Fic: The man who had none of the luck 1/6
Apologies to all for taking this down for so long - I was unhappy with the severe level of typos, grammatical errors and clunky writing in the initial version and so felt it needed revision and re-polishing. Unfortunately this has taken longer than I'd hoped, so I will keep the story live whilst I'm tidying it all up.
There were also a couple of minor plot points I felt needed changing for various reasons, not least that they didn't fit with later parts of of the series, these were mostly in the first part and the epilogue.
It is however, very much the same story, just with, gradually, slightly more shine.
Title: The man who had none of the luck 1/6
author: Black Gem
pairing: Arthur/Eames
characters: Arthur, Eames, OC
rating: PG-13
warnings: gratuitous use of OC in the first part, mentions of sex, violence and torture later on
disclaimer: I own nothing, I'm just playing with them.
Summary: After all the secrets they'd stolen and dreams they'd invaded, it was inevitably someone would catch up to them. Shame it had to be Cobol Engineering.
+++++
Eames - London: 12th September, 6.45am
Eames hated staying in London, a position he made abundantly clear to anyone who'd listen. The reasons he gave were many and varied; the weather usually made the top of his list, with its damp drizzle and perpetual grey, of course that didn't exactly explain why he kept a flat in Manchester, a city with even more depressing meteorological habits. Too many people was another excuse, although that too was a lie given his fondness for the vastly over-crowded cities of Africa and Asia. Too many memories was another, less frequent answer, given only to those few he took into his confidence but that too was mostly a lie, because the city of his childhood was mostly filled with happy memories, a younger carefree existence, with only the last few years to sour them.
Mostly however, he hated London because things like this had a tendency of happening when he stayed here.
“Hello James, what a pleasant surprise to see you back in the country.” He suppressed a wince as the familiar clipped accent rang out behind him.
He briefly considered pretending he hadn't heard the voice. Ignoring it and simply getting into the now open lift and taking it up to his hotel room where he could collapse on his nice, comfy hotel bed and sleep the sleep of the truly fucking knackered. However, the chances of the voice's owner giving up and going away to leave him to his well-deserved rest was approximately nil.
So, with a final longing glance at the swiftly closing lift, he turned to face the familiar looking figure seated on a frightfully garish yellow sofa which someone had thought, in a fit of madness, would make the perfect accessory to the lobby of an otherwise entirely unremarkable mid-market hotel. “Why, Emms love, I'm surprised you'd took the time out of your busy schedule to check up on little ol' me. You really shouldn't have. Really.”
The 'Emms' in question smirked at his annoyance and shifted on the sofa, the monstrosity clearly as uncomfortable to sit on as to look at. “You're looking well, business must be good,” she finally ventured after a few moments.
Eames bristled at the unvoiced, but based on past experience definitely implied, reference to his unfortunate ability to loose most of his earnings on the vagaries of the flick of the wheel or the turn of the dice.
"Really Emi-ly," he took the satisfaction to enunciate her name fully in that way guaranteed to frustrate her since childhood.“it's so lovely that you've arranged this little family reunion merely to comment on the state of my health, but I have a very important date with a very comfortable duvet and you are dreadfully in the way.”
He turned to leave, hoping beyond all previous experience or likelihood that that could be that. That this little engineered encounter was nothing more than a fact finding exercise so she could report back to mother that no, James wasn't dead, and yes, he was eating properly. Her next words shattered that particular fantasy, as he knew they would.
“We need to talk James,” she stared at him seriously for a moment and there was something in her eyes he was distinctly not used to seeing there, sympathy mixed with anxiety. And it's not that he'd never seen her anxious before, but never when dealing with him. She seemed to recover after a moment and gave him a lop-sided grin. “Come on, I know a lovely little café round the corner, and you look like you could do with some caffine.”
He really wanted to protest, to beg off with some prior appointment, or exhaustion or something. But he was somehow intrigued, it had been a very long time since his sister had wanted to properly talk to him. Usually she was the one brushing aside his questions, following a clear cut, “don't ask, don't tell” perspective on their respective livelihoods.
“Fine, you've won me over, you've stolen me viciously away from my well-deserved bed to fill me full of stimulants in what is no doubt one of those horrific little dives you so like to frequent on the principle that its 'quaint'."
+++++
She led them to the café on a roundabout route, down any number of side roads and back alleys. He recognised the behaviour, seen Arthur do it enough times, did it himself even more. Despite her casual and seemingly meandering choices in direction and the nonsensical small talk about the weather (dull), football (Pompey going into bankruptcy, again) and the state of transport in London (less said about the the better really), she was clearly trying, albeit crudely, to ensure they weren't being tailed.
Eventually they made their way, as predicted, into a dingy little café with an entirely deserted, crumbling walled yard at the back. Half a dozen table and chairs were desolately scattered around the cobbles. A gas heater offered some meagre warmth and an awning kept of the rain, although his seat was still damp when he sat down. He snorted in displeasure, “lovely places you bring me to, I've always admired your taste.”
She ignored him, a trait that seemed to be becoming increasingly common among the people he cared about in his life, and ordered two coffees from the waiter. In a fit of impulse. Eames added on a proper fry-up breakfast before the poor man could make his escape. If he was going to be barred from going back to bed after a long night on what was an ultimately simple, if highly tedious job, the least she could do was buy him breakfast.
“I wouldn't have asked like this if it wasn't important,” she started, an apology in her voice.
“Yes, you would.”
She sighed, “Fine, I would, but it's still important”
“I guessed by your unique sense of route planning, You really don't want anyone finding out you were here do you?” He drawled, feeling a sense of smug satisfaction at the look of surprise to cross her features. He always did like being able to get one over on her, sibling rivalry at its finest.
“I really don't know what you're talking about.” Eames raised his eyebrows disbelievingly. She sighed, again, “You know things are always more complicated than that...” she stopped whatever else she was going to say as the waiter came back with their coffees and Eames' breakfast. He took a bite. It was as dire as the décor would have lead him to believe, but it was food and dammit, he was hungry.
“That will clog your arteries you know” she commented, watching him eat.
He was struck with a sense of deja vu as she did, recalling a very similar comment made by a certain point man, not two months ago, whilst they were staying in his flat up in Manchester. Eames had tried to convert him to the joys on British cuisine, a difficult task at the best of time, but no one could say he didn't enjoy a challenge. He'd said the exact same words, an amused smile twitching the corner of his mouth. Those small moments of domesticity, few and far between but every one of them cherished.
“Do you dream any more? You know I was reading a paper recently looking at the long-term effects of REM sleep deprivation, you should be careful,” she put forward the facts in a conversational tone, stirring far too much sugar into her coffee as she did and effectively bringing his attention back to the present. He wondered if she'd done it on purpose. Probably.
“I dream plenty, it's the nature of the job pet,” he couldn't help but keep the sarcasm out his voice. She raised her eyebrow at the endearment, clearly considering asking when, exactly, he'd decided to become a Geordie, before continuing on her previous line of conversation.
“It's not natural dreaming though. You should be careful, I'd hate for you to have significant long-term memory deficits because of it” She was avoiding whatever she had come here to talk about, and they both knew it. But he was happy to wait this out at least until he had finished his eating the grey mass that was posing as scrambled eggs on his plate.
He rolled his eyes but there was no real malice as he retorted, “Thank you, Dr. Eames.”
They lapsed into an uneasy silence after that, as she stirred her coffee intently, clearly trying to figure out how to approach the conversation.
Finally she blurted out, “Arthur Miller”
“Tennesee Williams,” at her slightly puzzled look he continued “Sorry love, I thought we were going through 20th Century American playwrights. Not certain what it's got to do with me though.” Only he had a bad feeling he did.
She studied him for a moment, then laughed. More of a guffaw really, a familiar sound indicating her amusement at the full extent of the fact that she knew more, much much more than he did. He'd always hated that laugh, and wondered fleetingly if Mother would ever forgive him if he shot her.
“That is funny, you've been fucking the man for how many years now? And you don't even know his last name.” He bit down a flash of resentment that his sister seem to know more about the elusive point man than he did. He also suppressed the desire to ask her how, exactly, she knew they'd been in a relationship, suspecting it came from the same source as the name.
It shouldn't have come as a surprise, their tendency to occasionally share a flat for weeks at a time would be a bit of a give-away and he wasn't so naïve to think that the few permanent residences they did keep weren't under some form of surveillance. Part and parcels of the job description really, but it didn't mean he had to like it.
Reminding himself yet again that his continued desire to be able to eat his mother's glorious cooking whenever he felt like dropping by far outweighed any fleeting satisfaction he may have from murdering his sister, he choose to respond lightly “Well since I've never told him my first name, I figure we're pretty even.” Well that didn't come out bitter at all did it?
She sobered up after a moment and seemed to hesitate before continuing, as if trying to figure out how to broach the subject, before, in typical Eames style, jumping in with both feet, albeit with more cool professionalism than he'd ever tried, or wanted, to muster. “Arthur Miller was picked up by Cobol Engineering two weeks ago. I thought you might like to know”
The inkling of dread that had appeared when she first broached the subject turned in a gaping maw of despair. “Wh...” he coughed and tried again “Where? What happened?”. Two weeks ago was just after they had gone their separate ways in Hong Kong, with a promise to meet up in Paris once Eames had sorted a couple of things in London and Arthur had ensured all the loose ends were thoroughly tidied up from the previous job.
His sister shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with the emotional undercurrent of the conversation.. “Apparently they caught up to him in Singapore, ran them a merry chase from all accounts before they finally got him.” And Eames couldn't help but smile grimly at that, because Arthur was never one to give in easy. “He's still alive, as far as I know, but I'm afraid I really can't tell you any more.”
The wording triggered a cold anger in him, a suspicion that she was trying to hide information from him, her own brother, when it was about something this important. When it was about Arthur “Can't or won't? Come on, Emms, playing coy never was your style.” He grab her arm as she tried to pull away, gripping tightly, ignoring the grimace of pain.
“Your memory must be faulty, I seem to remember you were the one handing out blow-jobs behind the bike shed,” she snapped back, then gave a mirthless laugh, as if she'd just figured something out. “Fuck, you really must care for this lad.”
The automatic denial, that whatever it was between them was nothing that more than taking comfort in the body of another who won't shot them in the head before morning (well at least most of the time), died on his lips. Because as much as they were good at lying to each other, lying to themselves, right now lying to anyone else just seemed like far too much effort. Because somewhere, out there Arthur was in danger and all Eames could really concentrate on right now is getting enough information to find him and bring him home safe.
Ignoring his aborted attempt to speak, or possibly just oblivious, something he wouldn't put past her, she continued. “I'm serious though James, this really is all I know. Fuck, the only reason I even have this information was thanks to an old friend of father's, no you can't ask who. I shouldn't even be seen with you given you're current legal status, I hope you appreciate how much I'm risking here.” Her voice became sharper and she grimaced slightly as she realised that the volume had gone up too.
Eames studied her face, looking for any sign of deception, of manipulation but all he could see was an apologetic grimace, tinged with pain. He remembered suddenly where his hand was and unclenched it from her arm, a move that seemed to take far more effort that it had any right to. She immediately started massaging where his fingers had gripped, a hiss of pain under her breath. He felt a pang of guilt at that, before pushing it aside, she could take care of herself and he had more important things to worry about.
Pulling himself together, he got up and gave her a surprisingly tender kiss on the cheek by way of apology. “Thank you for the information,” he said with a heartfelt sincerity that surprised even him, “give my love to mum, yeah?”
Before he could pull away she got up and hugged him, slipping something heavy into his pocket. “Take care of yourself James, I mean it. I expect to see you back home for Christmas” she stepped away and gave him an ironic smile, “bring Arthur too, I'm sure mother would love to meet him.”
He was touched by the confidence she seemed to convey in his abilities to find the other man. He just wished he shared it. He headed out the café, pulling out his phone as he did and dialled in a familiar number. If he was going to save the man he lov... cared deeply for, he was going to need back up, and he knew just where to get it.
Part 2
There were also a couple of minor plot points I felt needed changing for various reasons, not least that they didn't fit with later parts of of the series, these were mostly in the first part and the epilogue.
It is however, very much the same story, just with, gradually, slightly more shine.
Title: The man who had none of the luck 1/6
author: Black Gem
pairing: Arthur/Eames
characters: Arthur, Eames, OC
rating: PG-13
warnings: gratuitous use of OC in the first part, mentions of sex, violence and torture later on
disclaimer: I own nothing, I'm just playing with them.
Summary: After all the secrets they'd stolen and dreams they'd invaded, it was inevitably someone would catch up to them. Shame it had to be Cobol Engineering.
+++++
Eames - London: 12th September, 6.45am
Eames hated staying in London, a position he made abundantly clear to anyone who'd listen. The reasons he gave were many and varied; the weather usually made the top of his list, with its damp drizzle and perpetual grey, of course that didn't exactly explain why he kept a flat in Manchester, a city with even more depressing meteorological habits. Too many people was another excuse, although that too was a lie given his fondness for the vastly over-crowded cities of Africa and Asia. Too many memories was another, less frequent answer, given only to those few he took into his confidence but that too was mostly a lie, because the city of his childhood was mostly filled with happy memories, a younger carefree existence, with only the last few years to sour them.
Mostly however, he hated London because things like this had a tendency of happening when he stayed here.
“Hello James, what a pleasant surprise to see you back in the country.” He suppressed a wince as the familiar clipped accent rang out behind him.
He briefly considered pretending he hadn't heard the voice. Ignoring it and simply getting into the now open lift and taking it up to his hotel room where he could collapse on his nice, comfy hotel bed and sleep the sleep of the truly fucking knackered. However, the chances of the voice's owner giving up and going away to leave him to his well-deserved rest was approximately nil.
So, with a final longing glance at the swiftly closing lift, he turned to face the familiar looking figure seated on a frightfully garish yellow sofa which someone had thought, in a fit of madness, would make the perfect accessory to the lobby of an otherwise entirely unremarkable mid-market hotel. “Why, Emms love, I'm surprised you'd took the time out of your busy schedule to check up on little ol' me. You really shouldn't have. Really.”
The 'Emms' in question smirked at his annoyance and shifted on the sofa, the monstrosity clearly as uncomfortable to sit on as to look at. “You're looking well, business must be good,” she finally ventured after a few moments.
Eames bristled at the unvoiced, but based on past experience definitely implied, reference to his unfortunate ability to loose most of his earnings on the vagaries of the flick of the wheel or the turn of the dice.
"Really Emi-ly," he took the satisfaction to enunciate her name fully in that way guaranteed to frustrate her since childhood.“it's so lovely that you've arranged this little family reunion merely to comment on the state of my health, but I have a very important date with a very comfortable duvet and you are dreadfully in the way.”
He turned to leave, hoping beyond all previous experience or likelihood that that could be that. That this little engineered encounter was nothing more than a fact finding exercise so she could report back to mother that no, James wasn't dead, and yes, he was eating properly. Her next words shattered that particular fantasy, as he knew they would.
“We need to talk James,” she stared at him seriously for a moment and there was something in her eyes he was distinctly not used to seeing there, sympathy mixed with anxiety. And it's not that he'd never seen her anxious before, but never when dealing with him. She seemed to recover after a moment and gave him a lop-sided grin. “Come on, I know a lovely little café round the corner, and you look like you could do with some caffine.”
He really wanted to protest, to beg off with some prior appointment, or exhaustion or something. But he was somehow intrigued, it had been a very long time since his sister had wanted to properly talk to him. Usually she was the one brushing aside his questions, following a clear cut, “don't ask, don't tell” perspective on their respective livelihoods.
“Fine, you've won me over, you've stolen me viciously away from my well-deserved bed to fill me full of stimulants in what is no doubt one of those horrific little dives you so like to frequent on the principle that its 'quaint'."
+++++
She led them to the café on a roundabout route, down any number of side roads and back alleys. He recognised the behaviour, seen Arthur do it enough times, did it himself even more. Despite her casual and seemingly meandering choices in direction and the nonsensical small talk about the weather (dull), football (Pompey going into bankruptcy, again) and the state of transport in London (less said about the the better really), she was clearly trying, albeit crudely, to ensure they weren't being tailed.
Eventually they made their way, as predicted, into a dingy little café with an entirely deserted, crumbling walled yard at the back. Half a dozen table and chairs were desolately scattered around the cobbles. A gas heater offered some meagre warmth and an awning kept of the rain, although his seat was still damp when he sat down. He snorted in displeasure, “lovely places you bring me to, I've always admired your taste.”
She ignored him, a trait that seemed to be becoming increasingly common among the people he cared about in his life, and ordered two coffees from the waiter. In a fit of impulse. Eames added on a proper fry-up breakfast before the poor man could make his escape. If he was going to be barred from going back to bed after a long night on what was an ultimately simple, if highly tedious job, the least she could do was buy him breakfast.
“I wouldn't have asked like this if it wasn't important,” she started, an apology in her voice.
“Yes, you would.”
She sighed, “Fine, I would, but it's still important”
“I guessed by your unique sense of route planning, You really don't want anyone finding out you were here do you?” He drawled, feeling a sense of smug satisfaction at the look of surprise to cross her features. He always did like being able to get one over on her, sibling rivalry at its finest.
“I really don't know what you're talking about.” Eames raised his eyebrows disbelievingly. She sighed, again, “You know things are always more complicated than that...” she stopped whatever else she was going to say as the waiter came back with their coffees and Eames' breakfast. He took a bite. It was as dire as the décor would have lead him to believe, but it was food and dammit, he was hungry.
“That will clog your arteries you know” she commented, watching him eat.
He was struck with a sense of deja vu as she did, recalling a very similar comment made by a certain point man, not two months ago, whilst they were staying in his flat up in Manchester. Eames had tried to convert him to the joys on British cuisine, a difficult task at the best of time, but no one could say he didn't enjoy a challenge. He'd said the exact same words, an amused smile twitching the corner of his mouth. Those small moments of domesticity, few and far between but every one of them cherished.
“Do you dream any more? You know I was reading a paper recently looking at the long-term effects of REM sleep deprivation, you should be careful,” she put forward the facts in a conversational tone, stirring far too much sugar into her coffee as she did and effectively bringing his attention back to the present. He wondered if she'd done it on purpose. Probably.
“I dream plenty, it's the nature of the job pet,” he couldn't help but keep the sarcasm out his voice. She raised her eyebrow at the endearment, clearly considering asking when, exactly, he'd decided to become a Geordie, before continuing on her previous line of conversation.
“It's not natural dreaming though. You should be careful, I'd hate for you to have significant long-term memory deficits because of it” She was avoiding whatever she had come here to talk about, and they both knew it. But he was happy to wait this out at least until he had finished his eating the grey mass that was posing as scrambled eggs on his plate.
He rolled his eyes but there was no real malice as he retorted, “Thank you, Dr. Eames.”
They lapsed into an uneasy silence after that, as she stirred her coffee intently, clearly trying to figure out how to approach the conversation.
Finally she blurted out, “Arthur Miller”
“Tennesee Williams,” at her slightly puzzled look he continued “Sorry love, I thought we were going through 20th Century American playwrights. Not certain what it's got to do with me though.” Only he had a bad feeling he did.
She studied him for a moment, then laughed. More of a guffaw really, a familiar sound indicating her amusement at the full extent of the fact that she knew more, much much more than he did. He'd always hated that laugh, and wondered fleetingly if Mother would ever forgive him if he shot her.
“That is funny, you've been fucking the man for how many years now? And you don't even know his last name.” He bit down a flash of resentment that his sister seem to know more about the elusive point man than he did. He also suppressed the desire to ask her how, exactly, she knew they'd been in a relationship, suspecting it came from the same source as the name.
It shouldn't have come as a surprise, their tendency to occasionally share a flat for weeks at a time would be a bit of a give-away and he wasn't so naïve to think that the few permanent residences they did keep weren't under some form of surveillance. Part and parcels of the job description really, but it didn't mean he had to like it.
Reminding himself yet again that his continued desire to be able to eat his mother's glorious cooking whenever he felt like dropping by far outweighed any fleeting satisfaction he may have from murdering his sister, he choose to respond lightly “Well since I've never told him my first name, I figure we're pretty even.” Well that didn't come out bitter at all did it?
She sobered up after a moment and seemed to hesitate before continuing, as if trying to figure out how to broach the subject, before, in typical Eames style, jumping in with both feet, albeit with more cool professionalism than he'd ever tried, or wanted, to muster. “Arthur Miller was picked up by Cobol Engineering two weeks ago. I thought you might like to know”
The inkling of dread that had appeared when she first broached the subject turned in a gaping maw of despair. “Wh...” he coughed and tried again “Where? What happened?”. Two weeks ago was just after they had gone their separate ways in Hong Kong, with a promise to meet up in Paris once Eames had sorted a couple of things in London and Arthur had ensured all the loose ends were thoroughly tidied up from the previous job.
His sister shrugged, clearly uncomfortable with the emotional undercurrent of the conversation.. “Apparently they caught up to him in Singapore, ran them a merry chase from all accounts before they finally got him.” And Eames couldn't help but smile grimly at that, because Arthur was never one to give in easy. “He's still alive, as far as I know, but I'm afraid I really can't tell you any more.”
The wording triggered a cold anger in him, a suspicion that she was trying to hide information from him, her own brother, when it was about something this important. When it was about Arthur “Can't or won't? Come on, Emms, playing coy never was your style.” He grab her arm as she tried to pull away, gripping tightly, ignoring the grimace of pain.
“Your memory must be faulty, I seem to remember you were the one handing out blow-jobs behind the bike shed,” she snapped back, then gave a mirthless laugh, as if she'd just figured something out. “Fuck, you really must care for this lad.”
The automatic denial, that whatever it was between them was nothing that more than taking comfort in the body of another who won't shot them in the head before morning (well at least most of the time), died on his lips. Because as much as they were good at lying to each other, lying to themselves, right now lying to anyone else just seemed like far too much effort. Because somewhere, out there Arthur was in danger and all Eames could really concentrate on right now is getting enough information to find him and bring him home safe.
Ignoring his aborted attempt to speak, or possibly just oblivious, something he wouldn't put past her, she continued. “I'm serious though James, this really is all I know. Fuck, the only reason I even have this information was thanks to an old friend of father's, no you can't ask who. I shouldn't even be seen with you given you're current legal status, I hope you appreciate how much I'm risking here.” Her voice became sharper and she grimaced slightly as she realised that the volume had gone up too.
Eames studied her face, looking for any sign of deception, of manipulation but all he could see was an apologetic grimace, tinged with pain. He remembered suddenly where his hand was and unclenched it from her arm, a move that seemed to take far more effort that it had any right to. She immediately started massaging where his fingers had gripped, a hiss of pain under her breath. He felt a pang of guilt at that, before pushing it aside, she could take care of herself and he had more important things to worry about.
Pulling himself together, he got up and gave her a surprisingly tender kiss on the cheek by way of apology. “Thank you for the information,” he said with a heartfelt sincerity that surprised even him, “give my love to mum, yeah?”
Before he could pull away she got up and hugged him, slipping something heavy into his pocket. “Take care of yourself James, I mean it. I expect to see you back home for Christmas” she stepped away and gave him an ironic smile, “bring Arthur too, I'm sure mother would love to meet him.”
He was touched by the confidence she seemed to convey in his abilities to find the other man. He just wished he shared it. He headed out the café, pulling out his phone as he did and dialled in a familiar number. If he was going to save the man he lov... cared deeply for, he was going to need back up, and he knew just where to get it.
Part 2