[inception] till death do us part [6/9]
‘Till Death Do Us Part (And Somehow That Seems To Be Sooner Than Expected)
Part VI: for richer for poorer
[masterpost]
<< [for better for worse] previous
“So, what are you going to do?”
It is the break of the dawn and Eames has just woken up feeling like shit. His brain still hasn’t caught up with the time yet and Yusuf has already started the conversation. He groggily shoves the blanket off himself and takes the cup of tea-thank God, it’s not the shitty coffee-Yusuf offers. He takes a sip and tries to connect his brain to the living world again. He didn’t really have a good sleep, he kept on having dreams about Arthur shooting at him.
“What do you think I should do? I don’t remember if during the orientation day they included the information on how to deal with a problem in which you find out your spouse is actually an assassin from the rival agency. I didn’t really pay attention.”
Yusuf doesn’t look like he approves of his words, but Eames doesn’t care. “They didn’t. And spare me sarcasm, Eames.”
“My bad.”
“The worst possible scenario is he comes to kill you.”
Eames frowns at his teacup and doesn’t look at Yusuf in the eyes.
“He knows the rules, Eames. As you do,” Yusuf continues. “It’s all just the same in any agency. You do not let anyone who ID’d you live.”
“Spare me the technicalities, Yusuf. I’ve memorised the rules since ten years ago.”
“So do this.” Eames tries not to flinch too much. “And be done with it. Mourn a week, or two, or a month, I’ll even talk to the boss about giving you some time off. You’ll get drunk and I’ll provide you the perfect concoction for hangover. After that you’ll wake up clean and free. Just keep telling yourself: you don’t love him.”
“That’s not what you told me last night.”
Yusuf shrugs. “Things change, Eames. Arthur is not your husband. He’s your enemy.”
And Eames nods, thinking ‘he’s not my husband, he’s not my husband’ over and over again. He has accepted the fact that Arthur is an enemy last night. It is time to accept the fact that to escape the huge mess he’s in, he has to stop thinking of Arthur as his husband, the one person he’s loved for the past five years. Eames slaps himself on the cheek and turns to Yusuf who’s giving him a weird look.
“He tried to kill me,” Eames says.
“And he will do it again. Tell me how you are going to handle it then?”
Eames is thinking about his weapon stash in the kitchen and in his study at home. It will be too risky to go back and get them. “You think you have any guns I can use?”
“I have some poisons, if you want.” Yusuf points out to the lines of bottles on the far side of the living room. They are all filled with liquid of many colours.
“And risk killing myself with it? No, I don’t think so.” He stands up and starts pacing. “I have to go back.”
“Go back to where?”
“Home.” He flinches when he says it. That house is not your home anymore, he tells himself. “I mean, get to the house and get my guns back.”
“And find anything you can while you’re at that. Get in to his life. Find out who he really is.”
Eames wants to say he knows everything about Arthur, but he doesn’t voice it, because that’s the exact moment he realises he doesn’t really know the real Arthur. If Arthur could have kept the secret of being an assassin for five whole years, what other things has he hidden from Eames?
--
Arthur steps out of the car-wearing all-black attire plus white skinny tie-and pushes the shades up his nose.He silently motions his team to start the investigation by giving Max, the investigation team leader, the keys. Ariadne stands beside him as she keeps looking at Arthur with an expression that says ‘you look like shit’. She is lucky the only name on Arthur’s hit list and his main priority at this moment is William Eames, and not hers.
“Pocket litter. Matchbooks. Receipts. Everything,” says Max to the others. “You know the drill.”
As the team starts entering the house, Arthur stands on the porch, his back to the main door and both his hands in his pants pocket. He looks at the empty suburban road and waves to the paper boy when he passes by with his bicycle, throwing the newspaper to the front lawn over the fence. He doesn’t make any move to get the paper but his gaze turns to his left, to the pots of gloxinia. There are dried leaves around the pots and a lot of the flowers are wilting. It’s ironic, he thinks, how the flowers represents their current situation. The love that started on their first sight of each other has has been dying slowly and now it’s at the edge of complete demise.
He looks away from the flowers, takes a deep breath and tries to swallow the clog in his throat. He doesn’t realise Ariadne is behind him until he takes a step back into the house, and bumps into her. They enter the house and go straight to the sitting room.
“Having second thoughts?” Ariadne asks, when Arthur stops to stare at the many framed pictures hanging on one side of the wall for a couple of seconds longer than necessary. The pictures are mainly of him and Eames during their first couple of years of marriage, still looking happy and content-and in love-with each other.
Arthur looks down to Ariadne and then shakes his head. “No… I just,” he pauses and glances at one photo of Eames hugging him from behind (both smiling too widely to the camera) as they stand in front of the Eames’ manor-it was taken by Amelia, Eames’ younger sister, just before they left England to begin their life together in New York. He clears his throat, “I’m just checking the personal effects.”
“Find anything… personal?”
Arthur knows what Ariadne’s question means. He keeps his cool and says, “No leads. The mark covered his tracks.” He’s making sure his voice doesn’t break, and keeps his cool.
Ariadne sighs and shakes her head. She takes a couple of steps closer, takes one picture off the wall-a picture of Arthur feeding Eames a slice of cake mouth to mouth during Eames’ thirtieth birthday-and shows it to Arthur. “The ‘mark’? This man,” she points to Eames in the picture, “is also your husband, Arthur.”
“I don’t know who he is!” Arthur raises his voice and realises what he’s just done when Ariadne takes a step back away from him. He composes himself and massages his temple, easing the budding migraine. “He’s a security risk, Ariadne. He knows me. He’s compromised everyone here.”
“Are you sure? Are you sure you aren’t compromising everyone now?”
Arthur doesn’t have any answer to that and Ariadne is giving him another of her pitying looks. He walks away from the wall of pictures and slumps onto the sofa, throws the shade onto the table and covers his eyes with his left hand. He feels Ariadne sits down beside him.
“You know…”she starts, “You’re not the first person in the world to find out his life is a lie.”
He moves his arm away and glances sideways to Ariadne. “I know. But I thought it was my lie.”
--
It takes all of Eames’ self-restraint not to start shooting everything in sight.
The house is clean. The food on the dining table that was left untouched the night before has been thrown away. The kitchen is sparkling clean. There is no dust on the cabinets in the sitting room. Eames can even smell a lemon fragrance wafting in the air.
He doesn’t really care about the cleanliness of it all. What he really cares about is the state of his private study. It is also clean, as in stripped clean, the room is almost empty. There are only a desk, bookshelves-also empty- and some empty boxes lying around. He’s not so stupid as to keep his real work files lying around in the study of course so he’s not really worried about that-besides, it is mostly Yusuf’s job to keep tabs on all the paperwork. What pisses him off to no end is how there’s nothing left of his beloved firearm collection.
No SIGs, no Blasers, no Heckler& Kochs, no Berettas, not even the Glocks are spared. All hidden compartments and spaces have been found and stripped clean. He should’ve expected this. Should have, knowing how crazy and angry and dangerous his dearest Arthur is.
Arthur was quite thorough with his search, unfortunately, because Eames can’t find anything from the hidden spaces in the cabinets in the kitchen as well. The fucker.
Eames’ eyes moves to stare at the oven. Arthur has never touched the oven, at least never without Eames’ supervision. It’s still a possibility though. So he braces himself for the worst as he waits for the oven to stop beeping. He taps the code in and pulls the door open. As the steel drawers slides open one by one, Eames lets out a relieved breath. At least, Arthur didn’t actually find out about the oven, he thinks, touching one of the H&K magazines.
Then Eames makes his way up to the second floor. Arthur has crossed over the line. It’s justified that Eames does the same, by checking Arthur’s private study. It is locked of course. Luckily, picking locks is one of Eames’ many skills.
He starts picking at the lock. Less than a couple of minutes later, the door unlocks with a small click. He steps in and quickly scans the study. Nothing out of the ordinary. But that doesn’t mean there’s nothing hidden. He’s sure Arthur keeps something in this room too-like he himself did-and he starts searching. He opens every drawer, moves every painting or picture frame hanging on the wall, and he also doesn’t forget to check the thick books Arthur has (Eames himself made a box that kept one of his guns to look like a very thick book).
Then he notices something out of the corner of his eyes-a medium sized black suitcase is resting against the wall beside the bookshelves. Eames raises an eyebrow at it; it’s Arthur’s suitcase, the one that he brought for his ‘trip’. He takes the suitcase and heaves it up to Arthur’s working table. He unzips it and he whistles at the disassembled pieces of a sniper rifle.
And then an idea pops up in his mind.
Eames starts to formulate a plan, a plan to visit Arthur. He begins by zipping the suitcase up, going back to the kitchen and takes a couple of daggers and one gun from the drawers. He takes out the phone Yusuf has given him and dials Charlie’s number. Charlie picks up after five rings.
“I need your help,” Eames says before Charlie can say anything. He hears him groans and he has to smirk.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Eames!” Charlie curses. “It hasn’t even been a week. Wait, let me correct that. I meant, less than three days. You asking for another favour already?”
“Don’t complain. I’ll pay you, okay? Payment plus I’ll owe you a big favour.”
“No! You mean, your boss pays me.”
Eames pulls the suitcase out through the backdoor and proceeds to the garage. “Same difference.”
“All right… What do you need?” Charlie sighs.
“You still have the address you got from the laptop I brought the other day?” he asks, as he gathers a bag full with climbing gears.
He hears some tapping and then Charlie answers, “Yeah, I think so. Why d’you ask?”
“I believe that building uses a remote management elevator control system.” Thankfully Eames remembers that bit of information Arthur gave him after that little accident where he’s stuck in the elevator due to some error in the security system. “I want you to hack into the security and the elevator control system to do something for me.”
There’s a short silence before Charlie groans audibly. “Eames, tell me you’re not actually going to make me one of your accomplices for your job.”
“No, mate!” Eames laughs, both because of Charlie’s complaint and the plan that’s forming in his head. “You just need to make sure they don’t know I’m going inside the building. And shut the elevator system down if need be.”
“You are fucking insane, do you know that?”
Eames ignores him. “Can you do it?”
“Of course I can!” Charlie sounds a bit insulted. “Do you have any way to get me inside?”
“Where do you need to be?”
“Anywhere that has computer connected to the intranet system. They’re all connected one way or another.”
“You think the basement security office will do?” Eames suggests.
“What about the fucking security guards? They’re called security office because there’s a bunch of security officers there. Do you want to get me behind the bloody bars?” Charlie replies scathingly.
“Yusuf should be able to help you with that.” Eames looks at his watch, it’s nearing noon and he should start his preparation to infiltrate Arthur’s office building as soon as possible. “Wear something to cover your face and have Yusuf give you some of his sleeping sprays.”
“I swear, Eames, if I get caught doing this, I will-”
Eames doesn’t let Charlie to finish. “Meet me at my gallery,” he says and hangs up. He knows Charlie will still come to the gallery regardless of how pissed off he is with Eames. They’re good friends after all.
Heaving up the suitcase and the bag with the climbing gears, Eames puts it into the car-again, borrowed from Yusuf-and starts the drive back to the gallery. He looks at the house for a couple of seconds before the car leaves the driveway. His grip on the steering wheel tightens and then he looks away.
There’s no need to think twice, he tells himself and then he pulls out his phone again, dialling Yusuf this time.
“Prepare your heat decoys and sleeping sprays, Yusuf,” he says as soon as Yusuf picks up.
“Do I want to know?” Yusuf asks.
“We have a new job,” Eames says, and he drives away without looking back.
--
Max has taken so many things from the house, Arthur notes, as he sees the investigation team haul one of the paintings they took from Eames’ study to the meeting room-anything frm artillery, assorted documents that don’t have anything to do with their line of work at all, and other things Arthur hasn’t checked yet. He let the team turn the house upside down-supervised by Ariadne-while he sat in the sitting room and just looked at the ugly curtains still hanging undisturbed.
Arthur enters the meeting room and when he sees the large HD monitor on the far end of the room is showing a footage so familiar (and private), he marches towards Max, Ariadne, and a couple of others-Jamie and Tony from the intel division-standing in front of the monitor. He’s fuming and trying so hard not to grab one of the Glocks on the table and throw it to any of their heads. When he reaches them, he clears his throat and shoots them a glare.
“What is this?”
Max is holding a DVD case and he shows it to Arthur. “Your honeymoon video?” The monitor is showing footage of Arthur sprawled on his stomach, bed sheets tangled around his bare body, asleep and dead to the world. There’s Eames’ voice narrating that the gorgeous man lying there is his beloved Arthur. And then the angle is changed. By the looks of it, Eames put the handycam on the bedside table. Eames then appears on the screen, leaning over Arthur and kissing the back of his neck, waking him up. Arthur in the video makes some pleasured grunts, smiling widely.
The current Arthur wills the heat creeping up his neck and cheeks down. Eames liked to record him during the first years of their marriage. Most of the videos likely will just show more of Arthur, rather than Eames. And Arthur just can’t let anyone see the videos. Even for the sake of research, he just can’t let anyone to see him this open, this vulnerable, this real and… weak.
He grabs the case from Max’s hand. “I know what this is,” he hisses and takes the remote control from Ariadne. “My question is what are you doing with it?”
“Research, Arthur,” Max says calmly. “Background research on the target.”
Arthur grits his teeth, turns off the monitor and hears disappointed grunts coming from Jamie and Tony. He puts on his ‘don’t you fuck with me, you imbeciles’ face and they scamper off, leaving Arthur with Ariadne and Max in the meeting room. Arthur ejects the disc and throws it away into the nearby rubbish bin, along with its case.
“Do you want to talk about this, Arthur?” Ariadne asks. She reaches out to touch Arthur’s elbow.
He flinches away and snaps, “No!” He ignores Ariadne’s frown and turns to Max again. “Target acquisition is our main priority. He is a code-blue liability to our company and we need to know his status. Start looking through everything, Max, phone records, credit cards, everything. Don’t waste your time watching those videos.”
“Bu-”
“Audio scan civilian frequencies, search for his banking database and…”
“For what? William Eames?” Max cuts him off. “Is that even his real name?”
Arthur doesn’t answer.
“Do what I told you to do, Max,” Arthur says, gritting his teeth. He can feel the pain that’s been gnawing at the back of his head since last night increasing in intensity. When Max still stays rooted to his spot, Arthur takes a deep breath and gives him a stern look. “Just… find him. Please.”
Max sighs and shakes his head slightly. “All right, all right. You’re the boss here,” he grumbles.
As he watches Max walk away, to hopefully do what he has been ordered to, Arthur takes one of the swivel chairs and sags down, massaging his temple. He knows Ariadne is still hovering beside him and he knows she will start pestering him again.
He is about to order her to find something to do when suddenly Max rushes into the meeting room again.
“He’s here!”
“Who?” Ariadne asks. Arthur stands up immediately. He ignores Ariadne’s call and looks at the pile of Eames’ possessions Max has taken from the house, he grabs a gun-a Browning Buckmark Camper-and starts running out of the meeting room.
“He was seen in one of the elevators for just a few seconds,” Max informs him. “But then he disappeared. We still can’t find where he is.”
There is a beeping sound from the security surveillance area. All the screens in that area are blinking red signals and most of the analysts there have already started to check all security cameras installed in the building, some are running scans with the heat-sensor.
Arthur’s eyes scan each and every screen, wondering why Eames would be so daring as to come out to him like this. He doesn’t even bother to inconspicuous. Arthur wonders if it’s just Eames’ style of doing things, always flashy and loud.
Suddenly he feels his phone vibrate in his pants pocket. Arthur scoffs, looking at the unknown caller ID, knowing exactly who the caller is and flips the phone open. “I thought I told you not to bother me at the office, William,” he says. He looks around to the screens again, Ariadne has already taken a chair and started checking the heat sensor and scans the building’s 3-D grid layout.
“First and last warning, darling,” Eames warns, “You need to disappear. And fast.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Arthur retorts. “You should’ve known the moment you breached our security, you’d be a dead man.”
Ariadne’s screen is showing a massive thermal image surrounding the top area of their floor. It’s difficult to pinpoint Eames’ exact location, if he’s really up there.
“We’ll see who the dead man in this story of ours is, Arthur,” Eames says. The sound from the phone is disturbed by a static. A gush of wind, Arthur guesses. Then he hears glass shattering from the direction of the meeting room, a thud, and something rolls out of the door.
Max curses loudly and Ariadne gasps at the same moment. Arthur realises the thing that’s rolling out of the meeting room is actually a tiny grenade. Almost everyone around the vicinity of the meeting room scatters.
“Bang! You’re dead,” Eames says, and the line is cut.
“Shit!” Arthur curses and he turns to his team. “Evac plan D now!”
Just a second after Arthur said that, the grenade explodes. There’s no fire, only a blinding flash of light and some green odourless smoke. It was just a decoy grenade, harmless. But no one wants to take any chances. The alarm rings.
Everyone in the office is on their feet and they’ve already started tapping on their respective keyboards, commencing the all-data destruction plan. Max is shouting and ordering everyone to go to the private exit door once they finish. There are two emergency elevators just two flights of stairs down that go directly down to the basement.
Arthur snaps his phone shut and slips it back into his pocket. He flicks off the gun’s safety and in a quick moment of derangement, Arthur wants to laugh. It was Eames’ gun. How ironic would it be if Eames were to be shot dead by his own gun?
“Arthur! Come on!” Ariadne calls out. She’s waiting by the exit, Max still ushering their people out. Arthur now runs around the almost deserted office, making sure everyone has done their job and all files are deleted or destroyed.
“Arthur!” Ariadne shouts again when the last person takes the flight down the exit.
“Let’s go, Ariadne!” Max drags her by the elbow and shuts the door behind them, leaving Arthur in the empty office.
Arthur loosens his tie and takes a spot facing directly to the meeting room door that’s still ajar. He takes a few steps back to the exit, he points the gun towards meeting room, waiting. The green smoke has cleared off bit by bit and he can see a dark silhouette walking out of the room. He raises his gun, aims it towards the figure.
The first thing that Arthur sees is the barrel of a rifle, the very same Heckler & Koch sniper rifle that he used during the Fischer job-Arthur remembers leaving the suitcase behind the kitchen back door but he’s quite sure Max’s team dealt with it-and he really, really has to laugh over the irony. Here he is with Eames’ gun, and there Eames is with his sniper rifle. Both of them couldn’t get any more tragically dramatic than this.
“I wouldn’t laugh if I were you, sweetheart,” Eames says, as soon as he steps out of the smoke, a safety harness is still wrapped around his hips-accompanied with a roll of rope-and he’s wearing a protective vest.
Arthur notices a couple of smoke grenades strapped to the front of Eames’ vest. His hands hold the rifle steady and he’s training his sights on Arthur, his finger is on the trigger-unlike Arthur who still has his finger off the trigger-and he doesn’t seem to be having any second thoughts of pulling the trigger if the needs arise.
“Ah, I never knew you could climb. I thought you said you’re afraid of heights?” Arthur says, smirking. He’s supposed to be leaving the building, he’s supposed to have gone with Ariadne and Max. But he can’t let this chance to face Eames pass just like that. Even though the chance of him winning this round with only one gun-the gun that he’s not used to-is slim, Arthur still doesn’t want to let Eames have the last laugh.
“Darling, you knew nothing about me,” Eames says. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”
Arthur chuckles lightly, cocking his head to the side and moves his finger on the trigger, and says, “Likewise, baby.”
And he starts shooting. He doesn’t really pay attention to whether or not any of the bullets hit the target. He only pays attention to the bullets that have started to come right after him as soon as he started to shoot. Arthur crouches down behind a cubicle, and crawls towards the exit door. He stands up and starts shooting over his shoulder as he opens the door and ducks behind it. He sees Eames running after him, the barrel of the rifle trained right at Arthur’s face, just before he slams the door close. The door is equipped with an electronic lock that can only be activated with a password and Arthur’s fingerprint. He quickly taps the password down and presses his thumb over the fingerprint sensor, locking the door.
Arthur runs down the stairs, taking a leap over the ledge and lands on the second flight. He can hear the telltale banging from above and smirks as he imagines how frustrated Eames must look like at the moment. There’s a series of gunshots-probably Eames trying to shoot the door down-that’s followed by more banging.
Arthur jumps over another ledge and he lands right in front of the two elevators running down to the basement floor. One is on its way down, presumably bringing Ariadne and Max down. The other one is still on its way back up. Arthur checks the magazine of the gun as he waits for the elevator, if his math is not wrong, he only has a couple or so bullets left.
He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and trying to calm himself. He can feel his blood rushing, the rush of adrenaline making his whole body tingle with excitement. It is strange, in all honesty, because having your spouse trying to kill you-and you trying to kill him-isn’t supposed to be fun. At all.
There is a small ‘ting!’ sound, signalling the elevator finally arriving, and Arthur opens his eyes. Suddenly there’s a deafening explosion from the floor above. Arthur curses and pushes the button repeatedly, willing the steel door to open immediately. He’s forgotten the many things they’ve left in the meeting room table. And he’s sure amongst the guns and rifles and other firearms Max and his team have taken, there are some explosives as well.
The elevator door opens and just as Arthur goes to take a step in, a bullet passes his right side, missing his right cheek by a couple of inches and it hits the elevator wall. He turns on his spot and sees Eames, still aiming the rifle steadily, looming over the stairs.
“You only have two bullets left,” Eames begins, lowering his rifle a little bit. “You can make this real easy for yourself, Arthur.”
“What?” Arthur scoffs, holding up his gun and aiming it at Eames again. “You expect me to roll over and play dead?”
“You should be used to it after four years of marriage.”
“Five,” he hisses, clicking the safety off, “and I’m not leaving.”
Arthur takes two steps back into the elevator and hits the ‘close’ button. Eames holds up his rifle, but Arthur is faster. He pulls the trigger twice, emptying the magazine, though he doesn’t really know why he aims for Eames’ chest instead of his head. Arthur knows he could easily shoot the bullet in between Eames’ eyes and be done with it. It would be very easy and quick, yet Arthur still feels hesitant. Being hesitant has no place in their line of work, Arthur knows that clearly. It’s either kill or be killed.
As the elevator door slowly closes, Arthur sees Eames stagger backwards a little bit from the shock of the bullets hitting his protected chest. He can see Eames’ expression; there’s rage, mixed with hurt and maybe Arthur’s just imagining things because he thinks he sees admiration in those pair of blue grey eyes (and if Arthur could convince himself, he’s sure Eames is grinning at him). Arthur doesn’t have a chance to make sure because the elevator door finally closes, and it’s all he can think about for the brief fifteen seconds before the elevator suddenly stops moving, he has wondered and comes to the conclusion that the part about admiration was just conjured up by his subconscious.
--
Groaning and hissing in pain, Eames tries to stand up. The dull pain in his chest, caused by the bullets Arthur has shot at him, is making it a little bit difficult for him to breathe. He lets go of the rifles to assess the damage on his protective vest. One bullet on the stomach area and the other on the upper right chest area. The one on the chest is just an inch away from hitting the small hand grenade he keeps in the chest pocket.
Eames heaves himself up and looks at the elevator that Arthur’s taken. The small digital screen above it signals the elevator is already down on the twenty third floor. Clicking his tongue, he takes out his phone and speed dials Charlie.
Charlie picks up after the first ring. “What do I have to do next?” he says, without a ‘hello’.
“Shut the elevator system down,” Eames says, eyes still locked on the digital number on the screen.
“Done!” Charlie says right away. True to Charlie’s words, the digital numbers stop at 20.
“Great,” Eames says. “I owe you, mate.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Charlie grunts. “Just don’t drag me into any of your problems again. You owe me a bloody huge favour for this, Eames.”
“Don’t worry. There won’t be a next time. Remember to restart the system in ten minutes. After that, get as far away from this building as you can.”
“I know what to do, you twat!”
Eames doesn’t have the chance to slip the phone back to his pocket because right after Charlie hangs up, there’s another incoming call. He smirks as he sees Arthur’s number on the screen. He re-attaches the wireless earphone and then slowly saunters to the elevator, the door still closed tight. He grips the phone with one hand, the other hand taking the dagger strapped on his right thigh. After a few moments of letting it vibrate, Eames presses the answer button, slips the phone to one of his chest pockets and starts prying the elevator door open.
“Whatever your plan is, it’s not going to work,” Arthur says.
“Are you sure about that, darling?” Eames chuckles. The steel door is opening just a slither. “I’m not the one stuck in an elevator. You constantly underestimate your dear hubby, Arthur.”
“Oh? Do I?”
Eames can practically see Arthur’s raised eyebrow and the eye roll from his voice. He slips his hand into the gap and then uses all his strength to pry the steel door open. The elevator shaft is almost dark, with only a small lamp attached on the wall every couple of sections. He looks down and sees the elevator box-the one Arthur is currently in-hanging just eight floors away. He looks at the two pairs of cables holding the box steady. There’s no way he can use the cables to climb down. He looks at the climbing equipment he has on and then he turns around to the stairs, squinting at the banister. He really hopes it will be strong enough to hold his weight.
“What exactly are you doing right now, Eames?” Arthur asks.
“Ah, back to last name, I see,” Eames says. He quickly hooks one end of a carabiner around the banister to secure the rope around the safety harness, making sure the belay works perfectly. He tugs the rope a couple of times, once he’s sure it won’t slip off he throws the other end into the shaft as he stands on the edge. “Don’t worry, babe, I’ll be down in a few moments,” he adds before hanging up.
Deciding it will be too much of a hassle to bring the rifle down with him, Eames chooses to leave it. It’s not really his anyway and Arthur probably doesn’t have any firearms with him. If they’re going to have a fight in a tight enclosed space, Eames thinks it’s safer for both parties if no firearms are involved-him particularly, because at this point it’s no use to pretend both of them will get out alive. It’s either him or Arthur.
He checks his watch, there’s still eight minutes until Charlie restart the elevator system.
“Here goes nothing.” And he starts the climb down the elevator shaft.
It takes him less than four minutes to reach the elevator box and when he lands, panting and sweating a little, the box rocks to the side. He stands still for a few second until it stops moving and then he starts pulling off the safety harness. He uses the dagger again to pry open the top hatch and sees it’s pitch black inside the elevator. The light fixtures around the adjacent walls of the shaft streaming into the box only help him to see the floor and he can’t make out any shapes. It doesn’t mean Arthur is not inside waiting for him of course.
After taking a deep breath, Eames sits on the edge of the hatch and as soon as he jumps down, a pair of arms grabs him from behind and out him in a headlock . He grasps the hand, preventing it from choking him fully. He feels the tight lines of Arthur’s body pressed against his back and when Arthur slams him to the wall, Eames can’t help but smirking at their situation.
“There you are, Arthur,” he says, breathing heavily, still trying to loosen Arthur’s headlock. “Isn’t this a new experience?”
“What kind of new experience?” Arthur hisses.
“It’s dark, we’re alone, you're pressing me up to the wall instead of the other way round and you don’t actually have a headache.”
Arthur tightens his hold on Eames’ neck and pushes him to the wall again. Eames feels Arthur’s elbow digging into his back and it’s getting a little bit difficult to breathe. It’s not really difficult to try and break free of the hold, Eames is sure of that. He has the upper hand of having bigger body mass. But he never really thought there was so much strength hidden beneath Arthur’s layers of clothes. Then again, Eames never really thought a lot of things about Arthur.
“First and last warning,” Arthur grunts into his ear.
“Be original and come up with your own line, darling,” he says, taunting, wanting to see what Arthur will do next.
“You don’t have many options here,” Arthur says. “I can snap your neck any second.”
It is really getting more and more uncomfortable with the grenades pressed in between his bruised chest and the cold wall, Arthur’s elbow still digging deep into his back, tightening his hold around Eames neck, preventing more air circulation.
Eames coughs a couple of times before saying, “All right, all right! I give up.”
“Excuse me?” Arthur is taken aback. And surprisingly, the hold around Eames’ neck loosens a little bit. Eames uses the momentary lapse to lift one of his legs and hooks it to one of Arthur’s leg. As Arthur loses his balance, Eames twists in his hold and quickly pushes Arthur down.
The elevator rocks a little bit from the momentum of the two of them falling down to the floor.
As Arthur gasps for air, Eames quickly presses his left arm on to Arthur’s neck, blocking his breathing, and then pins his left hand with his other hand over his head. Arthur’s right hand is trying to pry Eames’ hand away weakly. Eames moves his legs to straddles Arthur’s thighs.
They’re breathing heavily, their face only a couple of inches away and their noses almost touching. Eames can feel the Arthur’s hot breath on his face.
“The table has been turned,” he says, grinning smugly at Arthur, whose face is getting redder. “Don’t you think this is more like us, Arthur?”
Arthur’s response is to headbutt Eames. Groaning in pain, Eames clutches his head with both hands and Arthur rolls them over, changing their position once again. Arthur’s cold hands are wrapped around Eames’ neck, choking him.
That is the moment the light in the elevator flickers back to life. The elevator starts moving down. Charlie must have restarted the system again.
Arthur looks up, distracted with the light suddenly illuminating the elevator. Eames quickly sends a sharp elbow up to Arthur’s chin, and then using both his knees to pushes him off, sending him back to the wall. The elevator rocks slightly again.
Eames pulls himself up, pressing his back to one side of the wall, facing Arthur who’s rubbing his chin in the opposite corner.
“That hurt?” He cocks his head and sends Arthur a grin. Being the receiving end of Arthur’s deathly glare for the last couple of years, Eames is unfazed with the intensity of said glare Arthur is giving him right now. It’s just like facing a really stubborn kid who thinks he can have everything he wants just by giving his parents a tantrum.
Arthur moves to loosen his tie and Eames has to, really has to stop himself from wolf-whistling when he starts to undo the two top buttons of his black shirt. His hair, usually slicked back perfectly, is all rumpled from their brief struggles on the floor. It reminds Eames of how Arthur usually looks like after sex.
“I have to say you look gorgeous in black, darling,” he says, raking his eyes up and down Arthur’s body.
“I’m practising,” Arthur says, sliding his tie off and makes a move to tuck it into his trousers pocket, “for mourning.” Suddenly he throws the white tie to Eames’ face, distracting him.
A kick lands on his stomach, Eames doubles up, but he recovers quickly. He grabs Arthur’s leg immediately and is ready to give Arthur his own kick when suddenly Arthur jumps up, spins in the middle of the air and sends a reverse roundhouse kick with his other leg to the right side of Eames’ head. If his head didn’t feel like it’ll split in two, his ear not ringing and he’s not actually lurching in pain, Eames would have given Arthur an impressed look as he lands on both his feet. A clap, even. Because Arthur’s little stunt of doing such acrobatic manoeuvres in a tight and enclosed space like an elevator definitely deserves it.
And it turns him on a little bit. A tiny little bit. Especially with how Arthur’s looking at him at the moment. The heated glare, clenched jaw and the scowl on Arthur’s face surprisingly make a hot combination.
Arthur’s eyes then flick up to the small screen above the control panel. The elevator has reached the eighth floor. Soon enough it will reach the basement where no doubt there will be a horde of Arthur’s people waiting for him. Eames doesn’t have much time. He ignores the throbbing pain on one side of his head, his stomach and chest. He bends down and swipes one leg over Arthur’s, then catches his flailing body.
In a quick, swift move, Eames pins Arthur down on the floor again, their hands tangled in between their bodies as they both try to throw a punch or two to the other’s face. An elbow to Eames’ cheek, a brief choke hold to Arthur’s neck and the struggles continue for almost half a minute until there’s small ‘ting!’ sound, and Eames looks up to the elevator’s control panel from where he’s pinning both Arthur’s hands above his head. His upper body is pressed fully on top of Arthur’s. Arthur’s one leg is bent between their stomachs as he tries to dislodge Eames. His other leg, somehow, is wrapped around the back of Eames’ thigh. If only they’re in different situation, Eames would’ve told Arthur how much he likes their current position.
When the elevator door starts to slide open, Arthur tightens his leg lock and then pushes Eames off with his other leg. Eames releases Arthur’s wrists, he slumps onto the wall. He brings himself up quickly but Arthur has already shoves one foot up to his neck, pins him to the wall, and then he bends down to grab both of Eames’ legs, dragging him down to the floor. Arthur twists Eames’ right leg around his body, locking both his arms, and pressing his lower body down to pin the left, immobilising Eames completely.
“I’ve always known how flexible your body is,” Eames starts, panting and out of breath. “But I never knew you could be this flexible.”
“You are underestimating me,” Arthur says, he sends another sharp elbow jab to Eames’ upper chest before untangling himself from Eames and then grabs his protective vest. “See if you can escape this.” He proceeds to pull the pins of all the grenades strapped on Eames’ vest and then dashes out of the elevator door, which is currently sliding close again.
Eames looks down at the activated grenades and silently curses his luck today.
Arthur doesn’t often feel maudlin. But when he reflects on his recent days, he feels that it’s justified to be so. So there he is, sitting alone in his favourite restaurant, listening to the string quartet play sentimental songs and feeling like a jilted lover from one of those Miles and Boons novels.
In truth, he’s not so much a jilted lover as a… what? He doubts there’s a reserved adjective in the English language to describe an occasion where a person finds out that his husband has been lying to him for years and that said husband is actually an assassin from the opposing organization and that they have been trying to kill each other ever since and yet he still can’t stop loving said lying, cunning, trigger-happy husband of his.
And it is possible that he has succeeded on killing said husband of his. That is, if the way the building shook from the explosion in the elevator could be trusted. Arthur doesn’t know. He didn’t even look back to make sure and just told Max-who was waiting with Ariadne in a black mini van for him-to drive away.
Thinking about it again makes his head spin.
Sipping his wine, Arthur’s gaze sweeps across the restaurant he’s in. Eames was the one to introduce him with that restaurant when he took them there for their second anniversary. He remembers how happy they were that time. He remembers how Eames had teased him non stop during the entire course of their meals. He remembers the fantastic sex they had afterward.
How things have changed now.
But, well, he thinks with a bitter smile, now he can’t complain about how his marriage with Eames lacked some sparks. They have had more than enough literal sparks lately. The last ‘sparks’ might even have put Eames to his grave. Perhaps. He doesn’t know. He hopes… no, he can’t hope. He can’t even think.
Arthur puts his glass of wine back to the table and, during the process, catches a whiff of very familiar cologne.
“You wouldn’t be getting all mushy about killing me now, would you?”
He doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t give even the slightest reaction when Eames sits in front of him, very much alive and, if the smirk on his face is any indication, up to something.
Arthur berates himself for feeling a tiny bit relieved at the fact that apparently he has failed in his attempt to kill Eames.
“Good evening, darling,” Eames greets him in a way that always makes Arthur’s eyebrow twitch. There’s just something in the way he calls him ‘darling’. “Why the sombre mood?”
Arthur fixes him a hard stare. “I’m in mourning for my deceased husband.”
“Pity,” Eames said. “I’m in the mood for celebrating life in general, myself.”
Arthur sighs. “What do you want, William?” He almost asks ‘how did you escape?’, but he stops himself. It’s no use asking how a trained assassin escapes a life and death situation, so he just entertains himself by watching that subtle flinch Eames has when he called him with his Christian name.
“You have to make up your mind on what name you want to use to call me, Arthur. We have to talk,” Eames says.
“About what?”
“Us.”
“There’s no such thing.”
“So there’s nothing between us now?”
“Just a table.”
A slight pause. They are looking at each other heatedly.
“I want a divorce.” Eames says it so easily, without any hesitation and he even gives Arthur a smirk.
But Arthur is not bothered by his words. He expected Eames to be dead, he can’t possibly be shocked over being proposed for a divorce.
“Just tell me when I have to book a plane to London and have the receipts of the plane ticket and lawyer fee sent to your family’s doorstep,” he counters easily.
“You wouldn’t dare.” Eames is giving him a slight squint.
“Really? Try me.” Arthur sips his wine without breaking the eye contact. “Oh and I want keep the Westchester County house. You can keep the London suite.”
Perhaps if there were the typical two point five kids involved, they’d be fighting for custody too. But the only typical thing their marriage has-had, he amends himself, is the white picket fence house in Westchester County. Arthur loves the house.
The conversation stops for a few moments when a waiter comes to ask what Eames wants to drink. It only starts again when Eames has his flute filled with the most expensive house champagne, and Arthur has his wine glass re-filled.
“What do you think happened to our marriage?” Arthur starts. He notices how Eames left hand fingers are now bared of any accessories. No wedding band in sight. It shouldn’t be a surprise, really, since he has also stopped wearing his.
Eames takes a sip of his bubbling champagne, smacking his lips and then gives Arthur a smirk. “I have a theory, newly developed.”
“I’m breathless to hear it.”
“I think you killed us.”
“Provocative. Do you want to hear my theory?”
“By all means.”
“It was just a huge mistake.”
Arthur almost, almost regrets his own words when he sees Eames’ eyes filled with something like, regret? Pain? He doesn’t know. All Arthur knows is that he never thought their marriage was a mistake. Their marriage just happened at a wrong time, wrong place, and perhaps wrong lifetime.
“Dance with me,” Eames says simply after a few moments pass with them only staring at each other. The string quartet has started on another number and there are already two or three couples dancing on the dance floor.
Eames stands up and offers his hand to Arthur, the picture of a perfect gentleman. And Arthur is reminded of William Eames, the man he fell hopelessly in love with. “Shall we?”
Arthur takes the offered hand readily, “You don’t dance,” he says as Eames leads him to the dance floor.
“It was just a cover, sweetheart.”
“I hope your horrible fashion sense was just your cover too.”
He feels the warmth of Eames’ hand holding his, the gentle pressure of his palm against the small of his back. And Eames is smiling at him, smiling tenderly at him with enough hints of sadness and passion and anger and…
…and everything. There’s everything in that smile. Everything that has made Arthur dare to say ‘I do’ and sign the registry in front of numerous people and mean it.
“If…” Eames starts, staring right into Arthur’s eyes. “We are to start shooting each other here…”
The grasp Eames has on his hand tightens. Yet strangely, Arthur doesn’t feel alarmed.
“Don’t you think it will end our problem nicely?” Eames continues. “Seeing that you apparently want me dead and I find myself thinking less and less concerned of your well being?”
Arthur pretends to give it some thought.
“I wouldn’t go for that route,” he says. “It would most likely results in me getting banned from this place for killing you and I love it here.”
Eames chuckles and pulls Arthur’s body flush against him. Arthur knows, though, that the hand that is steadily advancing to his ass is not only meant to tease him but also to check for any hidden weapon that he might hide under his clothes.
He lets him, for now.
“You’re so confident,” Eames whispers to his ears as they sway to the music. “That your aim won’t miss.”
“I’m the sharpshooter, remember?” Arthur whispers back. He feels Eames hand linger on his ass, even though he must have finished checking him out for weapons.
He can see Eames’ gaze sharpen. The hand moves from his ass to his waist, under his jacket and over his waistcoat, when he spins him on that dancing floor.
“Oh, yes,” Eames says. “You’re a very good one. My body has received enough proof to vouch for it.”
“I try my best,” Arthur says. His hand slides down Eames’ back, to check for hidden weapons. Two can play the game, and it’s only polite to return the gesture.
“Satisfied?” Eames smirks at him when his search results in nothing.
Arthur sweeps his hand across Eames’ chest, drawing a stiletto dagger from his belt. Showing him the dagger, Eames merely shrugs with a ‘you-caught-me’ smile. Eames tells him as he pockets the dagger, “Not for years.”
Eames chuckles and Arthur feels his hand passing his crotch, lingering far too long and far too intimate.
“You’ve got a very lethal weapon here,” Eames says, fingertips dancing teasingly along the seam of Arthur’s trousers. “But I dare to think that this one I can handle.”
Arthur puts his palm flat against Eames’ chest, feels how his heart’s beating under his hand. Instinctively, he presses closer to Eames’ body, feeling how the pressure tightens on his crotch, on his belly, in his heart.
“All me, baby,” he whispers.
Eames gives him a brief squeeze before he plucks the mini revolver Arthur hides under his belt. Showing him the gun, Eames clucks his tongue. Arthur only snorts but his snorts dies down when he watches Eames bringing that gun to his lips and kissing it tenderly.
“All you,” Eames said. He pockets the gun and then uses his now free hand to caress Arthur’s cheek. “All mine… darling?”
Arthur tries not to shudder when Eames’ thumb slides over his jaw, to his lips. He composes himself, tries to unclog his throat without swallowing, even though he really, really wants to take that thumb into his mouth, and says instead, “Your right expired the moment you shot at me last night.”
“It was just an accident. And you’re being a hypocrite, Arthur. You shot at me too, fifteen times.” Eames chuckles, as he moves them around, hand resting on the small of Arthur’s back again.
Arthur raises an eyebrow when the grip on his left hand is tightened and Eames walks them around a pillar, passing other couples who are looking at them curiously. When they are behind the pillar, Eames slams him to it. Arthur bites his tongue to prevent any sound from falling out of his mouth. He only groans in pain a bit, nothing more than that. Eames drags his half-limp body and moves them to the dance floor again.
“Do you think this story has a happy ending?” Eames asks, when Arthur’s eyes are focused again.
Arthur wants to laugh. He wants to tell Eames there was never ‘this story’ in their relationship. There’s only ‘this lie’. “Happy endings are just for stories that haven’t finished yet,” he mocks. “Tell me, was it hard lying to me all those years?”
“Why do you care, if I was just a cover?” Eames leans away, and looking at him as if Arthur has just said the curtain he bought last week was to his liking.
“I could ask you the same question.”
“Who says you were just a cover?”
Arthur realises belatedly that Eames’ deathly grip on his hand has loosened considerably. “Wasn’t I?” he asks.
“Well, wasn’t I?” Eames asks back.
Arthur’s honest answer would be ‘no, you were never just a cover’. But he couldn’t say that. Wouldn’t. Deep down inside, he knows Eames has the same answer. And they have stopped moving. They are just standing there on the dance floor, facing each other, gazing at each other, so very close and still touching each other.
It will be so very easy to just close that gap between them, to press his lips against Eames, to taste him and steal his breath away from him…
When he’s thinking about that, Eames takes his hand. He still maintains their eye contact when he raises their joined hands to his lips. He keeps staring into Arthur’s eyes when he blows hot breath over Arthur’s knuckles.
He’s smiling when he kisses the back of Arthur’s palm.
“Arthur,” he whispers almost reverently. “Darling, you’ll be the death of me.”
Arthur grasps the back of Eames’ neck and yanks their faces closer. The kiss that follows is rough and so very full of lust yet there’s tenderness in it. The paradox makes Arthur’s head spin. But perhaps it’s the kiss. Perhaps it’s both. Perhaps it’s another thing altogether.
Perhaps it’s simply Eames. Eames, who teases his lips and tongues, whose kisses always make his knees weak, who is cradling his head gently as he plunders his mouth, stealing his breath and soul. Indeed, perhaps it’s Eames, whose fingertips presses gently against his neck, whose body feels warm and solid against him.
It’s with utmost reluctance that they part a few minutes later. They are standing right in the middle of the dance floor, foreheads resting on each other, sharing their breaths, and Arthur doesn’t want the kiss to stop. He wants to keep kissing Eames, to run his hand across his body, to feel the effect of his touch and kisses on his husband’s body, to forsake any rational thought and let his desire rule him.
But it’s not a matter of ‘want’. It’s a matter of ‘need’. He needs-is required-to deal with this ‘inconvenience’ he has with Eames. And, well, he admits that he still has his basic instinct as an assassin with a mission. That should explain why, during their kiss, he somehow managed to slip a tiny piece of explosive to Eames’ suit pocket. But…
How could he even think of blowing up the guy who has just kissed him like he means more than life, the universe, and everything?
“I have to go,” he says abruptly. Then, before Eames has a chance to respond, he already steps out of his embrace and walks out of the dance floor. He makes a point of never looking back, never slowing down his step, even though he knows that Eames’ gaze is following him.
He can only breathe normally again when he’s inside the men’s room. And even then, he’s only allowed a meagre few seconds because shortly after he steps in to one of the stalls, his eyes catch the familiar sight of a blinking bomb.
“Oh, fuck,” he says to no one in particular, staring down at the offending object.
Arthur is aware of the concept of karma. And, remembering how he has slipped his own choice of explosive into Eames’ pocket, perhaps now is the perfect example of ‘karma is one nasty bitch’. But that doesn’t mean he can’t get irked by the fact that he’s about to be blown up to pieces.
He won’t forgive Eames, though, if his little stunt really results in him being banned from the establishment for eternity. He really loves eating in that restaurant.
[in sickness and in health] next >>
Part VI: for richer for poorer
[masterpost]
<< [for better for worse] previous
“So, what are you going to do?”
It is the break of the dawn and Eames has just woken up feeling like shit. His brain still hasn’t caught up with the time yet and Yusuf has already started the conversation. He groggily shoves the blanket off himself and takes the cup of tea-thank God, it’s not the shitty coffee-Yusuf offers. He takes a sip and tries to connect his brain to the living world again. He didn’t really have a good sleep, he kept on having dreams about Arthur shooting at him.
“What do you think I should do? I don’t remember if during the orientation day they included the information on how to deal with a problem in which you find out your spouse is actually an assassin from the rival agency. I didn’t really pay attention.”
Yusuf doesn’t look like he approves of his words, but Eames doesn’t care. “They didn’t. And spare me sarcasm, Eames.”
“My bad.”
“The worst possible scenario is he comes to kill you.”
Eames frowns at his teacup and doesn’t look at Yusuf in the eyes.
“He knows the rules, Eames. As you do,” Yusuf continues. “It’s all just the same in any agency. You do not let anyone who ID’d you live.”
“Spare me the technicalities, Yusuf. I’ve memorised the rules since ten years ago.”
“So do this.” Eames tries not to flinch too much. “And be done with it. Mourn a week, or two, or a month, I’ll even talk to the boss about giving you some time off. You’ll get drunk and I’ll provide you the perfect concoction for hangover. After that you’ll wake up clean and free. Just keep telling yourself: you don’t love him.”
“That’s not what you told me last night.”
Yusuf shrugs. “Things change, Eames. Arthur is not your husband. He’s your enemy.”
And Eames nods, thinking ‘he’s not my husband, he’s not my husband’ over and over again. He has accepted the fact that Arthur is an enemy last night. It is time to accept the fact that to escape the huge mess he’s in, he has to stop thinking of Arthur as his husband, the one person he’s loved for the past five years. Eames slaps himself on the cheek and turns to Yusuf who’s giving him a weird look.
“He tried to kill me,” Eames says.
“And he will do it again. Tell me how you are going to handle it then?”
Eames is thinking about his weapon stash in the kitchen and in his study at home. It will be too risky to go back and get them. “You think you have any guns I can use?”
“I have some poisons, if you want.” Yusuf points out to the lines of bottles on the far side of the living room. They are all filled with liquid of many colours.
“And risk killing myself with it? No, I don’t think so.” He stands up and starts pacing. “I have to go back.”
“Go back to where?”
“Home.” He flinches when he says it. That house is not your home anymore, he tells himself. “I mean, get to the house and get my guns back.”
“And find anything you can while you’re at that. Get in to his life. Find out who he really is.”
Eames wants to say he knows everything about Arthur, but he doesn’t voice it, because that’s the exact moment he realises he doesn’t really know the real Arthur. If Arthur could have kept the secret of being an assassin for five whole years, what other things has he hidden from Eames?
--
Arthur steps out of the car-wearing all-black attire plus white skinny tie-and pushes the shades up his nose.He silently motions his team to start the investigation by giving Max, the investigation team leader, the keys. Ariadne stands beside him as she keeps looking at Arthur with an expression that says ‘you look like shit’. She is lucky the only name on Arthur’s hit list and his main priority at this moment is William Eames, and not hers.
“Pocket litter. Matchbooks. Receipts. Everything,” says Max to the others. “You know the drill.”
As the team starts entering the house, Arthur stands on the porch, his back to the main door and both his hands in his pants pocket. He looks at the empty suburban road and waves to the paper boy when he passes by with his bicycle, throwing the newspaper to the front lawn over the fence. He doesn’t make any move to get the paper but his gaze turns to his left, to the pots of gloxinia. There are dried leaves around the pots and a lot of the flowers are wilting. It’s ironic, he thinks, how the flowers represents their current situation. The love that started on their first sight of each other has has been dying slowly and now it’s at the edge of complete demise.
He looks away from the flowers, takes a deep breath and tries to swallow the clog in his throat. He doesn’t realise Ariadne is behind him until he takes a step back into the house, and bumps into her. They enter the house and go straight to the sitting room.
“Having second thoughts?” Ariadne asks, when Arthur stops to stare at the many framed pictures hanging on one side of the wall for a couple of seconds longer than necessary. The pictures are mainly of him and Eames during their first couple of years of marriage, still looking happy and content-and in love-with each other.
Arthur looks down to Ariadne and then shakes his head. “No… I just,” he pauses and glances at one photo of Eames hugging him from behind (both smiling too widely to the camera) as they stand in front of the Eames’ manor-it was taken by Amelia, Eames’ younger sister, just before they left England to begin their life together in New York. He clears his throat, “I’m just checking the personal effects.”
“Find anything… personal?”
Arthur knows what Ariadne’s question means. He keeps his cool and says, “No leads. The mark covered his tracks.” He’s making sure his voice doesn’t break, and keeps his cool.
Ariadne sighs and shakes her head. She takes a couple of steps closer, takes one picture off the wall-a picture of Arthur feeding Eames a slice of cake mouth to mouth during Eames’ thirtieth birthday-and shows it to Arthur. “The ‘mark’? This man,” she points to Eames in the picture, “is also your husband, Arthur.”
“I don’t know who he is!” Arthur raises his voice and realises what he’s just done when Ariadne takes a step back away from him. He composes himself and massages his temple, easing the budding migraine. “He’s a security risk, Ariadne. He knows me. He’s compromised everyone here.”
“Are you sure? Are you sure you aren’t compromising everyone now?”
Arthur doesn’t have any answer to that and Ariadne is giving him another of her pitying looks. He walks away from the wall of pictures and slumps onto the sofa, throws the shade onto the table and covers his eyes with his left hand. He feels Ariadne sits down beside him.
“You know…”she starts, “You’re not the first person in the world to find out his life is a lie.”
He moves his arm away and glances sideways to Ariadne. “I know. But I thought it was my lie.”
--
It takes all of Eames’ self-restraint not to start shooting everything in sight.
The house is clean. The food on the dining table that was left untouched the night before has been thrown away. The kitchen is sparkling clean. There is no dust on the cabinets in the sitting room. Eames can even smell a lemon fragrance wafting in the air.
He doesn’t really care about the cleanliness of it all. What he really cares about is the state of his private study. It is also clean, as in stripped clean, the room is almost empty. There are only a desk, bookshelves-also empty- and some empty boxes lying around. He’s not so stupid as to keep his real work files lying around in the study of course so he’s not really worried about that-besides, it is mostly Yusuf’s job to keep tabs on all the paperwork. What pisses him off to no end is how there’s nothing left of his beloved firearm collection.
No SIGs, no Blasers, no Heckler& Kochs, no Berettas, not even the Glocks are spared. All hidden compartments and spaces have been found and stripped clean. He should’ve expected this. Should have, knowing how crazy and angry and dangerous his dearest Arthur is.
Arthur was quite thorough with his search, unfortunately, because Eames can’t find anything from the hidden spaces in the cabinets in the kitchen as well. The fucker.
Eames’ eyes moves to stare at the oven. Arthur has never touched the oven, at least never without Eames’ supervision. It’s still a possibility though. So he braces himself for the worst as he waits for the oven to stop beeping. He taps the code in and pulls the door open. As the steel drawers slides open one by one, Eames lets out a relieved breath. At least, Arthur didn’t actually find out about the oven, he thinks, touching one of the H&K magazines.
Then Eames makes his way up to the second floor. Arthur has crossed over the line. It’s justified that Eames does the same, by checking Arthur’s private study. It is locked of course. Luckily, picking locks is one of Eames’ many skills.
He starts picking at the lock. Less than a couple of minutes later, the door unlocks with a small click. He steps in and quickly scans the study. Nothing out of the ordinary. But that doesn’t mean there’s nothing hidden. He’s sure Arthur keeps something in this room too-like he himself did-and he starts searching. He opens every drawer, moves every painting or picture frame hanging on the wall, and he also doesn’t forget to check the thick books Arthur has (Eames himself made a box that kept one of his guns to look like a very thick book).
Then he notices something out of the corner of his eyes-a medium sized black suitcase is resting against the wall beside the bookshelves. Eames raises an eyebrow at it; it’s Arthur’s suitcase, the one that he brought for his ‘trip’. He takes the suitcase and heaves it up to Arthur’s working table. He unzips it and he whistles at the disassembled pieces of a sniper rifle.
And then an idea pops up in his mind.
Eames starts to formulate a plan, a plan to visit Arthur. He begins by zipping the suitcase up, going back to the kitchen and takes a couple of daggers and one gun from the drawers. He takes out the phone Yusuf has given him and dials Charlie’s number. Charlie picks up after five rings.
“I need your help,” Eames says before Charlie can say anything. He hears him groans and he has to smirk.
“Jesus fucking Christ, Eames!” Charlie curses. “It hasn’t even been a week. Wait, let me correct that. I meant, less than three days. You asking for another favour already?”
“Don’t complain. I’ll pay you, okay? Payment plus I’ll owe you a big favour.”
“No! You mean, your boss pays me.”
Eames pulls the suitcase out through the backdoor and proceeds to the garage. “Same difference.”
“All right… What do you need?” Charlie sighs.
“You still have the address you got from the laptop I brought the other day?” he asks, as he gathers a bag full with climbing gears.
He hears some tapping and then Charlie answers, “Yeah, I think so. Why d’you ask?”
“I believe that building uses a remote management elevator control system.” Thankfully Eames remembers that bit of information Arthur gave him after that little accident where he’s stuck in the elevator due to some error in the security system. “I want you to hack into the security and the elevator control system to do something for me.”
There’s a short silence before Charlie groans audibly. “Eames, tell me you’re not actually going to make me one of your accomplices for your job.”
“No, mate!” Eames laughs, both because of Charlie’s complaint and the plan that’s forming in his head. “You just need to make sure they don’t know I’m going inside the building. And shut the elevator system down if need be.”
“You are fucking insane, do you know that?”
Eames ignores him. “Can you do it?”
“Of course I can!” Charlie sounds a bit insulted. “Do you have any way to get me inside?”
“Where do you need to be?”
“Anywhere that has computer connected to the intranet system. They’re all connected one way or another.”
“You think the basement security office will do?” Eames suggests.
“What about the fucking security guards? They’re called security office because there’s a bunch of security officers there. Do you want to get me behind the bloody bars?” Charlie replies scathingly.
“Yusuf should be able to help you with that.” Eames looks at his watch, it’s nearing noon and he should start his preparation to infiltrate Arthur’s office building as soon as possible. “Wear something to cover your face and have Yusuf give you some of his sleeping sprays.”
“I swear, Eames, if I get caught doing this, I will-”
Eames doesn’t let Charlie to finish. “Meet me at my gallery,” he says and hangs up. He knows Charlie will still come to the gallery regardless of how pissed off he is with Eames. They’re good friends after all.
Heaving up the suitcase and the bag with the climbing gears, Eames puts it into the car-again, borrowed from Yusuf-and starts the drive back to the gallery. He looks at the house for a couple of seconds before the car leaves the driveway. His grip on the steering wheel tightens and then he looks away.
There’s no need to think twice, he tells himself and then he pulls out his phone again, dialling Yusuf this time.
“Prepare your heat decoys and sleeping sprays, Yusuf,” he says as soon as Yusuf picks up.
“Do I want to know?” Yusuf asks.
“We have a new job,” Eames says, and he drives away without looking back.
--
Max has taken so many things from the house, Arthur notes, as he sees the investigation team haul one of the paintings they took from Eames’ study to the meeting room-anything frm artillery, assorted documents that don’t have anything to do with their line of work at all, and other things Arthur hasn’t checked yet. He let the team turn the house upside down-supervised by Ariadne-while he sat in the sitting room and just looked at the ugly curtains still hanging undisturbed.
Arthur enters the meeting room and when he sees the large HD monitor on the far end of the room is showing a footage so familiar (and private), he marches towards Max, Ariadne, and a couple of others-Jamie and Tony from the intel division-standing in front of the monitor. He’s fuming and trying so hard not to grab one of the Glocks on the table and throw it to any of their heads. When he reaches them, he clears his throat and shoots them a glare.
“What is this?”
Max is holding a DVD case and he shows it to Arthur. “Your honeymoon video?” The monitor is showing footage of Arthur sprawled on his stomach, bed sheets tangled around his bare body, asleep and dead to the world. There’s Eames’ voice narrating that the gorgeous man lying there is his beloved Arthur. And then the angle is changed. By the looks of it, Eames put the handycam on the bedside table. Eames then appears on the screen, leaning over Arthur and kissing the back of his neck, waking him up. Arthur in the video makes some pleasured grunts, smiling widely.
The current Arthur wills the heat creeping up his neck and cheeks down. Eames liked to record him during the first years of their marriage. Most of the videos likely will just show more of Arthur, rather than Eames. And Arthur just can’t let anyone see the videos. Even for the sake of research, he just can’t let anyone to see him this open, this vulnerable, this real and… weak.
He grabs the case from Max’s hand. “I know what this is,” he hisses and takes the remote control from Ariadne. “My question is what are you doing with it?”
“Research, Arthur,” Max says calmly. “Background research on the target.”
Arthur grits his teeth, turns off the monitor and hears disappointed grunts coming from Jamie and Tony. He puts on his ‘don’t you fuck with me, you imbeciles’ face and they scamper off, leaving Arthur with Ariadne and Max in the meeting room. Arthur ejects the disc and throws it away into the nearby rubbish bin, along with its case.
“Do you want to talk about this, Arthur?” Ariadne asks. She reaches out to touch Arthur’s elbow.
He flinches away and snaps, “No!” He ignores Ariadne’s frown and turns to Max again. “Target acquisition is our main priority. He is a code-blue liability to our company and we need to know his status. Start looking through everything, Max, phone records, credit cards, everything. Don’t waste your time watching those videos.”
“Bu-”
“Audio scan civilian frequencies, search for his banking database and…”
“For what? William Eames?” Max cuts him off. “Is that even his real name?”
Arthur doesn’t answer.
“Do what I told you to do, Max,” Arthur says, gritting his teeth. He can feel the pain that’s been gnawing at the back of his head since last night increasing in intensity. When Max still stays rooted to his spot, Arthur takes a deep breath and gives him a stern look. “Just… find him. Please.”
Max sighs and shakes his head slightly. “All right, all right. You’re the boss here,” he grumbles.
As he watches Max walk away, to hopefully do what he has been ordered to, Arthur takes one of the swivel chairs and sags down, massaging his temple. He knows Ariadne is still hovering beside him and he knows she will start pestering him again.
He is about to order her to find something to do when suddenly Max rushes into the meeting room again.
“He’s here!”
“Who?” Ariadne asks. Arthur stands up immediately. He ignores Ariadne’s call and looks at the pile of Eames’ possessions Max has taken from the house, he grabs a gun-a Browning Buckmark Camper-and starts running out of the meeting room.
“He was seen in one of the elevators for just a few seconds,” Max informs him. “But then he disappeared. We still can’t find where he is.”
There is a beeping sound from the security surveillance area. All the screens in that area are blinking red signals and most of the analysts there have already started to check all security cameras installed in the building, some are running scans with the heat-sensor.
Arthur’s eyes scan each and every screen, wondering why Eames would be so daring as to come out to him like this. He doesn’t even bother to inconspicuous. Arthur wonders if it’s just Eames’ style of doing things, always flashy and loud.
Suddenly he feels his phone vibrate in his pants pocket. Arthur scoffs, looking at the unknown caller ID, knowing exactly who the caller is and flips the phone open. “I thought I told you not to bother me at the office, William,” he says. He looks around to the screens again, Ariadne has already taken a chair and started checking the heat sensor and scans the building’s 3-D grid layout.
“First and last warning, darling,” Eames warns, “You need to disappear. And fast.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Arthur retorts. “You should’ve known the moment you breached our security, you’d be a dead man.”
Ariadne’s screen is showing a massive thermal image surrounding the top area of their floor. It’s difficult to pinpoint Eames’ exact location, if he’s really up there.
“We’ll see who the dead man in this story of ours is, Arthur,” Eames says. The sound from the phone is disturbed by a static. A gush of wind, Arthur guesses. Then he hears glass shattering from the direction of the meeting room, a thud, and something rolls out of the door.
Max curses loudly and Ariadne gasps at the same moment. Arthur realises the thing that’s rolling out of the meeting room is actually a tiny grenade. Almost everyone around the vicinity of the meeting room scatters.
“Bang! You’re dead,” Eames says, and the line is cut.
“Shit!” Arthur curses and he turns to his team. “Evac plan D now!”
Just a second after Arthur said that, the grenade explodes. There’s no fire, only a blinding flash of light and some green odourless smoke. It was just a decoy grenade, harmless. But no one wants to take any chances. The alarm rings.
Everyone in the office is on their feet and they’ve already started tapping on their respective keyboards, commencing the all-data destruction plan. Max is shouting and ordering everyone to go to the private exit door once they finish. There are two emergency elevators just two flights of stairs down that go directly down to the basement.
Arthur snaps his phone shut and slips it back into his pocket. He flicks off the gun’s safety and in a quick moment of derangement, Arthur wants to laugh. It was Eames’ gun. How ironic would it be if Eames were to be shot dead by his own gun?
“Arthur! Come on!” Ariadne calls out. She’s waiting by the exit, Max still ushering their people out. Arthur now runs around the almost deserted office, making sure everyone has done their job and all files are deleted or destroyed.
“Arthur!” Ariadne shouts again when the last person takes the flight down the exit.
“Let’s go, Ariadne!” Max drags her by the elbow and shuts the door behind them, leaving Arthur in the empty office.
Arthur loosens his tie and takes a spot facing directly to the meeting room door that’s still ajar. He takes a few steps back to the exit, he points the gun towards meeting room, waiting. The green smoke has cleared off bit by bit and he can see a dark silhouette walking out of the room. He raises his gun, aims it towards the figure.
The first thing that Arthur sees is the barrel of a rifle, the very same Heckler & Koch sniper rifle that he used during the Fischer job-Arthur remembers leaving the suitcase behind the kitchen back door but he’s quite sure Max’s team dealt with it-and he really, really has to laugh over the irony. Here he is with Eames’ gun, and there Eames is with his sniper rifle. Both of them couldn’t get any more tragically dramatic than this.
“I wouldn’t laugh if I were you, sweetheart,” Eames says, as soon as he steps out of the smoke, a safety harness is still wrapped around his hips-accompanied with a roll of rope-and he’s wearing a protective vest.
Arthur notices a couple of smoke grenades strapped to the front of Eames’ vest. His hands hold the rifle steady and he’s training his sights on Arthur, his finger is on the trigger-unlike Arthur who still has his finger off the trigger-and he doesn’t seem to be having any second thoughts of pulling the trigger if the needs arise.
“Ah, I never knew you could climb. I thought you said you’re afraid of heights?” Arthur says, smirking. He’s supposed to be leaving the building, he’s supposed to have gone with Ariadne and Max. But he can’t let this chance to face Eames pass just like that. Even though the chance of him winning this round with only one gun-the gun that he’s not used to-is slim, Arthur still doesn’t want to let Eames have the last laugh.
“Darling, you knew nothing about me,” Eames says. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”
Arthur chuckles lightly, cocking his head to the side and moves his finger on the trigger, and says, “Likewise, baby.”
And he starts shooting. He doesn’t really pay attention to whether or not any of the bullets hit the target. He only pays attention to the bullets that have started to come right after him as soon as he started to shoot. Arthur crouches down behind a cubicle, and crawls towards the exit door. He stands up and starts shooting over his shoulder as he opens the door and ducks behind it. He sees Eames running after him, the barrel of the rifle trained right at Arthur’s face, just before he slams the door close. The door is equipped with an electronic lock that can only be activated with a password and Arthur’s fingerprint. He quickly taps the password down and presses his thumb over the fingerprint sensor, locking the door.
Arthur runs down the stairs, taking a leap over the ledge and lands on the second flight. He can hear the telltale banging from above and smirks as he imagines how frustrated Eames must look like at the moment. There’s a series of gunshots-probably Eames trying to shoot the door down-that’s followed by more banging.
Arthur jumps over another ledge and he lands right in front of the two elevators running down to the basement floor. One is on its way down, presumably bringing Ariadne and Max down. The other one is still on its way back up. Arthur checks the magazine of the gun as he waits for the elevator, if his math is not wrong, he only has a couple or so bullets left.
He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath and trying to calm himself. He can feel his blood rushing, the rush of adrenaline making his whole body tingle with excitement. It is strange, in all honesty, because having your spouse trying to kill you-and you trying to kill him-isn’t supposed to be fun. At all.
There is a small ‘ting!’ sound, signalling the elevator finally arriving, and Arthur opens his eyes. Suddenly there’s a deafening explosion from the floor above. Arthur curses and pushes the button repeatedly, willing the steel door to open immediately. He’s forgotten the many things they’ve left in the meeting room table. And he’s sure amongst the guns and rifles and other firearms Max and his team have taken, there are some explosives as well.
The elevator door opens and just as Arthur goes to take a step in, a bullet passes his right side, missing his right cheek by a couple of inches and it hits the elevator wall. He turns on his spot and sees Eames, still aiming the rifle steadily, looming over the stairs.
“You only have two bullets left,” Eames begins, lowering his rifle a little bit. “You can make this real easy for yourself, Arthur.”
“What?” Arthur scoffs, holding up his gun and aiming it at Eames again. “You expect me to roll over and play dead?”
“You should be used to it after four years of marriage.”
“Five,” he hisses, clicking the safety off, “and I’m not leaving.”
Arthur takes two steps back into the elevator and hits the ‘close’ button. Eames holds up his rifle, but Arthur is faster. He pulls the trigger twice, emptying the magazine, though he doesn’t really know why he aims for Eames’ chest instead of his head. Arthur knows he could easily shoot the bullet in between Eames’ eyes and be done with it. It would be very easy and quick, yet Arthur still feels hesitant. Being hesitant has no place in their line of work, Arthur knows that clearly. It’s either kill or be killed.
As the elevator door slowly closes, Arthur sees Eames stagger backwards a little bit from the shock of the bullets hitting his protected chest. He can see Eames’ expression; there’s rage, mixed with hurt and maybe Arthur’s just imagining things because he thinks he sees admiration in those pair of blue grey eyes (and if Arthur could convince himself, he’s sure Eames is grinning at him). Arthur doesn’t have a chance to make sure because the elevator door finally closes, and it’s all he can think about for the brief fifteen seconds before the elevator suddenly stops moving, he has wondered and comes to the conclusion that the part about admiration was just conjured up by his subconscious.
--
Groaning and hissing in pain, Eames tries to stand up. The dull pain in his chest, caused by the bullets Arthur has shot at him, is making it a little bit difficult for him to breathe. He lets go of the rifles to assess the damage on his protective vest. One bullet on the stomach area and the other on the upper right chest area. The one on the chest is just an inch away from hitting the small hand grenade he keeps in the chest pocket.
Eames heaves himself up and looks at the elevator that Arthur’s taken. The small digital screen above it signals the elevator is already down on the twenty third floor. Clicking his tongue, he takes out his phone and speed dials Charlie.
Charlie picks up after the first ring. “What do I have to do next?” he says, without a ‘hello’.
“Shut the elevator system down,” Eames says, eyes still locked on the digital number on the screen.
“Done!” Charlie says right away. True to Charlie’s words, the digital numbers stop at 20.
“Great,” Eames says. “I owe you, mate.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Charlie grunts. “Just don’t drag me into any of your problems again. You owe me a bloody huge favour for this, Eames.”
“Don’t worry. There won’t be a next time. Remember to restart the system in ten minutes. After that, get as far away from this building as you can.”
“I know what to do, you twat!”
Eames doesn’t have the chance to slip the phone back to his pocket because right after Charlie hangs up, there’s another incoming call. He smirks as he sees Arthur’s number on the screen. He re-attaches the wireless earphone and then slowly saunters to the elevator, the door still closed tight. He grips the phone with one hand, the other hand taking the dagger strapped on his right thigh. After a few moments of letting it vibrate, Eames presses the answer button, slips the phone to one of his chest pockets and starts prying the elevator door open.
“Whatever your plan is, it’s not going to work,” Arthur says.
“Are you sure about that, darling?” Eames chuckles. The steel door is opening just a slither. “I’m not the one stuck in an elevator. You constantly underestimate your dear hubby, Arthur.”
“Oh? Do I?”
Eames can practically see Arthur’s raised eyebrow and the eye roll from his voice. He slips his hand into the gap and then uses all his strength to pry the steel door open. The elevator shaft is almost dark, with only a small lamp attached on the wall every couple of sections. He looks down and sees the elevator box-the one Arthur is currently in-hanging just eight floors away. He looks at the two pairs of cables holding the box steady. There’s no way he can use the cables to climb down. He looks at the climbing equipment he has on and then he turns around to the stairs, squinting at the banister. He really hopes it will be strong enough to hold his weight.
“What exactly are you doing right now, Eames?” Arthur asks.
“Ah, back to last name, I see,” Eames says. He quickly hooks one end of a carabiner around the banister to secure the rope around the safety harness, making sure the belay works perfectly. He tugs the rope a couple of times, once he’s sure it won’t slip off he throws the other end into the shaft as he stands on the edge. “Don’t worry, babe, I’ll be down in a few moments,” he adds before hanging up.
Deciding it will be too much of a hassle to bring the rifle down with him, Eames chooses to leave it. It’s not really his anyway and Arthur probably doesn’t have any firearms with him. If they’re going to have a fight in a tight enclosed space, Eames thinks it’s safer for both parties if no firearms are involved-him particularly, because at this point it’s no use to pretend both of them will get out alive. It’s either him or Arthur.
He checks his watch, there’s still eight minutes until Charlie restart the elevator system.
“Here goes nothing.” And he starts the climb down the elevator shaft.
It takes him less than four minutes to reach the elevator box and when he lands, panting and sweating a little, the box rocks to the side. He stands still for a few second until it stops moving and then he starts pulling off the safety harness. He uses the dagger again to pry open the top hatch and sees it’s pitch black inside the elevator. The light fixtures around the adjacent walls of the shaft streaming into the box only help him to see the floor and he can’t make out any shapes. It doesn’t mean Arthur is not inside waiting for him of course.
After taking a deep breath, Eames sits on the edge of the hatch and as soon as he jumps down, a pair of arms grabs him from behind and out him in a headlock . He grasps the hand, preventing it from choking him fully. He feels the tight lines of Arthur’s body pressed against his back and when Arthur slams him to the wall, Eames can’t help but smirking at their situation.
“There you are, Arthur,” he says, breathing heavily, still trying to loosen Arthur’s headlock. “Isn’t this a new experience?”
“What kind of new experience?” Arthur hisses.
“It’s dark, we’re alone, you're pressing me up to the wall instead of the other way round and you don’t actually have a headache.”
Arthur tightens his hold on Eames’ neck and pushes him to the wall again. Eames feels Arthur’s elbow digging into his back and it’s getting a little bit difficult to breathe. It’s not really difficult to try and break free of the hold, Eames is sure of that. He has the upper hand of having bigger body mass. But he never really thought there was so much strength hidden beneath Arthur’s layers of clothes. Then again, Eames never really thought a lot of things about Arthur.
“First and last warning,” Arthur grunts into his ear.
“Be original and come up with your own line, darling,” he says, taunting, wanting to see what Arthur will do next.
“You don’t have many options here,” Arthur says. “I can snap your neck any second.”
It is really getting more and more uncomfortable with the grenades pressed in between his bruised chest and the cold wall, Arthur’s elbow still digging deep into his back, tightening his hold around Eames neck, preventing more air circulation.
Eames coughs a couple of times before saying, “All right, all right! I give up.”
“Excuse me?” Arthur is taken aback. And surprisingly, the hold around Eames’ neck loosens a little bit. Eames uses the momentary lapse to lift one of his legs and hooks it to one of Arthur’s leg. As Arthur loses his balance, Eames twists in his hold and quickly pushes Arthur down.
The elevator rocks a little bit from the momentum of the two of them falling down to the floor.
As Arthur gasps for air, Eames quickly presses his left arm on to Arthur’s neck, blocking his breathing, and then pins his left hand with his other hand over his head. Arthur’s right hand is trying to pry Eames’ hand away weakly. Eames moves his legs to straddles Arthur’s thighs.
They’re breathing heavily, their face only a couple of inches away and their noses almost touching. Eames can feel the Arthur’s hot breath on his face.
“The table has been turned,” he says, grinning smugly at Arthur, whose face is getting redder. “Don’t you think this is more like us, Arthur?”
Arthur’s response is to headbutt Eames. Groaning in pain, Eames clutches his head with both hands and Arthur rolls them over, changing their position once again. Arthur’s cold hands are wrapped around Eames’ neck, choking him.
That is the moment the light in the elevator flickers back to life. The elevator starts moving down. Charlie must have restarted the system again.
Arthur looks up, distracted with the light suddenly illuminating the elevator. Eames quickly sends a sharp elbow up to Arthur’s chin, and then using both his knees to pushes him off, sending him back to the wall. The elevator rocks slightly again.
Eames pulls himself up, pressing his back to one side of the wall, facing Arthur who’s rubbing his chin in the opposite corner.
“That hurt?” He cocks his head and sends Arthur a grin. Being the receiving end of Arthur’s deathly glare for the last couple of years, Eames is unfazed with the intensity of said glare Arthur is giving him right now. It’s just like facing a really stubborn kid who thinks he can have everything he wants just by giving his parents a tantrum.
Arthur moves to loosen his tie and Eames has to, really has to stop himself from wolf-whistling when he starts to undo the two top buttons of his black shirt. His hair, usually slicked back perfectly, is all rumpled from their brief struggles on the floor. It reminds Eames of how Arthur usually looks like after sex.
“I have to say you look gorgeous in black, darling,” he says, raking his eyes up and down Arthur’s body.
“I’m practising,” Arthur says, sliding his tie off and makes a move to tuck it into his trousers pocket, “for mourning.” Suddenly he throws the white tie to Eames’ face, distracting him.
A kick lands on his stomach, Eames doubles up, but he recovers quickly. He grabs Arthur’s leg immediately and is ready to give Arthur his own kick when suddenly Arthur jumps up, spins in the middle of the air and sends a reverse roundhouse kick with his other leg to the right side of Eames’ head. If his head didn’t feel like it’ll split in two, his ear not ringing and he’s not actually lurching in pain, Eames would have given Arthur an impressed look as he lands on both his feet. A clap, even. Because Arthur’s little stunt of doing such acrobatic manoeuvres in a tight and enclosed space like an elevator definitely deserves it.
And it turns him on a little bit. A tiny little bit. Especially with how Arthur’s looking at him at the moment. The heated glare, clenched jaw and the scowl on Arthur’s face surprisingly make a hot combination.
Arthur’s eyes then flick up to the small screen above the control panel. The elevator has reached the eighth floor. Soon enough it will reach the basement where no doubt there will be a horde of Arthur’s people waiting for him. Eames doesn’t have much time. He ignores the throbbing pain on one side of his head, his stomach and chest. He bends down and swipes one leg over Arthur’s, then catches his flailing body.
In a quick, swift move, Eames pins Arthur down on the floor again, their hands tangled in between their bodies as they both try to throw a punch or two to the other’s face. An elbow to Eames’ cheek, a brief choke hold to Arthur’s neck and the struggles continue for almost half a minute until there’s small ‘ting!’ sound, and Eames looks up to the elevator’s control panel from where he’s pinning both Arthur’s hands above his head. His upper body is pressed fully on top of Arthur’s. Arthur’s one leg is bent between their stomachs as he tries to dislodge Eames. His other leg, somehow, is wrapped around the back of Eames’ thigh. If only they’re in different situation, Eames would’ve told Arthur how much he likes their current position.
When the elevator door starts to slide open, Arthur tightens his leg lock and then pushes Eames off with his other leg. Eames releases Arthur’s wrists, he slumps onto the wall. He brings himself up quickly but Arthur has already shoves one foot up to his neck, pins him to the wall, and then he bends down to grab both of Eames’ legs, dragging him down to the floor. Arthur twists Eames’ right leg around his body, locking both his arms, and pressing his lower body down to pin the left, immobilising Eames completely.
“I’ve always known how flexible your body is,” Eames starts, panting and out of breath. “But I never knew you could be this flexible.”
“You are underestimating me,” Arthur says, he sends another sharp elbow jab to Eames’ upper chest before untangling himself from Eames and then grabs his protective vest. “See if you can escape this.” He proceeds to pull the pins of all the grenades strapped on Eames’ vest and then dashes out of the elevator door, which is currently sliding close again.
Eames looks down at the activated grenades and silently curses his luck today.
Arthur doesn’t often feel maudlin. But when he reflects on his recent days, he feels that it’s justified to be so. So there he is, sitting alone in his favourite restaurant, listening to the string quartet play sentimental songs and feeling like a jilted lover from one of those Miles and Boons novels.
In truth, he’s not so much a jilted lover as a… what? He doubts there’s a reserved adjective in the English language to describe an occasion where a person finds out that his husband has been lying to him for years and that said husband is actually an assassin from the opposing organization and that they have been trying to kill each other ever since and yet he still can’t stop loving said lying, cunning, trigger-happy husband of his.
And it is possible that he has succeeded on killing said husband of his. That is, if the way the building shook from the explosion in the elevator could be trusted. Arthur doesn’t know. He didn’t even look back to make sure and just told Max-who was waiting with Ariadne in a black mini van for him-to drive away.
Thinking about it again makes his head spin.
Sipping his wine, Arthur’s gaze sweeps across the restaurant he’s in. Eames was the one to introduce him with that restaurant when he took them there for their second anniversary. He remembers how happy they were that time. He remembers how Eames had teased him non stop during the entire course of their meals. He remembers the fantastic sex they had afterward.
How things have changed now.
But, well, he thinks with a bitter smile, now he can’t complain about how his marriage with Eames lacked some sparks. They have had more than enough literal sparks lately. The last ‘sparks’ might even have put Eames to his grave. Perhaps. He doesn’t know. He hopes… no, he can’t hope. He can’t even think.
Arthur puts his glass of wine back to the table and, during the process, catches a whiff of very familiar cologne.
“You wouldn’t be getting all mushy about killing me now, would you?”
He doesn’t turn his head, doesn’t give even the slightest reaction when Eames sits in front of him, very much alive and, if the smirk on his face is any indication, up to something.
Arthur berates himself for feeling a tiny bit relieved at the fact that apparently he has failed in his attempt to kill Eames.
“Good evening, darling,” Eames greets him in a way that always makes Arthur’s eyebrow twitch. There’s just something in the way he calls him ‘darling’. “Why the sombre mood?”
Arthur fixes him a hard stare. “I’m in mourning for my deceased husband.”
“Pity,” Eames said. “I’m in the mood for celebrating life in general, myself.”
Arthur sighs. “What do you want, William?” He almost asks ‘how did you escape?’, but he stops himself. It’s no use asking how a trained assassin escapes a life and death situation, so he just entertains himself by watching that subtle flinch Eames has when he called him with his Christian name.
“You have to make up your mind on what name you want to use to call me, Arthur. We have to talk,” Eames says.
“About what?”
“Us.”
“There’s no such thing.”
“So there’s nothing between us now?”
“Just a table.”
A slight pause. They are looking at each other heatedly.
“I want a divorce.” Eames says it so easily, without any hesitation and he even gives Arthur a smirk.
But Arthur is not bothered by his words. He expected Eames to be dead, he can’t possibly be shocked over being proposed for a divorce.
“Just tell me when I have to book a plane to London and have the receipts of the plane ticket and lawyer fee sent to your family’s doorstep,” he counters easily.
“You wouldn’t dare.” Eames is giving him a slight squint.
“Really? Try me.” Arthur sips his wine without breaking the eye contact. “Oh and I want keep the Westchester County house. You can keep the London suite.”
Perhaps if there were the typical two point five kids involved, they’d be fighting for custody too. But the only typical thing their marriage has-had, he amends himself, is the white picket fence house in Westchester County. Arthur loves the house.
The conversation stops for a few moments when a waiter comes to ask what Eames wants to drink. It only starts again when Eames has his flute filled with the most expensive house champagne, and Arthur has his wine glass re-filled.
“What do you think happened to our marriage?” Arthur starts. He notices how Eames left hand fingers are now bared of any accessories. No wedding band in sight. It shouldn’t be a surprise, really, since he has also stopped wearing his.
Eames takes a sip of his bubbling champagne, smacking his lips and then gives Arthur a smirk. “I have a theory, newly developed.”
“I’m breathless to hear it.”
“I think you killed us.”
“Provocative. Do you want to hear my theory?”
“By all means.”
“It was just a huge mistake.”
Arthur almost, almost regrets his own words when he sees Eames’ eyes filled with something like, regret? Pain? He doesn’t know. All Arthur knows is that he never thought their marriage was a mistake. Their marriage just happened at a wrong time, wrong place, and perhaps wrong lifetime.
“Dance with me,” Eames says simply after a few moments pass with them only staring at each other. The string quartet has started on another number and there are already two or three couples dancing on the dance floor.
Eames stands up and offers his hand to Arthur, the picture of a perfect gentleman. And Arthur is reminded of William Eames, the man he fell hopelessly in love with. “Shall we?”
Arthur takes the offered hand readily, “You don’t dance,” he says as Eames leads him to the dance floor.
“It was just a cover, sweetheart.”
“I hope your horrible fashion sense was just your cover too.”
He feels the warmth of Eames’ hand holding his, the gentle pressure of his palm against the small of his back. And Eames is smiling at him, smiling tenderly at him with enough hints of sadness and passion and anger and…
…and everything. There’s everything in that smile. Everything that has made Arthur dare to say ‘I do’ and sign the registry in front of numerous people and mean it.
“If…” Eames starts, staring right into Arthur’s eyes. “We are to start shooting each other here…”
The grasp Eames has on his hand tightens. Yet strangely, Arthur doesn’t feel alarmed.
“Don’t you think it will end our problem nicely?” Eames continues. “Seeing that you apparently want me dead and I find myself thinking less and less concerned of your well being?”
Arthur pretends to give it some thought.
“I wouldn’t go for that route,” he says. “It would most likely results in me getting banned from this place for killing you and I love it here.”
Eames chuckles and pulls Arthur’s body flush against him. Arthur knows, though, that the hand that is steadily advancing to his ass is not only meant to tease him but also to check for any hidden weapon that he might hide under his clothes.
He lets him, for now.
“You’re so confident,” Eames whispers to his ears as they sway to the music. “That your aim won’t miss.”
“I’m the sharpshooter, remember?” Arthur whispers back. He feels Eames hand linger on his ass, even though he must have finished checking him out for weapons.
He can see Eames’ gaze sharpen. The hand moves from his ass to his waist, under his jacket and over his waistcoat, when he spins him on that dancing floor.
“Oh, yes,” Eames says. “You’re a very good one. My body has received enough proof to vouch for it.”
“I try my best,” Arthur says. His hand slides down Eames’ back, to check for hidden weapons. Two can play the game, and it’s only polite to return the gesture.
“Satisfied?” Eames smirks at him when his search results in nothing.
Arthur sweeps his hand across Eames’ chest, drawing a stiletto dagger from his belt. Showing him the dagger, Eames merely shrugs with a ‘you-caught-me’ smile. Eames tells him as he pockets the dagger, “Not for years.”
Eames chuckles and Arthur feels his hand passing his crotch, lingering far too long and far too intimate.
“You’ve got a very lethal weapon here,” Eames says, fingertips dancing teasingly along the seam of Arthur’s trousers. “But I dare to think that this one I can handle.”
Arthur puts his palm flat against Eames’ chest, feels how his heart’s beating under his hand. Instinctively, he presses closer to Eames’ body, feeling how the pressure tightens on his crotch, on his belly, in his heart.
“All me, baby,” he whispers.
Eames gives him a brief squeeze before he plucks the mini revolver Arthur hides under his belt. Showing him the gun, Eames clucks his tongue. Arthur only snorts but his snorts dies down when he watches Eames bringing that gun to his lips and kissing it tenderly.
“All you,” Eames said. He pockets the gun and then uses his now free hand to caress Arthur’s cheek. “All mine… darling?”
Arthur tries not to shudder when Eames’ thumb slides over his jaw, to his lips. He composes himself, tries to unclog his throat without swallowing, even though he really, really wants to take that thumb into his mouth, and says instead, “Your right expired the moment you shot at me last night.”
“It was just an accident. And you’re being a hypocrite, Arthur. You shot at me too, fifteen times.” Eames chuckles, as he moves them around, hand resting on the small of Arthur’s back again.
Arthur raises an eyebrow when the grip on his left hand is tightened and Eames walks them around a pillar, passing other couples who are looking at them curiously. When they are behind the pillar, Eames slams him to it. Arthur bites his tongue to prevent any sound from falling out of his mouth. He only groans in pain a bit, nothing more than that. Eames drags his half-limp body and moves them to the dance floor again.
“Do you think this story has a happy ending?” Eames asks, when Arthur’s eyes are focused again.
Arthur wants to laugh. He wants to tell Eames there was never ‘this story’ in their relationship. There’s only ‘this lie’. “Happy endings are just for stories that haven’t finished yet,” he mocks. “Tell me, was it hard lying to me all those years?”
“Why do you care, if I was just a cover?” Eames leans away, and looking at him as if Arthur has just said the curtain he bought last week was to his liking.
“I could ask you the same question.”
“Who says you were just a cover?”
Arthur realises belatedly that Eames’ deathly grip on his hand has loosened considerably. “Wasn’t I?” he asks.
“Well, wasn’t I?” Eames asks back.
Arthur’s honest answer would be ‘no, you were never just a cover’. But he couldn’t say that. Wouldn’t. Deep down inside, he knows Eames has the same answer. And they have stopped moving. They are just standing there on the dance floor, facing each other, gazing at each other, so very close and still touching each other.
It will be so very easy to just close that gap between them, to press his lips against Eames, to taste him and steal his breath away from him…
When he’s thinking about that, Eames takes his hand. He still maintains their eye contact when he raises their joined hands to his lips. He keeps staring into Arthur’s eyes when he blows hot breath over Arthur’s knuckles.
He’s smiling when he kisses the back of Arthur’s palm.
“Arthur,” he whispers almost reverently. “Darling, you’ll be the death of me.”
Arthur grasps the back of Eames’ neck and yanks their faces closer. The kiss that follows is rough and so very full of lust yet there’s tenderness in it. The paradox makes Arthur’s head spin. But perhaps it’s the kiss. Perhaps it’s both. Perhaps it’s another thing altogether.
Perhaps it’s simply Eames. Eames, who teases his lips and tongues, whose kisses always make his knees weak, who is cradling his head gently as he plunders his mouth, stealing his breath and soul. Indeed, perhaps it’s Eames, whose fingertips presses gently against his neck, whose body feels warm and solid against him.
It’s with utmost reluctance that they part a few minutes later. They are standing right in the middle of the dance floor, foreheads resting on each other, sharing their breaths, and Arthur doesn’t want the kiss to stop. He wants to keep kissing Eames, to run his hand across his body, to feel the effect of his touch and kisses on his husband’s body, to forsake any rational thought and let his desire rule him.
But it’s not a matter of ‘want’. It’s a matter of ‘need’. He needs-is required-to deal with this ‘inconvenience’ he has with Eames. And, well, he admits that he still has his basic instinct as an assassin with a mission. That should explain why, during their kiss, he somehow managed to slip a tiny piece of explosive to Eames’ suit pocket. But…
How could he even think of blowing up the guy who has just kissed him like he means more than life, the universe, and everything?
“I have to go,” he says abruptly. Then, before Eames has a chance to respond, he already steps out of his embrace and walks out of the dance floor. He makes a point of never looking back, never slowing down his step, even though he knows that Eames’ gaze is following him.
He can only breathe normally again when he’s inside the men’s room. And even then, he’s only allowed a meagre few seconds because shortly after he steps in to one of the stalls, his eyes catch the familiar sight of a blinking bomb.
“Oh, fuck,” he says to no one in particular, staring down at the offending object.
Arthur is aware of the concept of karma. And, remembering how he has slipped his own choice of explosive into Eames’ pocket, perhaps now is the perfect example of ‘karma is one nasty bitch’. But that doesn’t mean he can’t get irked by the fact that he’s about to be blown up to pieces.
He won’t forgive Eames, though, if his little stunt really results in him being banned from the establishment for eternity. He really loves eating in that restaurant.
[in sickness and in health] next >>