute of the day is dedicated to ensuring the victory of our own campaign, and everything we do, we do because we're terrified of losing. This isn't sacrifice. It's as much for us as it is for the candidates.
The Miles campaign was leaving town, so Eames had to go regroup. Before he left, we talked it over, agreed that we'd have to just-- you know. Stay on separate sides of Missouri. And to keep the bit about us quiet to Cobb and Mal, because what good would it do for them to know, anyway. It doesn't matter. Cobb and Mal's own story won't stay buried forever, and we'll be busy spinning as hard as we can.
What bacon? Oh, you mean-- Eames's, the bacon that he-- I don't know, I don't remember. I had to-- we had to go to work, so we couldn't--
--we couldn't. I wish we could have.
+
"Arthur, call for you on line two," says a staffer, poking her head into Cobb's office. "It's Mayor Saito."
In the middle of gesticulating fervidly at a map in order to demonstrate the paramount importance of wooing the Midwestern States, Arthur freezes. Cobb freezes along with him, unsure of the appropriate response.
"Are you in trouble?" asks Cobb.
"I don't think so," says Arthur. "It's probably the usual-- he did an interview about his re-election campaign that they printed this morning. It contained a fleeting but now requisite reference to scouting me, and maybe he's wondering if I'll actually take the trouble to formulate an official response, this time."
"Can I formulate an official response?" wonders Cobb. "If I categorically excise any possibility that you might go work for Saito either before or after this campaign, then wouldn't he have no choice but to stop asking? I'm only looking out for you, Arthur, you go in and there's no knowing if you might ever come out. I've heard things about the gravitational singularity of the Chicago mayoralty."
"He's a mayor, not a mob boss," says Arthur, and sounds unconvincing even to his own ears.
But when he takes the call, Cobb steepling his fingers in anxiety across the desk from him, it turns out Saito isn't really asking about the scouting offer at all. Arthur fumbles with the pen he's been spinning. It rolls down beneath his chair, and he slams his head on the edge of the desk as he comes up with it.
"Fuck," he exclaims, rubbing frantically at his scalp, "sorry, that wasn't-- no, not you, sir, I dropped something, and--"
"What is it?" hisses Cobb. "What? What did he say?"
"He's endorsing you," Arthur blurts out in excitement, even though he's still on the phone and Saito can hear every giddy word. But there's nothing to bargain for, nothing to hold hostage; Saito knows just how valuable his endorsement is. He has phenomenal clout with the Democratic Party, respected and admired and not just a little bit feared. A rockstar superdelegate with the deportment of an emperor.
Cobb leaps up from his chair, jabs the air with a rapid series of fist pumps, and yells, "Mayor, I'll give you Arthur."
"Is that Senator Cobb?" asks Saito. "Is he saying something?"
"No, he's just... expressing his sincere gratitude for your support," says Arthur. "We really appreciate this, Mayor. If there's ever anything within our power that would benefit Chicago--"
"Aside from you coming to run my re-election campaign, you mean," says Saito. "Don't worry-- you'll be working for me someday, sooner than you think."
"What the hell, stop being so ominous," says Arthur, "you can't tell me who I'm going to be working for! You're a mayor, not a mob boss!"
"I don't need to be a mob boss," says Saito, and chuckles. "I'm the Mayor of Chicago. Functionally, Arthur, I own you."
"At least make an attempt to wine and dine me first," Arthur yells into the phone, as the line clicks dead.
The important thing is that they have Saito's endorsement, a sudden bolt of luck that could change the race, and Arthur's happy enough to sing. He hangs up the receiver and leans back in his chair, mind racing with how best to unleash the news. Should they go public, or should they wait for Saito to make his own statement? Should they unveil it right away, or should they let the rumors ferment for a few thrilling days?
"I didn't mean it, you know," says Cobb. "About giving you to Saito. Please don't leave me."
Arthur swears Cobb to secrecy three times over, and Cobb has the nerve to feign taking offense.
"Of course I wouldn't tell her," he says, straightening his tie. "This is strictly pleasure. It's not as though I want to take her out on a date in the capacity of a man running against her-- how do I look?"
"Electable," says Arthur, and Cobb punctuates it with another vehement fist pump.
If he concentrates hard enough, Arthur can taste the barest hint of something bitter at the back of his throat. It's Friday evening and Mal has a speaking engagement in California. It's nothing at all for Cobb to fly back to his home state to meet with old friends, old supporters-- to meet with Mal. Perhaps especially because they all know the inevitability of the story they're heading for.
The mountain we're steering ourselves into, thinks Arthur, remembering Eames's voice. With Cobb on his way to California and the team members heading home for the weekend, the lights at HQ begin to blink out one by one. Arthur feels the weight of his phone lodged heavy in his pocket, turns it over in his hands, contemplative.
It's a terrible idea. They talk, regularly enough; they even trade the same barbs they used to. But there's something thin and fragile about it, like they've swapped their weapons for spears made of paper and glass. Calling him at a time like this, the building growing dark and his footsteps a lone echo in the corridor, that's just asking for trouble. I'll probably end up telling him about Saito's endorsement, thinks Arthur, and then my social security number, my bank PIN number, my mother's maiden name next.
He switches on the lights in the press briefing room. Once, Eames -- why is it always Eames -- once, he said that if Cobb won the election, then Arthur would end up entering the White House as a policy advisor.
"Though it's a moot point," said Eames, "because we all know he's not going to win."
"In the off chance that Mal wins," said Arthur, "what would you be?"
"It's a bit obvious, when you think about it," said Eames. "I'd be press sec."
Arthur runs his hand across the curve of the microphone stand. It's true, Eames would make a great press secretary, slippery as an eel. He'd lean against his elbow, jocular and rumpled, and never give an inch.
Gripping at the sides of the podium, Arthur clears his throat. The word that leaves him, We--, is timid in the empty room, falling flat to the floor. His eyes flicker to the door, self-conscious. He tries again.
"We've been consistently inspired by the leadership and character of Abraham Lincoln throughout the course of our campaign, and we've decided to take some cues from his trenchant political insight." He shrugs, makes an effort at a crooked grin. "After all, marriage is the original Team of Rivals."
It's nothing he can ever use-- and besides, he thinks, no one said anything about marriage. Don't take this too fast, it's not even your relationship. More brazen now with the sound of his own voice, he steps out from behind the podium and points at a vacant chair.
"Yes, Jake Tapper," he says. "What's that? Is the Cobb campaign not concerned that the close personal bond between Senator Cobb and Governor Miles will lead to undue political influence in the eventuality that either of them gains victory in the general election? My answer to you is that the American people should be appreciative of the great bargain they're getting. You elect one, you get one free-- it's a deal! We're practically giving these candidates away!"
He beats a little rimshot with his hands. It comes out a bit hollow, in the bareness of the room.
The next time Arthur has Eames on the phone for longer than five minutes, it's for the last possible reason he'd like to have Eames on the phone. It's been a couple days and the Saito endorsement is out of the bag, promising but no deal-breaker. Arthur should be finalizing the last-minute plans for a scheduled fundraiser, but instead he's pacing the floor of his office, too restless to be the wildcat in its cage, his steps quick and furiously clipped.
"Yusuf had family business to attend to, so he couldn't be there," says Eames. "But Ariadne went, didn't she? What did she say about it?"
"That it went down like a spoonful of fucking sugar," says Arthur. "They ate it right up."
Peter Browning is in the final lame-duck stretch of his presidency. For the annual WHCA dinner, however, it appears that he has finally managed what he hasn't been able to accomplish for the past eight years; to make himself likable. A recording of his farewell video is already available online, and Arthur is in despair.
For Browning, it's a fine time to win hearts. He's stepping out of office in just a couple of months. Arthur doesn't mind that so much, only-- it's the surprise cameo appearance in Browning's farewell video that has him glued to his phone in dread.
Onscreen, Browning plods into the Oval Office, a stack of construction paper in his hand. He fiddles with a pair of scissors, a jar of glitter, a stapler, and then admires the flimsy paper crown he's made. Then the camera pulls back and -- with an audible murmur from the audience that explodes into laughter -- Robert Fischer is there, bending his head to receive the crown.
"It's brash as fucking balls," says Arthur. "I can't believe Fischer agreed to do this-- how the hell did he know it would work? It's such a fine line with jokes like this, either you win them over or you get stoned to death, what a lucky asshole."
"Lampshades the whole successor argument, doesn't it?" asks Eames. "He's given up the moderate reformer angle and positioned himself solidly within party lines. If he's going for that, then he'll be announcing a Browning fundraiser before the day is out."
"Oh, yeah," says Arthur, "he's got that one in the bag. Jesus, isn't there some way we can turn this on him? His father, the businessman-- the ex-President, practically an uncle to Fischer-- it's almost dynastic, that's what it is."
"But we can't take the royal family angle for obvious reasons," says Eames. "Didn't you run a poll like this, way back when? Something about how Fischer would test if he aligned himself with the pro-business, pro-energy crowd?"
"Funny story, about that poll," says Arthur. "Obviously a lot of things have changed since then, but still-- he actually tested a lot better with the more conservative platform. Seemed like most left-of-center voters would fail to be convinced by his moderate stance, but any hard-right demographic like business would be quick to take him in as one of their own, when before they scorned him as some sort of thin-skinned traitor. So it actually gave him a leg up on us in the general. 55-43, for fuck's sake, what are those numbers?"
"Like you said, that was a long time ago," says Eames. "And numbers do lie. Politics--"
"--is an affective game, yes, I know," groans Arthur. "God, I miss when Mal used to be the only enemy I'd need to worry about. When Fischer didn't rock the goddamn boat like this."
"Arthur," says Eames, his voice suddenly so quiet that it almost seems loud, soft as the faint buzz of static behind him.
"I'm sorry, I know," says Arthur, "I haven't forgotten the hard-earned lessons from the cross-country tour, it's just that-- god, this game keeps changing right underneath my feet, I don't know how anyone's supposed to keep their balance like this. We're fucking great at what we do, Eames, we really are, and still we always feel like we're floundering. Triumph only comes in tiny pinprick starts."
"Do you know," says Eames, "what Cobb looks like on paper?"
"What? Yeah," says Arthur. "Like a stodge, through and through. Even his passionate love for baseball has something pedantic about it. Everything out of his mouth, you'd expect it to be weighed down with a whole string of ten-cent words."
"Right, but he's really rather down-to-earth in person," says Eames. "Very relatable."
"Thank you," says Arthur, "but I'm not sure what this--"
"Now Mal, on paper she reads like a human softball," says Eames. "People can't stop thinking of her as the girl from Kansas-- the slightest misstep and she becomes a caricature. But she's nothing like that, you know she's not. If anything she's the analytical one, a politician of the brain, to Cobb's wonk of the heart."
"Wonk of the heart," repeats Arthur. "He'll like that."
"But Mal and I, we can't play that up," says Eames. "People think they want an intelligent President, sure, but eight times out of ten the line between pretension and intelligence is too thin to mind. Cobb's better at fundraisers, but Mal's better at debates. Cobb's better at working a room, but Mal's better at holding it sway. Cobb's a folksy city boy, Mal's a cosmopolitan small-town girl."
"Both of them are excellent whistlers," says Arthur.
"Neither of them like vegetables, much," says Eames. "And they're in love with each other. Arthur-- that's affect. That's all we've got, because the numbers lie. We're not our numbers, we're not our supporters, we're not what we run on. We try so hard to polarize our campaigns, in hopes that we'll tap into some vein of sweet water we never knew was there, some bloc that will decide to love us and follow us wherever we go. But really, we're all of us a bigger tangle than that. Anything as clean-cut as numbers can't keep you on your feet, can it?"
"I'm not an affect operative," says Arthur, miserable. "I don't know how to read affect like you do." What he doesn't say is, And the only time I ever thought I knew what affect meant-- the one moment when I thought I could grasp it, what it meant to resonate with someone beyond every rational boundary-- like a bridge shivering and falling to pieces in the right wind, like a glass blown to shards at the right piercing note--
"You're not as bad at it as you think you are," says Eames. "None of us are as anything as we think we are-- we're not the names we've given for ourselves. Mal isn't the smart one, or the sharp one, or the quiet one. And she's not your enemy."
Arthur leans his head against the floor-to-ceiling window, feeling like he's on the bare edge of his foothold. Like there's nothing between him and the concrete but seven stories of freefall. The sound of his coffee mug against the glass is cold and delicate.
"Arthur," says Eames, "talk to her."
+
A scant three hours before the Saito fundraiser, Arthur skids into his seat across the table from Mal. The coffeeshop is nearly empty, a broken-down hovel run by an elderly retired couple, sadly devoid of any counterculture appeal due to the abysmal quality of its coffee. From what Arthur can tell, the few customers freckling the room are just members of Mal's security detail, itching in their unfamiliar casual clothes. She's in Chicago for an event, traveling light with minimal entourage.
"So," says Mal, "I suppose you're here to warn me off your candidate."
Her voice is fine and unyielding, steel thread weaving in and out of his skin. He winces, half from the bluntness of her approach, half from the taste of the coffee.
"I wouldn't presume to hold that much influence," says Arthur. "As precariously close to babysitting as my job seems at times, in the end candidates do have the liberty of making their own decisions. Operatives can hardly resort to physical violence toward a potential Commander in Chief."
"Oh?" asks Mal, tucking a curl of hair behind her ear. She looks surprised. "You're not going to reprimand me for sabotaging your campaign?"
"If anything, both of you are sabotaging your own campaigns," says Arthur. "The worst I could threaten to do is quit, and there's no chance in hell that either Eames or I would seriously consider anything of the sort. We're a bit invested in the two of you. For better or for worse."
"That's what you think, then?" asks Mal. "That you're stuck with us?"
"Not because of any mistake," says Arthur. "I'm running Cobb's campaign because I think he ought to be President-- and Eames is running your campaign because he thinks the same about you. Maybe what I should have said is, for better or for worse, we believe in the two of you."
It sounds a bit more earnest than he means it to. Mal peers at him over the rim of her mug, and the back of Arthur's neck prickles with something like shame.
"And now, if you'll excuse me," he mumbles, "they'll be collecting my heartless PR hack membership card any moment now. We'll just keep an eye on that door, right? That'll work."
"You know," says Mal, "that's why Dom and I like the two of you. We want that kind of faith."
"I don't know what you mean," says Arthur. "You shouldn't be looking for naivete in your operatives, Governor. The handbook says you have to starve it out of them."
"It's not a mistake that we're in this race, either," says Mal. "He's running because he thinks he ought to be President, and I'm running because I think the same about myself. Between you and me, he's wrong, but I expect you'd respectfully disagree."
"I could-- I could also disagree disrespectfully, if you prefer that," says Arthur.
"We didn't just stumble onto this campaign trail," says Mal. "First and foremost, we're candidates, Arthur. We're well aware. And as much as Dom and I want to be with each other, if we thought our careers would suffer for it, we'd agree that we probably can't give our relationship the chance that it deserves."
"You can't be serious," exclaims Arthur. "Of course your careers would suffer for it! Governor, we're heading into a shitstorm. Even if you two somehow manage to survive the primaries-- a husband-and-wife ticket against Robert Fischer? A royal family in the White House? God, it's never going to fly in a million years. You can't have everything, you can't be--"
"Can't I?" asks Mal. "Would you stop me from fighting for what I want?"
She rests her cup on the tabletop, the steam curling between them like incense, like a soothsayer's chant, like something on the horizon too large to make out at once. She's beautiful and ruthless, in that moment, all the quixotic stars in her eyes turned to talons from closer up, and Arthur can't give her an answer.
"How could anyone stop me," she says, "when all this nation ever wanted was that right to fight, for its people to be able to grasp for the things they dreamed of? How can I give up what I want and trade it in for a political position, when the only reason I want that position at all -- when the only reason anyone should want it -- is so that someday, everyone can know the luxury of being allowed to want?"
"It's greedy," stammers Arthur. "You shouldn't--"
"But don't you see, I should," says Mal. "I have to, until that last moment when everyone can. If they want to question my objectivity, that somehow I'll be soft on Dom because of what we are-- then let them, that's easy, that's something I can show them and prove them wrong. And if they won't elect me because I'm weak on EP, or because I don't yet have the experience on me-- then I'd bolster myself as best as I could, but I'd accept it. I'd understand."
She leans toward him, closing the space between them. Her talons flashing fire.
"Only, if they're going to challenge my right to fight to have it all," she says, "if it's some nebulous and untenable objection against my god-given privilege to love whoever the hell I please, to run for whichever office I'm qualified for, then I don't care how many campaigns it takes or how many years it'll cost me. If that's what they want to bring against me, then I'll fucking war with them, tooth and nail until death or victory stops me. Being President isn't my career-- that's my career. Do you believe me, Arthur? Do you believe I'd do that?"
"Yes, Governor," says Arthur, helpless, a little bit enchanted. "I think-- I think that you would. I believe you."
Her hand is warm from the heat of the coffee, from the blood churning inside her. She brushes a thumb across his cheekbone, a small, soothing touch.
"Because we're all allowed to be greedy," says Mal. "Even you."
The banquet hall they've rented is packed sardine-tight, benefactors flying in from out of state just for a glimpse at the mythical Mayor Saito from across the room. Superdelegate, thinks Arthur. He must be the only one there with the express intent of avoiding Saito, in no mood to dodge jokes about joining the re-election campaign, unwilling to be pinned and questioned in a crowd with no easy escape route. Saito is a helpful ally, but with a bit too much of a wicked streak to keep very close.
All evening long Arthur has been floundering through the crowd, wading as far away as he can whenever a swell of conversation drifts too near for comfort. A bizarre and fugitive game of Marco Polo. There's an excited flurry of voices now cresting somewhere to the right of him, Saito probably holding court in the eye of the storm. The schmoozing is in full swing and Cobb won't need him any longer-- Arthur turns toward the exit, inching to fresh air step by laborious step.
He has only the distant square landmark of an open doorway to guide him, winking in and out of sight with the shuffle of the mob. A novice at celestial navigation, preoccupied with the negotiation of traffic, Arthur doesn't realize that it isn't a doorway until he's already stumbling through the gauzy curtains. He finds himself on an empty balcony instead, the sudden rush of night air like a splash of water on his skin. It's an unexpected relief. Freed from smothering, blissfully alone, he sets his champagne flute on the railing and breathes deep.
The commotion is muffled behind him, faraway and cryptic as interstellar noise. The balcony looks out over a bite-sized lawn, tucked in away from the street entrance, far from prying eyes. It seems well-kept and dainty, but barely lit. Arthur keeps one ear on the muted murmur from inside, just in case someone might disturb his slice of serenity. His mind is still simmering with the sound of Mal's voice, her words bubbling to the surface, breaking in fragrant, ardent whiffs of hope. His heart feels a little lighter. Like there's the barest hint of a breeze stirring his pinion feathers, like he might fly if only he knew the right way to hold his wings. If only, he thinks, I knew how to catch the wind--
Right then, like the undead breaking free of the grave, a hand shoots up from below the balcony, gripping the railing, knuckles white with strain. Arthur starts back in shock and barely manages to stop himself from yelling; the first thing that flashes through his head is assassination attempt, but before he can shout for security or do something significantly less advisable like crack his champagne flute over the intruder's head, an elbow hooks against the railing for balance, and the top of a head pokes over into sight.
"Eames," chokes Arthur, "what the hell are you doing here?"
It takes Eames a moment to swing himself onto the balcony, and another moment to catch his breath, slumped against the railing with his hands on his knees. In his tux he looks like a spy in training, an apprentice decked out in the well-cut mantle of his mentor. He looks up, eyes bright with exhaustion and an incurable, undeniable fondness. There's a faint sheen of sweat at his temples, and caught with the want to dab it away, Arthur curls his hands into fists inside his pockets.
"O Arthur, Arthur," says Eames, throwing out his arm in a dramatically arrested pose, "wherefore art thou a Cobb supporter? That which we call a liberal by any other name would still be in favor of repealing Browning-era tax cuts--"
He pauses to suck in another thirsty breath, and Arthur lifts his champagne flute to his face, biting down on the glass to keep his lips from quirking.
"Is this okay?" asks Arthur. "Shouldn't I be out on the lawn for this?"
"No," says Eames, and catches his sleeve. "Stay."
It's hardly necessary-- Arthur isn't really going anywhere. But god, how perfect that feels, Eames's hand circling his wrist and holding him in place. Like a band of heat, warming him through. Arthur falters, losing the right timing to shake him off like a joke. Eames doesn't say anything else, and the moment stretches into something quiet, something significant, the whole world tapering down into the two of them out on the balcony, in the gentle haze of filtered light seeping through the curtains.
"You can't look at me like that," says Eames, faintly, sounding a little strangled, "and not expect me to do something about it."
"I'm sorry," says Arthur, "but I think my heart is breaking," and what he means is, not like someone's thrown it to the ground, not like it's lying there in shards-- no, it's like-- it feels like it's pounding too fast, swelling, full and aching, too big for the confines of his ribcage, straining and translucent like a balloon blown too large, like it wants to reach straight out of his chest and fold itself into the palm of Eames's hand. Like that's the only place it'll ever fit.
Eames opens his mouth to answer, even that beat of silence something tender, but then-- there's a sudden commotion from inside the banquet hall, voices surging to a fever pitch, a hurricane of chaos that manages the difficult feat of putting Saito's entrance to shame. There isn't any screaming, no one yelling 911, so it doesn't seem to be an emergency-- but Arthur turns toward the room, unsure.
"Do we need to be in there?" he asks. "What's going on?"
"It's Mal," says Eames. "Mal is here."
"What?" asks Arthur, craning his neck to peer between the curtains, reluctant to break the contact of Eames's hand around his wrist. "But what's she doing here? Are you here with her? Why are either of you-- doesn't she have some sort of event tonight, that's what she told me when I--"
"She's here," says Eames, "because the man she loves and respects is holding the most important fundraiser of his campaign. She came for him."
"Oh," says Arthur, as it dawns on him. "This is the event. This is what she was in town for."
"And as for me-- well," says Eames, "I'm here for someone else."
There's a slow breath of air that stirs the curtains, a graceful billow like a waterfall made of light. The glow of the chandelier from inside is soft on Eames's face, and the hubbub of the crowd sounds only like a whisper, the rustle of a brook, curling around them, filling the air almost thick enough to touch.
Here's the wind I've been waiting for, thinks Arthur, and I'm greedy enough to want to catch it, as he turns his hand in Eames's grip, bringing his palm against his, touching his fingers to the racing pulse beneath the cuff of Eames's shirt.
+
Reader, I married him.
Or if you want to pick at semantics, fine, go ahead and do that-- I'm telling you, it all amounts to the same thing. We snuck out of the fundraiser, past the endless flash photography, safely clear of the crossfire but still half blind by the time we tumbled out onto the street. We ran past reporters clutching their phones, driven to their wits' end, too distraught to notice us. Shouting at their editors, That's what I said, Mallorie Miles is here. We ran for blocks and it felt reckless, like a secret. Like breaking the oldest rule in the book.
On the L, we called Ariadne to release the moratorium on our story. For a while she didn't say anything and I thought that maybe I wasn't making any sense, I was talking too fast or laughing too much, dizzy, reeling, on fire. But when she did speak, you know what she told me-- you know what she said? I'm not going to print it because it isn't fucking news, just like that. And then, The problems of two little campaign operatives don't amount to a hill of beans, in her worst Humphrey Bogart.
Some journalist, isn't she? She's great. I heard from her that Yusuf said he'd do the same, and they were both sorry they wouldn't be able to stop Nash from breaking the story. But that's okay, and I told her that. It's going to be dirty, but isn't it always? Isn't politics a full-contact sport, bare-knuckle brawling in the mud, more affect than numbers? Isn't that how it's always been?
See. We've been making mountains out of molehills and then complaining about the climb. The best packaging sets off what's inside, it doesn't obscure it and lie about it. Fischer's no moderate, Cobb and Mal aren't enemies, and when you're in love, you're in love to all the world. I'm not a dissembler; I'm a fucking spin doctor. I'll use all the insidious weapons in my arsenal to persuade people that what we want is what they want, but it's not my job to lie about what we want, what Cobb wants or what he believes in-- or what I want. What I believe in.
Jesus, maybe it's got me soft. But soft comes with Eames pressing his mouth to my throat, hitching my legs up over his shoulder, moving in me slowly with his breath held quiet in his lungs like he can't believe what he's got underneath him. The bright, scalding sound of my name on his tongue.
Yeah. There are worse things to be than soft.
+
Here is the coda to the story:
Arthur knows Eames slid out of bed at half past two, remembers the touch of Eames's lips briefly burning through his sleep. Is it time already, he muttered, and Eames said, I'll see you later, Ferret, kissing the shell of his ear.
So in the morning he already knows he'll be the only one in the room, and in his nocturnal petulance he blamed Topeka for being so far away, but he gets up with the sun beginning to glimmer through his curtains and it's really not that bad after all. Eames's side of the bed is still disheveled, somehow still warm, heavy with his scent. Arthur buries his nose into it, and smiles.
The night before, Eames's arm thrown slack over the small of his back, Arthur lay in bed and scribbled his way through a notepad. The torn-up pages are crumpled in the wastebasket near the door, some stray balls of paper lying scattered around it from each time he didn't quite make the shot. But eventually, when he managed to end up with something he liked enough, he set the pad on top of his dresser with some measure of pride before he switched the lamp off and snuck a bit closer toward Eames.
What he wrote there was, Cobb/Miles 2018: Dare to Dream-- only when he rolls over and reaches for it, Eames has crossed out the names and replaced it with Miles/Cobb instead, adding a scrawled I like it to the margin. God, this gorgeous upstart nobody from Maine. Arthur lets the page drop to shade his eyes, laughing, completely done for.
Here I am, six in the morning, he thinks, with a slogan in my hand and my fucking wartime paramour speeding to his fortress of solitude two states away. Working for the wrong damn campaign, but what can you do?
Though the streets are quiet still, hours until the city shakes itself to life, Arthur thinks he can almost hear the wolves at his door. Milling around at the scent of blood, hungry to sink their teeth in him. That's no problem. It's his job to fight, tooth and nail. It's his job to win.
He takes the day's first cup of coffee.