trial & error (2/2)
← part 1.
OHNOTHEYDIDN’T
I FUCKING CALLED THIS SHIT
by kafkan
EMPHASIS MINE
In a twist no one but daytime soap opera fans could have predicted, Arthur Sinclair came out in court today. Literally. During the expert testimony of weapons specialist Mr. Eames, Sinclair announced that he and Mr. Eames had been involved in a relationship for the past three years, thereby rendering Eames’ testimony inadmissable. When asked, Sinclair said that it would have been unfair to the case to allow prejudice to cloud the facts. “The prosecution are having a hard enough time as it is,” he said. “Having the advantage of the nation’s best ballistics expert would just be cruel.”
( “IRRELEVANT INFORMATION NOT PERTAINING TO ARTHUR & EAMES AND THEIR HOT GAY LOVE UNDER THIS POINTLESS HOT MESS OF A CUT.” )
S-O-U-R-C-E (WHAT DID I SAY. WHAT DID I SAY.WHERE THE FUCK IS lushfucks.)
“Nice,” says Yusuf, as they make their way down to the morgue. “They’ll be talking about this for weeks.”
Arthur grunts. It had been chaotic, to say the least. The courtroom had exploded into pandemonium once the judge had ordered them to take a recess and get their shit together. “This courtroom is not the Jerry Springer Show,” he’d shouted before banging on his gavel.
Then there was the media. The frenzy that followed had been probably been worse than coming out on national television. What kind of relationship exactly? How long have you known each other? Were you friends first? How did you meet? Did anyone else know? Eames’ sister hadn’t even grilled him that thoroughly, and he’d actually felt obligated to answer her.
He’d left the courthouse feeling dizzy and just a little nauseous. Cobb had followed him all the way to his car, yelling about how that was such a low blow and how he should have Arthur arrested for obstruction of justice.
“My whole job is to obstruct your justice,” Arthur had shouted back, very nearly slamming his car door shut on Cobb’s fingers.
“I know what you’re doing!” Cobb yelled.
“Okay!” yelled Arthur. “Take it up with the judge!”
Arthur had no doubt that Cobb would actually try to take it up with the judge, but he hadn’t exactly done anything wrong, technically, so it’s not like Cobb could actually carry through with his threats. Anyway, he had more pressing matters at hand.
“She was poisoned,” says Yusuf.
“What,” says Arthur.
Yusuf nods. “I had a friend at the lab run the tests. It was arsenic.”
Arthur lets loose a frustrated groan. “Oh, this just keeps getting better,” he says flatly. “How did this get missed?”
“Arsenic’s not exactly on your standard drug test,” says Yusuf with a shrug.
“Do we know how she was poisoned?”
Yusuf shakes his head. “Just that it was ingested,” he says. “Most likely it was in her water.”
Arthur rubs at his temples. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, anything else?”
“Well, we’re here, aren’t we?” says Yusuf pointedly.
Arthur looks at him.
“Okay, no,” admits Yusuf. “I was just waiting on the tox report. Thought it’d have taken longer.”
“How did you know?” Arthur asks.
“A hunch,” says Yusuf. “You know how Eames said her wounds were all defensive? Well, she wasn’t exactly weak. She had a fairly athletic build and was healthy, except for the whole being dead issue. She would’ve fought. Since she didn’t, I figured it might have been because she couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.”
“So, you had the body exhumed?” asks Arthur, a little surprised.
“What?” says Yusuf. “No, of course not. Couldn’t have, anyway, she was cremated, remember?”
“Oh, right.”
“There were some skin samples left that weren’t totally degraded.” Yusuf frowns. “Everything makes a little more sense now, doesn’t it?”
“How so?”
“Her bruises,” says Yusuf. “The examiner said she had a lot of bruises all over her body, but that they weren’t from the struggle because some of them were at least a few days old.. The police said it was because Saito beat her, but I think it’s because of the poisoning.” At Arthur’s confused look, he adds, “Oh, right, she was poisoned over time. At least a month or so, by the looks of it. Anyway, arsenic poisoning causes vitamin A deficiency, and vitamin A deficiency can give you night blindness.
“I think she got those bruises the way most people do--by accident. Banging into things and the lot. It would explain the location of the bruises, too. She had them on the side of her hips, above her knees, on her shins. That’s my theory, anyway.”
“Okay,” says Arthur, following as best he can. “But where does the arsenic come from? It’s not exactly something you can buy while you’re at Target.”
“Black market,” replies Yusuf. “Ebay, Craigslist. Anyone could probably buy it, if they knew what to look for.”
“And what would they be looking for?” asks Arthur.
Yusuf raises an eyebrow. “How would I know?” he says. “I don’t buy arsenic.”
Arthur doesn’t smile. “And Cobb’s going to get copies of this?”
“Of course.”
Arthur grimaces. “Okay. We need to talk to Saito.”
↔
“Mr. Saito,” says Arthur smoothly, extending his hand as he and Yusuf are led into Saito’s study. “Thank you for meeting with us.”
Saito shakes it with a clap to his shoulder. “Mr. Sinclair,” he says, motioning for them to sit. “Mr. Nahir. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“We just wanted to go over a few details with you,” Yusuf says. “You heard about the new evidence?”
Saito nods, face grim. “Yes,” he says. “I did hear about that. I can’t believe someone would do that to Kyoko.”
“Right,” says Yusuf. “Do you know anyone who would have access to arsenic?”
“No,” Saito says. “I don’t believe so.”
“Okay,” says Yusuf. “Do you have access to arsenic?”
Arthur does not flinch, but it is a very near thing.
“No,” says Saito, sounding amused. “I’m afraid I don’t.”
Yusuf nods, and Arthur lets out a tiny breath.
“Hypothetically speaking then,” says Yusuf. “What would you do to get access to arsenic?”
Arthur sighs inwardly and prays that Yusuf can crank up the charm and get them their answers without getting them fired. He knows he should have a little more faith in Yusuf’s abilities, but he’s always been jumpy when it comes to the wealthier clients who can afford to fire them and find some other firm who is just as good.
“Hypothetically speaking?” Saito says, still with a tone of amusement. “Hypothetically speaking, I would say there are too many variables to take into account. The illegality of it, for one.”
“Fair enough,” says Yusuf breezily, flipping through his notebook. “And who came into contact with your wife on a regular basis?”
“How regular?”
“Daily, I would say.”
Saito takes a moment to think. “The maids,” he says. “Our kitchen staff. Her driver. Myself. Our daughters. But, I assure you,” he adds, an edge to his voice now. “No one here would have wanted to harm Kyoko.”
Yusuf nods. “Thank you,” he says. “Just one last question, Mr. Saito: did you kill her?”
While Arthur had expected it, it didn’t make hearing the question voiced aloud any easier.
Saito looks at them both with a level stare. “I did not kill my wife,” he says, carefully enunciating each syllable.
They excuse themselves after that, and Saito shows them out to the main hall.
“Thank you for your fine work, gentlemen,” he says, shaking each of their hands in turn. “I needn’t have worried.”
He says it sincerely, but something about it leaves Arthur feeling unsettled.
He lets Yusuf drive, because he’s had a long day, and he spends the hour’s drive back to the firm staring out the window, deep in thought. The way Saito had spoken to them had just been so final, so sure, like there wasn’t anything left for him to worry about. Which, okay, he wasn’t supposed to be worrying, because worrying would mean he wasn’t confident, and lawyers could smell low confidence like sharks can smell blood. And Arthur was confident.
And yet.
“That’s yours,” Yusuf says, interrupting his thoughts.
Arthur blinks, coming back to himself, and feels around his pockets for his buzzing phone. He pulls it out and is informed of a new text from Eames.
Have been paid for my expertise. Free for dinner?
Arthur stares, and suddenly, nothing exists except for him and that seemingly innocent four-letter word. Everything is white noise, and Arthur replays every moment that’s led up to this; he sees the judge granting the re-trial, evidence being overturned, motions granted, Saito saying he shouldn’t have worried. It’s all there, all laid out in Cobb’s simmering fury, Eames’ indifference, Yusuf’s nonchalance. He hasn’t felt this naive since law school, when he believed that the U.S. had a fair and just judicial system, that everyone played by the rules, and that in the courtroom, logic trumped emotion every time.
Now he feels that sense of betrayal, of cynical, jaded bitterness that bites at his throat, mocking him for his obliviousness, his idiocy. It’s that sense of disgust that comes from the realization that only the rich can afford to play fair; that there are rules, but the goal of the game is to slip around them; that in the courtroom, with a jury of your peers, logic has very little to do with anything.
Slowly, he turns. “Yusuf,” he says, menancingly quiet. “We need to talk.”
“Oh boy,” mutters Yusuf, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.
As soon as they get to his office, Arthur sits down. “Did you know?” he asks, burying his face his hands, voice dangerous. “Motherfucker, Yusuf, did you know?”
Yusuf frowns, unapologetic. “Specificity, please,” he says, and Arthur grits his teeth, leveling him with a glare.
“Did someone tell you about the bribery,” he very nearly snarls. Yusuf, to his credit, isn’t fazed in the least.
“No,” says Yusuf, but he also gives Arthur a very unimpressed look which only makes Arthur angrier.
“But you knew!” Arthur shouts. “You knew about this!”
“Well, of course, I knew,” Yusuf counters. “It wasn’t rocket science!”
“I didn’t know!” shouts Arthur. “I thought I was winning the case!”
“You are winning the case!”
Arthur inhales sharply through his nose and rubs at his temple. “That’s not the point,” he says roughly. “That’s not how I should be winning.”
“So?” says Yusuf. “We’re not caught up in it. We’re just their puppets, and we’re their very well-paid, ignorant puppets. Just keep doing what you’re doing, and by the end of the week, we’ll be done with it.”
Arthur stares at him, incredulous. “You’re okay with this? You’re seriously okay with this?”
“No!” exclaims Yusuf, looking very affronted. “Of course not, Jesus. I won’t be okay until this is over, and the bank clears my check.”
“And how do you know you’ll get paid if you aren’t even supposed to know about this!” says Arthur, accusingly, voice rising again.
“We,” hisses Yusuf. “We are going to get paid nice little bonuses at the end of our fabulous work, and we’re going to take it, because we like being appreciated. Well,” he amends, seeing the look on Arthur’s face. “I’m going to take mine, and you can give me yours if you don’t want it.”
“This is bribery!” yells Arthur.
“Only if we know it’s happening!” yells Yusuf. “Which we don’t.”
“This is illegal!” he shouts. “You have to report this!”
“I’m not reporting anything!” shouts Yusuf. “If Saito can buy off one of the best judges in the city, what is he going to do to me when he finds out I reported him? Which, by the way, I won’t do, because I haven’t seen anything.”
“I can’t believe this,” Arthur says, running both his hands through his hair. “I can’t fucking believe this bullshit.”
“Oh, don’t be so naive, Arthur,” says Yusuf. “You know it happens. It happens all the time.”
Arthur brings his hands down to his face, his nails digging into his cheeks, and he stares at Yusuf, knowing he should say something, because that isn’t true. It isn’t. Not completely.
“Not to us,” Arthur argues stubbornly. “I could get disbarred. We could get arrested.”
Yusuf scoffs. “No,” he says evenly, eyes flashing. “We have no concrete proof--what, you think Saito’s drawn up contracts? I hereby acknowledge to grant Mr. Saito freedom in exchange for things of monetary value. Everything is circumstantial because where you’re bloody paranoid, so is everyone else.”
“Motherfuck,” Arthur swears. He suddenly, very desperately, wants a smoke, or a drink, or a goddamn Xanax. “So he killed her then?” he asks. “He did it?”
“I don’t know!” says Yusuf. “He said he didn’t do it, but the evidence all points to him! Who knows!”
“We should know,” snaps Arthur. “It’s not a hard question! Is he guilty or not? Yes or no? Jesus Christ, we’re smarter than him--don’t give me that look, we are, okay? We are--how can he make this so fucking hard?”
“Because,” says Yusuf, forever unruffled. “If he were cleverer, we wouldn’t be here right now.”
Arthur has to concede the point. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, desperately wishing that this could just all be over. “So you’re sure we’re safe?” he asks, voice rough.
“Yes,” says Yusuf. “We’re expendable. If anything is happening, it’s all above us, or rather, outside us, considering we’re on his side.”
“Judge Wagner,” Arthur says bitterly.
“Among others,” says Yusuf.
Arthur’s eyes flash. “Eames?”
“I don’t think so,” Yusuf says honestly. “Eames is an independent contract, but since he’s getting his sources from the DA, I wouldn’t be surprised if--”
Arthur snorts because seriously, that’s hilarious. “Cobb is not taking bribes,” he says firmly.
“I didn’t say he was,” Yusuf says patiently. “There are plenty of people above Cobb who would take bribes. Anyway, you heard Eames, if there’s no evidence, there’s no case.”
“What, Nash?” asks Arthur.
Yusuf shrugs.
“Nash?” Arthur repeats. “What the fuck?”
“You’re speculating,” notes Yusuf.
“Oh God,” says Arthur. “Saito really is a genius. Fuck. Get to Nash, and he doesn’t even have to touch anyone else. He literally destroys the case.”
“Mm,” hums Yusuf, non-committal. “Now if you’re done yelling, I’m going home.”
“Fine,” says Arthur, waving him off, rubbing at his face and scowling. “I’ll see you later.” He sighs, exhausted, and pulls out his phone, thumbing at the screen absent-mindedly.
i’m starving, he types.
The reply is immediate. oddly enough, so am i. come over. lucky for you i made too much.
Arthur smiles, reflexive, and gathers his things.
↔
It takes Arthur a little over half an hour to make it to Eames’ place, partly because traffic is always shit in this city, no matter what the time, and partly because he takes a detour to BevMo! to pick up a bottle of Eames’ favorite cheap wine.
In the time it takes Eames to answer the door, Arthur sniffs curiously at the air and identifies garlic and chicken, which automatically makes his mouth water and his stomach to growl loudly. “Are you making grilled chicken?” he asks hopefully, in lieu of greeting.
“Yes,” says Eames, grinning. “Is that wine?”
“Of course,” says Arthur, quirking his lips. “I want to talk, by the way.”
“Right,” Eames says. “So do I, but let’s eat first.”
Arthur’s stomach growls. “Sorry,” says Arthur insincerely. Eames gestures for him to come inside, so Arthur does, toeing off his shoes before following Eames into the kitchen.
There is indeed grilled chicken, and one plate of it is generously smothered in roasted garlic and creamy mushroom sauce. Arthur immediately takes it and retrieves a clean fork.
“God,” says Arthur. “This is amazing.”
Eames smirks at him as he leans against the counter, spearing a potato and chewing it with much less ravenous fervor.
“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve actually had something that wasn’t take-out and didn’t give me the runs?” Arthur says, not bothering to chew with his mouth closed.
“Can’t be any longer since you last had sex,” Eames answers mildly.
“You sound confident,” says Arthur. “Let’s not forgot that I only married you out of pity.”
Eames rolls his eyes. “Let’s see,” he says. “The only person you spend inordinate amounts of time with is Yusuf, and unfortunately, darling, I think that if he was looking for a lay, he’d have more options to choose from than just you.”
Arthur is willing to concede that point because he’s never been able to pinpoint exactly where Yusuf goes off to or what he does once the sun goes down. “You never know,” he says instead. “I could be getting hot and heavy with Cobb.”
Eames squints at him.
Arthur shrugs. “It could happen. He’s not terrible-looking.”
“Your standards,” says Eames. “It’s a wonder I ever settled for you.”
“Right?” says Arthur through a mouthful of chicken. “At least I get to say I married an Englishman. What’s in it for you? Besides the citizenship, I mean.”
“That I married a lawyer,” Eames replies deftly. “And I don’t even need a maths degree to know that puts me pretty high up there in your American social class.”
“What social class,” says Arthur. “We think Real Housewives is classy.”
Eames pours himself a glass of wine and takes a long drink.
“Ha,” says Arthur.
“I could never be a Real Housewife, anyway,” says Eames. “You didn’t give me a big enough house. Or good enough car.”
“Or an allowance,” says Arthur. “Besides, you made more than me last year.”
“That’s very true,” agrees Eames. “But you know me, I just want to be pampered and taken care of.”
Arthur nearly snorts a mushroom. “I’m the one who put myself through three years of law school and summer internships. I’m the one who deserves to be pampered and taken care of.”
“That’s very true, too,” Eames says, casual enough to make Arthur look up and raise an eyebrow. “What?” says Eames. “I can’t be concerned for my darling betrothed who works himself to the bone and doesn’t come home at night for weeks at a time?”
“Not when you say it like that,” says Arthur, deadpan. “By the way,” he adds conversationally. “Is Saito bribing you?”
Eames pauses. “Is that what you wanted talk about?” he asks.
“No,” says Arthur. “Well, yes, partly, but not mainly.”
Eames sets down his fork and smiles, rueful. “Unfortunately, no,” he says. “I’ve not had the honor of being bribed by Saito.”
“Okay,” says Arthur, popping the last potato into his mouth. “Would you? If he did?”
“Are we speaking hypothetically?”
“Yeah.”
Eames shrugs. “I don’t know if you want the answer to that,” he says calmly.
“Fair enough, I guess,” Arthur concedes. “So you knew.”
Eames shrugs again. “I had suspicions, more or less.”
“Funny,” says Arthur. “That’s what Yusuf said.”
“Yusuf said he had suspicions?”
“Not exactly,” answers Arthur. “But close enough.”
“Ah,” hums Eames, and eats the last of his chicken. Wordlessly, Arthur holds out a hand for the plate, and Eames gives it to him. He says something about dessert, which Arthur agrees to, because Arthur’s never been picky about free food, especially not when someone is willing to make it for him.
He gives the dishes a quick wash, rinses Eames’ wine glass, and leaves everything to dry on a Hello Kitty dish towel. Eames comes over and sets down a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream, and Arthur grabs the spoons.
“I think I should work at the DA’s office,” Arthur says finally.
Eames is quiet. It would be a thoughtful pause to anyone else, but not to Arthur. Not when Arthur knows him too well.
“You don’t think I should,” Arthur says for him. He frowns, recalling their previous conversation. “I thought you wanted me to.”
“No,” says Eames. “I think you should do whatever’ll make you happy, but I don’t think the DA’s office will do that.”
“And what do you think the DA’s office will do?”
“I think that you’ll like it there, at least for the first few months--year, maybe--but then you’ll realize there’s just as much corruption there as there is everywhere else.”
He catches the look on Arthur’s face and quickly adds, “Oh, not this kind of corruption. I mean like, politically.” He frowns. “Look, I’ve worked with the DA enough times to know that in this city, you work for the State for two reasons: one, because you actually believe you’re carrying out justice--and even this can go two ways: you do it because you actually think you’re carrying out justice, or you’re actually a psychopath who’s trying to channel his charismatic powers for good because that’s what society wants for you--or you have some kind of political agenda.”
“Cobb thinks he’s carrying out justice,” says Arthur.
“I’m pretty sure Cobb’s a psychopath,” Eames says.
Arthur snorts. “Cobb is not a psychopath.”
“Oh no,” says Eames seriously. “I’m pretty sure Cobb’s a psychopath. He’s also a psychopath who wants to be governor, and the scariest part is, he might actually make it.”
“Oh my God,” says Arthur. “We’re not talking about this.”
“What did he say to you when he asked you to come work for him?” asks Eames. “He gave you a spiel, didn’t he? He told you that there was nothing better than seeing justice be served, that you can’t compare the feeling of hearing the ‘guilty’ verdict to anything you’ve ever felt before. Oh, no, let me guess, he said, it feels like you’re waiting for a train, and--”
“You don’t know where that train will take you,” continues Arthur. “But it doesn’t matter because you’re the one who’s taking it there.”
Eames grins, and Arthur can’t help but smile.
“You don’t actually think he’s a psychopath,” he says.
“No,” agrees Eames. “He’s a bit touched in the head, but virtually harmless.”
“But,” says Arthur, growing serious again. “You don’t think I should be working for the DA.”
Eames leans back in his chair, looks Arthur straight in the eye and says, “I think you should do what you want because you’ve made a well thought out decision, not because you’re running high on adrenaline and anger.”
“I’m not angry,” says Arthur.
“Yes, darling,” sighs Eames. “Yes, you are. You think you’ve been wronged, that some great injustice has been to your person, and you’re probably right. You’ve been lied to and played like a fiddle, but you can’t let that influence you.”
“But you just said it! I’ve been wronged and lied to, and how can I keep working for them if I can’t even trust them?”
“Because you’ve also helped people,” Eames says patiently. “Like the pharmaceutical case last year, how many lives did you save by forcing the company to stop production?”
“That was different,” Arthur says.
“No,” says Eames. “It wasn’t. Just because they used their pills and not a knife or a gun doesn’t make them innocent.”
“They didn’t kill the patients.”
“No,” says Eames. “They just caused the liver failure that did. Isn’t that what you argued? Isn’t that how you won?”
Arthur closes his eyes, because yes, that’s exactly how it went. All the arguments forming in Arthur’s head are the same arguments that the company’s lawyers had thrown at Arthur, and Arthur had ripped them to shreds.
“I’m not saying what happened was fair,” he hears Eames say. “But the law’s never really been very fair. It all comes down to how much money you have, and how good your lawyer is. It just happens that Saito has a lot of money.”
Arthur looks at him. “So you’re saying I’m not a good lawyer.”
“Oh, Arthur, my dearest heart,” he says, shaking his head with a badly concealed smile. “You’re the absolute worst.”
↔
Arthur and Eames have a bit of a complicated history.
Actually, it’s no more complex than it is boring, and in Arthur’s opinion, a little bit (a lot) embarassing.
They’d met online.
On ChristianMingle.
Yeah. Arthur wasn’t very pleased with their limited options either. Apparently, it didn’t matter he was a Jewish-born, former Presbyterian, now lapsed Episcopalian--that was perfectly okay--but he couldn’t be a gay Jewish-born, former Presbyterian, now lapsed Episcopalian.
In Arthur’s defense, he’d signed on because Yusuf had bet him he wouldn’t. Somewhere, between the tedious Q&A for his profile and the pending collection of $100, Arthur had actually decided that, mathematically, his chances of finding someone just as bored and/or easily swayed by stupid bets were not only possible, but also probable.
Who knew listing yourself as a crisis manager interested in women, smoked and drank occasionally, and only attended service on special--very special--occasions would match him to an art teacher interested in men from Pocatello, who smoked frequently, drank occasionally, and attend service several times a year.
A match who looked nothing like her profile picture, who was definitely not from Pocatello, and whose church attendance could only be charitably described as “rarely.”
“I was bored,” Eames will say honestly, when asked. He’ll shrug, self-deprecating. “Couldn’t hurt.”
Needless to say, when Arthur had gotten around to meeting this art teacher from Pocatello, he was far from impressed.
“You don’t look anything like an Amy,” Arthur had said, eyeing Eames’ bright pink scarf with a mix of fear and exasperation.
“How odd,” Eames had commented, in a voice that sounded nothing like an art teacher from Pocatello’s. “You don’t look anything like a Simon.”
That had been a pretty accurate indicator of how the rest of their illicit relationship went.
↔
“What do you think I should do?” Arthur asks, sucking the last drops of ice cream off his spoon.
Eames shrugs, his spoon mostly untouched. “I think you should go to bed, and then you’ll wake up half an hour after your alarm’s gone off, and then you’ll have forgotten that you slept here instead of at your apartment so you’ll take your sweet time getting ready until I tell you your coffee’s getting cold and traffic’s going to be hell.” Eames scratches his chin absently, and Arthur sinks lower in his seat, suddenly sleepy. “You’ll dash out, drive like a maniac and miraculously avoid a speeding ticket. You’ll get into work; you’ll prep for court; you’ll be a lawyer, and then--and then, you’ll realize you love your job, even if you hate the things you have to do. You’re going to head back to the office, and Rodriguez is going to come by, because he still thinks you’re young and bright-eyed and ready to please the world, and he’ll tell you to take a break, and you’ll say, ‘That sounds fantastic. Thank you, sir.’ and you’ll come home--no, you’ll come home--and we’ll go to Thailand, and you’ll waste away a week going to temples for religions you don’t understand, and then we’ll actually start exploring Bangkok, and then we’ll come home, renew our vows, and go on with our lives.”
Arthur smiles softly, content with good food and Eames’ soothing voice. “Yeah,” he sighs. “That sounds like a plan.” He means to just rest his eyes for a bit, but when he blinks them open again, the pint of ice cream is gone, as is his spoon. Instead, Eames is leaning over him, brush a hand against Arthur’s cheek.
“Come on,” he says with a gentle tug. “Let’s get to bed, yeah?”
Arthur follows him into the bedroom, so familiar and yet not. He can’t remember the last time he had the opportunity to actually be home, so he lets Eames unbutton his shirt, remove his cufflinks, and put on a worn t-shirt. He steps out of his pants, and Eames folds them for him, placing them on top of the dresser.
Arthur climbs into their bed and presses his face into the pillows, breathing in the scent of Tide and faint traces of Eames’ aftershave. He feels Eames sliding in behind him, feels the warm weight of Eames’ arm wrap around his waist, feels Eames’ breath on his neck, and thinks, home. Finally.
It’s been at least six months since Arthur last had a good night’s sleep, and when Eames leans over, and kisses his jaw, Arthur finds his hand and squeezes it. “Good night,” he breathes, already half-gone.
He still hears Eames chuckle, feels himself being pulled closer. “Sweet dreams, Arthur,” promises Eames, and Arthur sleeps.
ONTD_POLITICAL
DUN DUN DUN!!
by lushfucks
The jury is in, and Saito is out. Out free.
( FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO LIVE UNDER A ROCK, HERE IS A HELPFUL RECAP. )
SOURCE SOURCE SOURCE (I was going to title this I’M A FREE BITCH BABY but.)
epilogue
In the three months following the Saito case, Arthur parts with a sizable chunk of his savings account, but he makes equity partner; Rodriguez does in fact make him take time off, but not before the firm throws a huge party in celebration of the acquittal. All the partners congratulate him on his performance, and many of the younger associates go starry-eyed when they make him re-tell everything that went down inside the courthouse.
“That’s genius,” someone says, as everyone murmurs in agreement. Arthur purses his lips and sips his champagne. It had been clever, sure, but he had no idea how well it had actually worked, considering Saito had taken matters into his own hands. Arthur will never know how the case would have turned out if they had fought fair.
Even the other two name partners show up, both old and grey-haired and talking louder than anyone. “You see!” bellows Sterling, clapping an arm around Arthur. “I’ve been telling you from the beginning, we’ve got a great lawyer here.”
“Shut up!” shouts Banks as she takes a flute of champagne. “I can hear you just fine!”
Rodriguez, fortunately, comes by just in time and rescues Arthur from getting his eardrums blown out. “Jesus,” says Rodriguez, pulling a face at him. “I can’t wait to find a new name partner. Also, we managed to get the Accutane lawsuit--you know, that acne treatment that caused liver damage and vision problems--I’d like to put you in charge of that.”
Arthur bites back a smile and says nothing. Rodriguez had been disappointed when Arthur said that he would like to stay away from any future cases that may involve Saito, but he’d gotten over it quickly enough. “Just something to think about when you get back,,” Rodriguez says, thumping him on the back. “Where did you say you were going again? Tahiti?”
“Thailand,” corrects Arthur.
“Bangkok is gorgeous,” he says emphatically. “You and Eames enjoy yourselves now.” Serious, now, he adds, “Really. Take as much time as you want. I know you haven’t taken a vacation in years.”
Arthur shrugs. “I love my work,” he says, and Rodriguez laughs.
Yusuf is also at the party, and when he spots Arthur, he raises his glass as a toast and presses his lips together, and Arthur shrugs and raises his glass back. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be okay with what he knows. There’s definitely no physical proof to the accusations, and if he’s honest, Arthur is much more bothered by the fact they still haven’t figured out with certainty, who, exactly, murdered Kyoko.
Anyone could have had access to the knife. Sure, the only fingerprints on it were Kyoko’s, the chef’s and Saito’s, but gloves aren’t a rare accessory. They also can’t prove that Saito bought the arsenic, and even if they could, there’s no way they could say that it was used specifically to poison his wife. Proculus Global boasts an impressive science division, and any good lawyer can easily argue that arsenic was obtained for research purposes.
Also, for a man who has his own security personnel, there weren’t any security cameras installed in the house. Suspicious, maybe, but at the time, the family had just moved in. It’s not far-fetched to assume that Saito simply hadn’t gotten around to it yet. After all, the man did have his own bodyguards.
There are so many pieces and holes to the case that just doesn’t sit well with Arthur. He likes things with a neat conclusion, and the Saito case had anything but.
“You’re thinking too hard again,” says Yusuf, who has finally made his way over. “Now that you’re equity partner, it’s time to stop worrying about what your clients did and more about how much you can charge them.”
“Yeah,” says Arthur. “Time to learn the business aspect of law.”
Yusuf dismisses that with a snort. “The only thing you need to know is that if they can afford it, charge it.”
Arthur’s lip twitches.
“Besides,” adds Yusuf. “When the firm is making money, the name partners are happy. When the name partners are happy, I can ask for a raise. When I get a raise, I can buy things like groceries and hand guns. So you see, what’s really happening here is a modern day Robin Hood. You take from the rich and give it to those who need it, like me. It’s very noble of you.”
Arthur can’t help it. He laughs. “You can ask for a raise whenever, Yusuf. Don’t pretend like you don’t know what an asset you are to the firm. Feigned ignorance is unbecoming on you.”
“It’s a very delicate process!” Yusuf protests. “You’re equity partner, you wouldn’t understand. Go on your vacation and enjoy your first-class seats and five-star hotels and the sexy masseuses at those hotels. Spend all your money. Buy something nice for yourself.”
“I’ll be back in three weeks, Yusuf,” says Arthur, grinning.
“It doesn’t matter,” Yusuf sniffs. “It’s not like you’re needed.”
“I’ll send you a postcard,” Arthur promises.
“I’ll be sure to bully the mailboy everyday until it arrives,” says Yusuf. Then, very serious, he adds, “I mean it, Arthur. Enjoy yourself. You and Eames both deserve it.”
“Thanks,” Arthur says sincerely. “I’m sure we will.”
In Bangkok, the humidity makes Arthur sweat in places he didn’t even know sweat glands existed. Both he and Eames give up on jeans the moment they arrive, and instead, they spend the rest of their
trip in khaki shorts and sandals. Arthur doesn’t mind. It reminds him of his pre-law days at home in El Segundo, spending summer after summer practically living at the beach.
Arthur does end up exploring whatever temples he can find, and Eames follows him without complaint. He doesn’t understand a word of what the helpful locals say, but he nods and smiles and thanks them anyway.
He gets a tan, and Eames gets tanner, and in the midst of everything--the exploring, the relaxation, and the unrelenting heat--Arthur still finds time to reacquaint himself with Eames, with his habits, his hands, and his hello-good-morning-why-don’t-you-come-back-to-bed-darling.
He reacquaints himself with his simple gold wedding band, with waking up half on top of Eames’ chest, with slow kisses and the warmth of Eames’ skin. He relearns the curve of Eames’ lips, the lines of his tattoos, and the rumble of his sleep-affected voice.
He studies Eames meticulously and a little desperately, like he’s afraid that if he blinks, he’ll lose it all again. (And he is. Afraid, that is. Afraid that one day, they’re going to come back together, and they won’t be able to sync up again. Afraid that one day, Eames is going to realize that there is someone out there who doesn’t put work first, who could probably count on one hand the number of times he stayed late at the office, who takes time off for birthdays and holidays. Someday, says a small voice in the back of Arthur’s head, Eames is going to realize that other people exist.)
Arthur loses an inexplicable amount of time in kissing Eames and every part of Eames he can reach, and then he proceeds to lose even more amount in being kissed and touched and loved so wholly and undeniably that it hurts. He lets Eames take him to the parks and the markets and the outdoor Patravadi Theatre where he takes Eames’ hand and doesn’t let go, not even when their palms are slippery with sweat, and Eames just grins at him, open and honest, and says, “Hey.”
“Hey yourself,” Arthur says and kisses him, right there on Arunamarin Road, surrounded by tourists and locals alike with contemporary dance music playing over them and an avant-garde dance troupe entertaining the masses. He brings a hand to cup Eames’ jaw, smoothing his fingers over the day-old stubble as he presses himself closer, not caring about humid it is or how his shirt feels like it’s permanently stuck to his skin or how they’re sitting under a canopy in a park that’s listed as one of the must-sees of Thailand. He doesn’t care about anything other than the feel of Eames’ lips against his, gentle and so sweet, and he doesn’t care that he’s grinning like a fool or that Eames’ fingers are laced with his and their rings are slip-sliding against each other.
He cares that he’s happy and relaxed, and that Eames is here with him, by his side. Eames, who doesn’t care that Arthur has always put work first, who doesn’t care that Arthur forgets birthdays and anniversaries, who doesn’t care that Arthur has been in their shared home a grand total of three times in the last eighteen months, but who loves Arthur because they’re different, infinitely so, and that’s okay. Because Eames is perfectly successful in his own right and secure enough that he’s fine with Arthur staying late at the office, and if Arthur happens to work himself to the bone and forget to eat and sleep, Eames can call him and tell him to close his case files and walk himself two blocks south to the apartment they lease for these very instances.
They don’t need anniversaries or Friday night dates to be in love. They have a standing breakfast reservation at the Dearborn Starbucks and Facetime chats at odd hours and the very unsubtle instances where they make sure that they work the same case, regardless of whether it’s with or against each other.
And it’s okay if sometimes, they spend more time together puzzling out mock crime scene than they do shopping for kitchen appliances, or if they’ve clocked more hours staring at security footage than they ever will at the local movie theater.
None of that matters, Arthur realizes. As long as he and Eames are together.
“Let’s do this again sometime,” Eames says in a low voice, with a grin that makes Arthur automatically grin back.
And Arthur doesn’t know if Eames is talking about the kiss or the trip or the rings on their fingers, but he tells himself, it doesn’t matter (because, honestly, it doesn’t), and says, “Let’s.”
end notes: First of all, I know nothing about Chicago except that O'Hare is mind-blowingly huge. A lot of creative license was taken with the geography, but the Starbucks on South Dearborn does exist, at least according to Google. I've also never been to Thailand, sadly. ):
Secondly, this story wouldn't exist if keelain hadn't asked me to join her in watching The Good Wife episodes with Diane and Kurt McVeigh being BAMFs and then squeed with me about how they were so in love. Many thanks also go to dialectical who assured me, halfway through, that this wasn't the worst thing ever and that the legal procedures weren't completely unreasonable. Also, to squirtblossom, who kindly kept me company at all hours of the morning and gave me all the encouragement I could ever ask for. Of course, night_reveals who is the bestest beta and deserves all the awards for going through the rough draft with her giant red pen and making this story actually readable in the tiny amount of time I gave her. Em, I'm shit at writing odes, so instead, take this and this. *mwah*
And finally, an endless amount of thanks to lick_j, who is an amazing, super patient artist, who never once complained that I was taking forever to write, and for always believing that I would definitely make the deadline. ♥! And to you, the reader, who slogged through 15k of words. You're a champ.
OHNOTHEYDIDN’T
I FUCKING CALLED THIS SHIT
by kafkan
EMPHASIS MINE
In a twist no one but daytime soap opera fans could have predicted, Arthur Sinclair came out in court today. Literally. During the expert testimony of weapons specialist Mr. Eames, Sinclair announced that he and Mr. Eames had been involved in a relationship for the past three years, thereby rendering Eames’ testimony inadmissable. When asked, Sinclair said that it would have been unfair to the case to allow prejudice to cloud the facts. “The prosecution are having a hard enough time as it is,” he said. “Having the advantage of the nation’s best ballistics expert would just be cruel.”
( “IRRELEVANT INFORMATION NOT PERTAINING TO ARTHUR & EAMES AND THEIR HOT GAY LOVE UNDER THIS POINTLESS HOT MESS OF A CUT.” )
S-O-U-R-C-E (WHAT DID I SAY. WHAT DID I SAY.WHERE THE FUCK IS lushfucks.)
“Nice,” says Yusuf, as they make their way down to the morgue. “They’ll be talking about this for weeks.”
Arthur grunts. It had been chaotic, to say the least. The courtroom had exploded into pandemonium once the judge had ordered them to take a recess and get their shit together. “This courtroom is not the Jerry Springer Show,” he’d shouted before banging on his gavel.
Then there was the media. The frenzy that followed had been probably been worse than coming out on national television. What kind of relationship exactly? How long have you known each other? Were you friends first? How did you meet? Did anyone else know? Eames’ sister hadn’t even grilled him that thoroughly, and he’d actually felt obligated to answer her.
He’d left the courthouse feeling dizzy and just a little nauseous. Cobb had followed him all the way to his car, yelling about how that was such a low blow and how he should have Arthur arrested for obstruction of justice.
“My whole job is to obstruct your justice,” Arthur had shouted back, very nearly slamming his car door shut on Cobb’s fingers.
“I know what you’re doing!” Cobb yelled.
“Okay!” yelled Arthur. “Take it up with the judge!”
Arthur had no doubt that Cobb would actually try to take it up with the judge, but he hadn’t exactly done anything wrong, technically, so it’s not like Cobb could actually carry through with his threats. Anyway, he had more pressing matters at hand.
“She was poisoned,” says Yusuf.
“What,” says Arthur.
Yusuf nods. “I had a friend at the lab run the tests. It was arsenic.”
Arthur lets loose a frustrated groan. “Oh, this just keeps getting better,” he says flatly. “How did this get missed?”
“Arsenic’s not exactly on your standard drug test,” says Yusuf with a shrug.
“Do we know how she was poisoned?”
Yusuf shakes his head. “Just that it was ingested,” he says. “Most likely it was in her water.”
Arthur rubs at his temples. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, anything else?”
“Well, we’re here, aren’t we?” says Yusuf pointedly.
Arthur looks at him.
“Okay, no,” admits Yusuf. “I was just waiting on the tox report. Thought it’d have taken longer.”
“How did you know?” Arthur asks.
“A hunch,” says Yusuf. “You know how Eames said her wounds were all defensive? Well, she wasn’t exactly weak. She had a fairly athletic build and was healthy, except for the whole being dead issue. She would’ve fought. Since she didn’t, I figured it might have been because she couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.”
“So, you had the body exhumed?” asks Arthur, a little surprised.
“What?” says Yusuf. “No, of course not. Couldn’t have, anyway, she was cremated, remember?”
“Oh, right.”
“There were some skin samples left that weren’t totally degraded.” Yusuf frowns. “Everything makes a little more sense now, doesn’t it?”
“How so?”
“Her bruises,” says Yusuf. “The examiner said she had a lot of bruises all over her body, but that they weren’t from the struggle because some of them were at least a few days old.. The police said it was because Saito beat her, but I think it’s because of the poisoning.” At Arthur’s confused look, he adds, “Oh, right, she was poisoned over time. At least a month or so, by the looks of it. Anyway, arsenic poisoning causes vitamin A deficiency, and vitamin A deficiency can give you night blindness.
“I think she got those bruises the way most people do--by accident. Banging into things and the lot. It would explain the location of the bruises, too. She had them on the side of her hips, above her knees, on her shins. That’s my theory, anyway.”
“Okay,” says Arthur, following as best he can. “But where does the arsenic come from? It’s not exactly something you can buy while you’re at Target.”
“Black market,” replies Yusuf. “Ebay, Craigslist. Anyone could probably buy it, if they knew what to look for.”
“And what would they be looking for?” asks Arthur.
Yusuf raises an eyebrow. “How would I know?” he says. “I don’t buy arsenic.”
Arthur doesn’t smile. “And Cobb’s going to get copies of this?”
“Of course.”
Arthur grimaces. “Okay. We need to talk to Saito.”
↔
“Mr. Saito,” says Arthur smoothly, extending his hand as he and Yusuf are led into Saito’s study. “Thank you for meeting with us.”
Saito shakes it with a clap to his shoulder. “Mr. Sinclair,” he says, motioning for them to sit. “Mr. Nahir. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“We just wanted to go over a few details with you,” Yusuf says. “You heard about the new evidence?”
Saito nods, face grim. “Yes,” he says. “I did hear about that. I can’t believe someone would do that to Kyoko.”
“Right,” says Yusuf. “Do you know anyone who would have access to arsenic?”
“No,” Saito says. “I don’t believe so.”
“Okay,” says Yusuf. “Do you have access to arsenic?”
Arthur does not flinch, but it is a very near thing.
“No,” says Saito, sounding amused. “I’m afraid I don’t.”
Yusuf nods, and Arthur lets out a tiny breath.
“Hypothetically speaking then,” says Yusuf. “What would you do to get access to arsenic?”
Arthur sighs inwardly and prays that Yusuf can crank up the charm and get them their answers without getting them fired. He knows he should have a little more faith in Yusuf’s abilities, but he’s always been jumpy when it comes to the wealthier clients who can afford to fire them and find some other firm who is just as good.
“Hypothetically speaking?” Saito says, still with a tone of amusement. “Hypothetically speaking, I would say there are too many variables to take into account. The illegality of it, for one.”
“Fair enough,” says Yusuf breezily, flipping through his notebook. “And who came into contact with your wife on a regular basis?”
“How regular?”
“Daily, I would say.”
Saito takes a moment to think. “The maids,” he says. “Our kitchen staff. Her driver. Myself. Our daughters. But, I assure you,” he adds, an edge to his voice now. “No one here would have wanted to harm Kyoko.”
Yusuf nods. “Thank you,” he says. “Just one last question, Mr. Saito: did you kill her?”
While Arthur had expected it, it didn’t make hearing the question voiced aloud any easier.
Saito looks at them both with a level stare. “I did not kill my wife,” he says, carefully enunciating each syllable.
They excuse themselves after that, and Saito shows them out to the main hall.
“Thank you for your fine work, gentlemen,” he says, shaking each of their hands in turn. “I needn’t have worried.”
He says it sincerely, but something about it leaves Arthur feeling unsettled.
He lets Yusuf drive, because he’s had a long day, and he spends the hour’s drive back to the firm staring out the window, deep in thought. The way Saito had spoken to them had just been so final, so sure, like there wasn’t anything left for him to worry about. Which, okay, he wasn’t supposed to be worrying, because worrying would mean he wasn’t confident, and lawyers could smell low confidence like sharks can smell blood. And Arthur was confident.
And yet.
“That’s yours,” Yusuf says, interrupting his thoughts.
Arthur blinks, coming back to himself, and feels around his pockets for his buzzing phone. He pulls it out and is informed of a new text from Eames.
Have been paid for my expertise. Free for dinner?
Arthur stares, and suddenly, nothing exists except for him and that seemingly innocent four-letter word. Everything is white noise, and Arthur replays every moment that’s led up to this; he sees the judge granting the re-trial, evidence being overturned, motions granted, Saito saying he shouldn’t have worried. It’s all there, all laid out in Cobb’s simmering fury, Eames’ indifference, Yusuf’s nonchalance. He hasn’t felt this naive since law school, when he believed that the U.S. had a fair and just judicial system, that everyone played by the rules, and that in the courtroom, logic trumped emotion every time.
Now he feels that sense of betrayal, of cynical, jaded bitterness that bites at his throat, mocking him for his obliviousness, his idiocy. It’s that sense of disgust that comes from the realization that only the rich can afford to play fair; that there are rules, but the goal of the game is to slip around them; that in the courtroom, with a jury of your peers, logic has very little to do with anything.
Slowly, he turns. “Yusuf,” he says, menancingly quiet. “We need to talk.”
“Oh boy,” mutters Yusuf, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.
As soon as they get to his office, Arthur sits down. “Did you know?” he asks, burying his face his hands, voice dangerous. “Motherfucker, Yusuf, did you know?”
Yusuf frowns, unapologetic. “Specificity, please,” he says, and Arthur grits his teeth, leveling him with a glare.
“Did someone tell you about the bribery,” he very nearly snarls. Yusuf, to his credit, isn’t fazed in the least.
“No,” says Yusuf, but he also gives Arthur a very unimpressed look which only makes Arthur angrier.
“But you knew!” Arthur shouts. “You knew about this!”
“Well, of course, I knew,” Yusuf counters. “It wasn’t rocket science!”
“I didn’t know!” shouts Arthur. “I thought I was winning the case!”
“You are winning the case!”
Arthur inhales sharply through his nose and rubs at his temple. “That’s not the point,” he says roughly. “That’s not how I should be winning.”
“So?” says Yusuf. “We’re not caught up in it. We’re just their puppets, and we’re their very well-paid, ignorant puppets. Just keep doing what you’re doing, and by the end of the week, we’ll be done with it.”
Arthur stares at him, incredulous. “You’re okay with this? You’re seriously okay with this?”
“No!” exclaims Yusuf, looking very affronted. “Of course not, Jesus. I won’t be okay until this is over, and the bank clears my check.”
“And how do you know you’ll get paid if you aren’t even supposed to know about this!” says Arthur, accusingly, voice rising again.
“We,” hisses Yusuf. “We are going to get paid nice little bonuses at the end of our fabulous work, and we’re going to take it, because we like being appreciated. Well,” he amends, seeing the look on Arthur’s face. “I’m going to take mine, and you can give me yours if you don’t want it.”
“This is bribery!” yells Arthur.
“Only if we know it’s happening!” yells Yusuf. “Which we don’t.”
“This is illegal!” he shouts. “You have to report this!”
“I’m not reporting anything!” shouts Yusuf. “If Saito can buy off one of the best judges in the city, what is he going to do to me when he finds out I reported him? Which, by the way, I won’t do, because I haven’t seen anything.”
“I can’t believe this,” Arthur says, running both his hands through his hair. “I can’t fucking believe this bullshit.”
“Oh, don’t be so naive, Arthur,” says Yusuf. “You know it happens. It happens all the time.”
Arthur brings his hands down to his face, his nails digging into his cheeks, and he stares at Yusuf, knowing he should say something, because that isn’t true. It isn’t. Not completely.
“Not to us,” Arthur argues stubbornly. “I could get disbarred. We could get arrested.”
Yusuf scoffs. “No,” he says evenly, eyes flashing. “We have no concrete proof--what, you think Saito’s drawn up contracts? I hereby acknowledge to grant Mr. Saito freedom in exchange for things of monetary value. Everything is circumstantial because where you’re bloody paranoid, so is everyone else.”
“Motherfuck,” Arthur swears. He suddenly, very desperately, wants a smoke, or a drink, or a goddamn Xanax. “So he killed her then?” he asks. “He did it?”
“I don’t know!” says Yusuf. “He said he didn’t do it, but the evidence all points to him! Who knows!”
“We should know,” snaps Arthur. “It’s not a hard question! Is he guilty or not? Yes or no? Jesus Christ, we’re smarter than him--don’t give me that look, we are, okay? We are--how can he make this so fucking hard?”
“Because,” says Yusuf, forever unruffled. “If he were cleverer, we wouldn’t be here right now.”
Arthur has to concede the point. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, desperately wishing that this could just all be over. “So you’re sure we’re safe?” he asks, voice rough.
“Yes,” says Yusuf. “We’re expendable. If anything is happening, it’s all above us, or rather, outside us, considering we’re on his side.”
“Judge Wagner,” Arthur says bitterly.
“Among others,” says Yusuf.
Arthur’s eyes flash. “Eames?”
“I don’t think so,” Yusuf says honestly. “Eames is an independent contract, but since he’s getting his sources from the DA, I wouldn’t be surprised if--”
Arthur snorts because seriously, that’s hilarious. “Cobb is not taking bribes,” he says firmly.
“I didn’t say he was,” Yusuf says patiently. “There are plenty of people above Cobb who would take bribes. Anyway, you heard Eames, if there’s no evidence, there’s no case.”
“What, Nash?” asks Arthur.
Yusuf shrugs.
“Nash?” Arthur repeats. “What the fuck?”
“You’re speculating,” notes Yusuf.
“Oh God,” says Arthur. “Saito really is a genius. Fuck. Get to Nash, and he doesn’t even have to touch anyone else. He literally destroys the case.”
“Mm,” hums Yusuf, non-committal. “Now if you’re done yelling, I’m going home.”
“Fine,” says Arthur, waving him off, rubbing at his face and scowling. “I’ll see you later.” He sighs, exhausted, and pulls out his phone, thumbing at the screen absent-mindedly.
i’m starving, he types.
The reply is immediate. oddly enough, so am i. come over. lucky for you i made too much.
Arthur smiles, reflexive, and gathers his things.
↔
It takes Arthur a little over half an hour to make it to Eames’ place, partly because traffic is always shit in this city, no matter what the time, and partly because he takes a detour to BevMo! to pick up a bottle of Eames’ favorite cheap wine.
In the time it takes Eames to answer the door, Arthur sniffs curiously at the air and identifies garlic and chicken, which automatically makes his mouth water and his stomach to growl loudly. “Are you making grilled chicken?” he asks hopefully, in lieu of greeting.
“Yes,” says Eames, grinning. “Is that wine?”
“Of course,” says Arthur, quirking his lips. “I want to talk, by the way.”
“Right,” Eames says. “So do I, but let’s eat first.”
Arthur’s stomach growls. “Sorry,” says Arthur insincerely. Eames gestures for him to come inside, so Arthur does, toeing off his shoes before following Eames into the kitchen.
There is indeed grilled chicken, and one plate of it is generously smothered in roasted garlic and creamy mushroom sauce. Arthur immediately takes it and retrieves a clean fork.
“God,” says Arthur. “This is amazing.”
Eames smirks at him as he leans against the counter, spearing a potato and chewing it with much less ravenous fervor.
“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve actually had something that wasn’t take-out and didn’t give me the runs?” Arthur says, not bothering to chew with his mouth closed.
“Can’t be any longer since you last had sex,” Eames answers mildly.
“You sound confident,” says Arthur. “Let’s not forgot that I only married you out of pity.”
Eames rolls his eyes. “Let’s see,” he says. “The only person you spend inordinate amounts of time with is Yusuf, and unfortunately, darling, I think that if he was looking for a lay, he’d have more options to choose from than just you.”
Arthur is willing to concede that point because he’s never been able to pinpoint exactly where Yusuf goes off to or what he does once the sun goes down. “You never know,” he says instead. “I could be getting hot and heavy with Cobb.”
Eames squints at him.
Arthur shrugs. “It could happen. He’s not terrible-looking.”
“Your standards,” says Eames. “It’s a wonder I ever settled for you.”
“Right?” says Arthur through a mouthful of chicken. “At least I get to say I married an Englishman. What’s in it for you? Besides the citizenship, I mean.”
“That I married a lawyer,” Eames replies deftly. “And I don’t even need a maths degree to know that puts me pretty high up there in your American social class.”
“What social class,” says Arthur. “We think Real Housewives is classy.”
Eames pours himself a glass of wine and takes a long drink.
“Ha,” says Arthur.
“I could never be a Real Housewife, anyway,” says Eames. “You didn’t give me a big enough house. Or good enough car.”
“Or an allowance,” says Arthur. “Besides, you made more than me last year.”
“That’s very true,” agrees Eames. “But you know me, I just want to be pampered and taken care of.”
Arthur nearly snorts a mushroom. “I’m the one who put myself through three years of law school and summer internships. I’m the one who deserves to be pampered and taken care of.”
“That’s very true, too,” Eames says, casual enough to make Arthur look up and raise an eyebrow. “What?” says Eames. “I can’t be concerned for my darling betrothed who works himself to the bone and doesn’t come home at night for weeks at a time?”
“Not when you say it like that,” says Arthur, deadpan. “By the way,” he adds conversationally. “Is Saito bribing you?”
Eames pauses. “Is that what you wanted talk about?” he asks.
“No,” says Arthur. “Well, yes, partly, but not mainly.”
Eames sets down his fork and smiles, rueful. “Unfortunately, no,” he says. “I’ve not had the honor of being bribed by Saito.”
“Okay,” says Arthur, popping the last potato into his mouth. “Would you? If he did?”
“Are we speaking hypothetically?”
“Yeah.”
Eames shrugs. “I don’t know if you want the answer to that,” he says calmly.
“Fair enough, I guess,” Arthur concedes. “So you knew.”
Eames shrugs again. “I had suspicions, more or less.”
“Funny,” says Arthur. “That’s what Yusuf said.”
“Yusuf said he had suspicions?”
“Not exactly,” answers Arthur. “But close enough.”
“Ah,” hums Eames, and eats the last of his chicken. Wordlessly, Arthur holds out a hand for the plate, and Eames gives it to him. He says something about dessert, which Arthur agrees to, because Arthur’s never been picky about free food, especially not when someone is willing to make it for him.
He gives the dishes a quick wash, rinses Eames’ wine glass, and leaves everything to dry on a Hello Kitty dish towel. Eames comes over and sets down a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream, and Arthur grabs the spoons.
“I think I should work at the DA’s office,” Arthur says finally.
Eames is quiet. It would be a thoughtful pause to anyone else, but not to Arthur. Not when Arthur knows him too well.
“You don’t think I should,” Arthur says for him. He frowns, recalling their previous conversation. “I thought you wanted me to.”
“No,” says Eames. “I think you should do whatever’ll make you happy, but I don’t think the DA’s office will do that.”
“And what do you think the DA’s office will do?”
“I think that you’ll like it there, at least for the first few months--year, maybe--but then you’ll realize there’s just as much corruption there as there is everywhere else.”
He catches the look on Arthur’s face and quickly adds, “Oh, not this kind of corruption. I mean like, politically.” He frowns. “Look, I’ve worked with the DA enough times to know that in this city, you work for the State for two reasons: one, because you actually believe you’re carrying out justice--and even this can go two ways: you do it because you actually think you’re carrying out justice, or you’re actually a psychopath who’s trying to channel his charismatic powers for good because that’s what society wants for you--or you have some kind of political agenda.”
“Cobb thinks he’s carrying out justice,” says Arthur.
“I’m pretty sure Cobb’s a psychopath,” Eames says.
Arthur snorts. “Cobb is not a psychopath.”
“Oh no,” says Eames seriously. “I’m pretty sure Cobb’s a psychopath. He’s also a psychopath who wants to be governor, and the scariest part is, he might actually make it.”
“Oh my God,” says Arthur. “We’re not talking about this.”
“What did he say to you when he asked you to come work for him?” asks Eames. “He gave you a spiel, didn’t he? He told you that there was nothing better than seeing justice be served, that you can’t compare the feeling of hearing the ‘guilty’ verdict to anything you’ve ever felt before. Oh, no, let me guess, he said, it feels like you’re waiting for a train, and--”
“You don’t know where that train will take you,” continues Arthur. “But it doesn’t matter because you’re the one who’s taking it there.”
Eames grins, and Arthur can’t help but smile.
“You don’t actually think he’s a psychopath,” he says.
“No,” agrees Eames. “He’s a bit touched in the head, but virtually harmless.”
“But,” says Arthur, growing serious again. “You don’t think I should be working for the DA.”
Eames leans back in his chair, looks Arthur straight in the eye and says, “I think you should do what you want because you’ve made a well thought out decision, not because you’re running high on adrenaline and anger.”
“I’m not angry,” says Arthur.
“Yes, darling,” sighs Eames. “Yes, you are. You think you’ve been wronged, that some great injustice has been to your person, and you’re probably right. You’ve been lied to and played like a fiddle, but you can’t let that influence you.”
“But you just said it! I’ve been wronged and lied to, and how can I keep working for them if I can’t even trust them?”
“Because you’ve also helped people,” Eames says patiently. “Like the pharmaceutical case last year, how many lives did you save by forcing the company to stop production?”
“That was different,” Arthur says.
“No,” says Eames. “It wasn’t. Just because they used their pills and not a knife or a gun doesn’t make them innocent.”
“They didn’t kill the patients.”
“No,” says Eames. “They just caused the liver failure that did. Isn’t that what you argued? Isn’t that how you won?”
Arthur closes his eyes, because yes, that’s exactly how it went. All the arguments forming in Arthur’s head are the same arguments that the company’s lawyers had thrown at Arthur, and Arthur had ripped them to shreds.
“I’m not saying what happened was fair,” he hears Eames say. “But the law’s never really been very fair. It all comes down to how much money you have, and how good your lawyer is. It just happens that Saito has a lot of money.”
Arthur looks at him. “So you’re saying I’m not a good lawyer.”
“Oh, Arthur, my dearest heart,” he says, shaking his head with a badly concealed smile. “You’re the absolute worst.”
↔
Arthur and Eames have a bit of a complicated history.
Actually, it’s no more complex than it is boring, and in Arthur’s opinion, a little bit (a lot) embarassing.
They’d met online.
On ChristianMingle.
Yeah. Arthur wasn’t very pleased with their limited options either. Apparently, it didn’t matter he was a Jewish-born, former Presbyterian, now lapsed Episcopalian--that was perfectly okay--but he couldn’t be a gay Jewish-born, former Presbyterian, now lapsed Episcopalian.
In Arthur’s defense, he’d signed on because Yusuf had bet him he wouldn’t. Somewhere, between the tedious Q&A for his profile and the pending collection of $100, Arthur had actually decided that, mathematically, his chances of finding someone just as bored and/or easily swayed by stupid bets were not only possible, but also probable.
Who knew listing yourself as a crisis manager interested in women, smoked and drank occasionally, and only attended service on special--very special--occasions would match him to an art teacher interested in men from Pocatello, who smoked frequently, drank occasionally, and attend service several times a year.
A match who looked nothing like her profile picture, who was definitely not from Pocatello, and whose church attendance could only be charitably described as “rarely.”
“I was bored,” Eames will say honestly, when asked. He’ll shrug, self-deprecating. “Couldn’t hurt.”
Needless to say, when Arthur had gotten around to meeting this art teacher from Pocatello, he was far from impressed.
“You don’t look anything like an Amy,” Arthur had said, eyeing Eames’ bright pink scarf with a mix of fear and exasperation.
“How odd,” Eames had commented, in a voice that sounded nothing like an art teacher from Pocatello’s. “You don’t look anything like a Simon.”
That had been a pretty accurate indicator of how the rest of their illicit relationship went.
↔
“What do you think I should do?” Arthur asks, sucking the last drops of ice cream off his spoon.
Eames shrugs, his spoon mostly untouched. “I think you should go to bed, and then you’ll wake up half an hour after your alarm’s gone off, and then you’ll have forgotten that you slept here instead of at your apartment so you’ll take your sweet time getting ready until I tell you your coffee’s getting cold and traffic’s going to be hell.” Eames scratches his chin absently, and Arthur sinks lower in his seat, suddenly sleepy. “You’ll dash out, drive like a maniac and miraculously avoid a speeding ticket. You’ll get into work; you’ll prep for court; you’ll be a lawyer, and then--and then, you’ll realize you love your job, even if you hate the things you have to do. You’re going to head back to the office, and Rodriguez is going to come by, because he still thinks you’re young and bright-eyed and ready to please the world, and he’ll tell you to take a break, and you’ll say, ‘That sounds fantastic. Thank you, sir.’ and you’ll come home--no, you’ll come home--and we’ll go to Thailand, and you’ll waste away a week going to temples for religions you don’t understand, and then we’ll actually start exploring Bangkok, and then we’ll come home, renew our vows, and go on with our lives.”
Arthur smiles softly, content with good food and Eames’ soothing voice. “Yeah,” he sighs. “That sounds like a plan.” He means to just rest his eyes for a bit, but when he blinks them open again, the pint of ice cream is gone, as is his spoon. Instead, Eames is leaning over him, brush a hand against Arthur’s cheek.
“Come on,” he says with a gentle tug. “Let’s get to bed, yeah?”
Arthur follows him into the bedroom, so familiar and yet not. He can’t remember the last time he had the opportunity to actually be home, so he lets Eames unbutton his shirt, remove his cufflinks, and put on a worn t-shirt. He steps out of his pants, and Eames folds them for him, placing them on top of the dresser.
Arthur climbs into their bed and presses his face into the pillows, breathing in the scent of Tide and faint traces of Eames’ aftershave. He feels Eames sliding in behind him, feels the warm weight of Eames’ arm wrap around his waist, feels Eames’ breath on his neck, and thinks, home. Finally.
It’s been at least six months since Arthur last had a good night’s sleep, and when Eames leans over, and kisses his jaw, Arthur finds his hand and squeezes it. “Good night,” he breathes, already half-gone.
He still hears Eames chuckle, feels himself being pulled closer. “Sweet dreams, Arthur,” promises Eames, and Arthur sleeps.
ONTD_POLITICAL
DUN DUN DUN!!
by lushfucks
The jury is in, and Saito is out. Out free.
( FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO LIVE UNDER A ROCK, HERE IS A HELPFUL RECAP. )
SOURCE SOURCE SOURCE (I was going to title this I’M A FREE BITCH BABY but.)
epilogue
In the three months following the Saito case, Arthur parts with a sizable chunk of his savings account, but he makes equity partner; Rodriguez does in fact make him take time off, but not before the firm throws a huge party in celebration of the acquittal. All the partners congratulate him on his performance, and many of the younger associates go starry-eyed when they make him re-tell everything that went down inside the courthouse.
“That’s genius,” someone says, as everyone murmurs in agreement. Arthur purses his lips and sips his champagne. It had been clever, sure, but he had no idea how well it had actually worked, considering Saito had taken matters into his own hands. Arthur will never know how the case would have turned out if they had fought fair.
Even the other two name partners show up, both old and grey-haired and talking louder than anyone. “You see!” bellows Sterling, clapping an arm around Arthur. “I’ve been telling you from the beginning, we’ve got a great lawyer here.”
“Shut up!” shouts Banks as she takes a flute of champagne. “I can hear you just fine!”
Rodriguez, fortunately, comes by just in time and rescues Arthur from getting his eardrums blown out. “Jesus,” says Rodriguez, pulling a face at him. “I can’t wait to find a new name partner. Also, we managed to get the Accutane lawsuit--you know, that acne treatment that caused liver damage and vision problems--I’d like to put you in charge of that.”
Arthur bites back a smile and says nothing. Rodriguez had been disappointed when Arthur said that he would like to stay away from any future cases that may involve Saito, but he’d gotten over it quickly enough. “Just something to think about when you get back,,” Rodriguez says, thumping him on the back. “Where did you say you were going again? Tahiti?”
“Thailand,” corrects Arthur.
“Bangkok is gorgeous,” he says emphatically. “You and Eames enjoy yourselves now.” Serious, now, he adds, “Really. Take as much time as you want. I know you haven’t taken a vacation in years.”
Arthur shrugs. “I love my work,” he says, and Rodriguez laughs.
Yusuf is also at the party, and when he spots Arthur, he raises his glass as a toast and presses his lips together, and Arthur shrugs and raises his glass back. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be okay with what he knows. There’s definitely no physical proof to the accusations, and if he’s honest, Arthur is much more bothered by the fact they still haven’t figured out with certainty, who, exactly, murdered Kyoko.
Anyone could have had access to the knife. Sure, the only fingerprints on it were Kyoko’s, the chef’s and Saito’s, but gloves aren’t a rare accessory. They also can’t prove that Saito bought the arsenic, and even if they could, there’s no way they could say that it was used specifically to poison his wife. Proculus Global boasts an impressive science division, and any good lawyer can easily argue that arsenic was obtained for research purposes.
Also, for a man who has his own security personnel, there weren’t any security cameras installed in the house. Suspicious, maybe, but at the time, the family had just moved in. It’s not far-fetched to assume that Saito simply hadn’t gotten around to it yet. After all, the man did have his own bodyguards.
There are so many pieces and holes to the case that just doesn’t sit well with Arthur. He likes things with a neat conclusion, and the Saito case had anything but.
“You’re thinking too hard again,” says Yusuf, who has finally made his way over. “Now that you’re equity partner, it’s time to stop worrying about what your clients did and more about how much you can charge them.”
“Yeah,” says Arthur. “Time to learn the business aspect of law.”
Yusuf dismisses that with a snort. “The only thing you need to know is that if they can afford it, charge it.”
Arthur’s lip twitches.
“Besides,” adds Yusuf. “When the firm is making money, the name partners are happy. When the name partners are happy, I can ask for a raise. When I get a raise, I can buy things like groceries and hand guns. So you see, what’s really happening here is a modern day Robin Hood. You take from the rich and give it to those who need it, like me. It’s very noble of you.”
Arthur can’t help it. He laughs. “You can ask for a raise whenever, Yusuf. Don’t pretend like you don’t know what an asset you are to the firm. Feigned ignorance is unbecoming on you.”
“It’s a very delicate process!” Yusuf protests. “You’re equity partner, you wouldn’t understand. Go on your vacation and enjoy your first-class seats and five-star hotels and the sexy masseuses at those hotels. Spend all your money. Buy something nice for yourself.”
“I’ll be back in three weeks, Yusuf,” says Arthur, grinning.
“It doesn’t matter,” Yusuf sniffs. “It’s not like you’re needed.”
“I’ll send you a postcard,” Arthur promises.
“I’ll be sure to bully the mailboy everyday until it arrives,” says Yusuf. Then, very serious, he adds, “I mean it, Arthur. Enjoy yourself. You and Eames both deserve it.”
“Thanks,” Arthur says sincerely. “I’m sure we will.”
In Bangkok, the humidity makes Arthur sweat in places he didn’t even know sweat glands existed. Both he and Eames give up on jeans the moment they arrive, and instead, they spend the rest of their
trip in khaki shorts and sandals. Arthur doesn’t mind. It reminds him of his pre-law days at home in El Segundo, spending summer after summer practically living at the beach.
Arthur does end up exploring whatever temples he can find, and Eames follows him without complaint. He doesn’t understand a word of what the helpful locals say, but he nods and smiles and thanks them anyway.
He gets a tan, and Eames gets tanner, and in the midst of everything--the exploring, the relaxation, and the unrelenting heat--Arthur still finds time to reacquaint himself with Eames, with his habits, his hands, and his hello-good-morning-why-don’t-you-come-back-to-bed-darling.
He reacquaints himself with his simple gold wedding band, with waking up half on top of Eames’ chest, with slow kisses and the warmth of Eames’ skin. He relearns the curve of Eames’ lips, the lines of his tattoos, and the rumble of his sleep-affected voice.
He studies Eames meticulously and a little desperately, like he’s afraid that if he blinks, he’ll lose it all again. (And he is. Afraid, that is. Afraid that one day, they’re going to come back together, and they won’t be able to sync up again. Afraid that one day, Eames is going to realize that there is someone out there who doesn’t put work first, who could probably count on one hand the number of times he stayed late at the office, who takes time off for birthdays and holidays. Someday, says a small voice in the back of Arthur’s head, Eames is going to realize that other people exist.)
Arthur loses an inexplicable amount of time in kissing Eames and every part of Eames he can reach, and then he proceeds to lose even more amount in being kissed and touched and loved so wholly and undeniably that it hurts. He lets Eames take him to the parks and the markets and the outdoor Patravadi Theatre where he takes Eames’ hand and doesn’t let go, not even when their palms are slippery with sweat, and Eames just grins at him, open and honest, and says, “Hey.”
“Hey yourself,” Arthur says and kisses him, right there on Arunamarin Road, surrounded by tourists and locals alike with contemporary dance music playing over them and an avant-garde dance troupe entertaining the masses. He brings a hand to cup Eames’ jaw, smoothing his fingers over the day-old stubble as he presses himself closer, not caring about humid it is or how his shirt feels like it’s permanently stuck to his skin or how they’re sitting under a canopy in a park that’s listed as one of the must-sees of Thailand. He doesn’t care about anything other than the feel of Eames’ lips against his, gentle and so sweet, and he doesn’t care that he’s grinning like a fool or that Eames’ fingers are laced with his and their rings are slip-sliding against each other.
He cares that he’s happy and relaxed, and that Eames is here with him, by his side. Eames, who doesn’t care that Arthur has always put work first, who doesn’t care that Arthur forgets birthdays and anniversaries, who doesn’t care that Arthur has been in their shared home a grand total of three times in the last eighteen months, but who loves Arthur because they’re different, infinitely so, and that’s okay. Because Eames is perfectly successful in his own right and secure enough that he’s fine with Arthur staying late at the office, and if Arthur happens to work himself to the bone and forget to eat and sleep, Eames can call him and tell him to close his case files and walk himself two blocks south to the apartment they lease for these very instances.
They don’t need anniversaries or Friday night dates to be in love. They have a standing breakfast reservation at the Dearborn Starbucks and Facetime chats at odd hours and the very unsubtle instances where they make sure that they work the same case, regardless of whether it’s with or against each other.
And it’s okay if sometimes, they spend more time together puzzling out mock crime scene than they do shopping for kitchen appliances, or if they’ve clocked more hours staring at security footage than they ever will at the local movie theater.
None of that matters, Arthur realizes. As long as he and Eames are together.
“Let’s do this again sometime,” Eames says in a low voice, with a grin that makes Arthur automatically grin back.
And Arthur doesn’t know if Eames is talking about the kiss or the trip or the rings on their fingers, but he tells himself, it doesn’t matter (because, honestly, it doesn’t), and says, “Let’s.”
end notes: First of all, I know nothing about Chicago except that O'Hare is mind-blowingly huge. A lot of creative license was taken with the geography, but the Starbucks on South Dearborn does exist, at least according to Google. I've also never been to Thailand, sadly. ):
Secondly, this story wouldn't exist if keelain hadn't asked me to join her in watching The Good Wife episodes with Diane and Kurt McVeigh being BAMFs and then squeed with me about how they were so in love. Many thanks also go to dialectical who assured me, halfway through, that this wasn't the worst thing ever and that the legal procedures weren't completely unreasonable. Also, to squirtblossom, who kindly kept me company at all hours of the morning and gave me all the encouragement I could ever ask for. Of course, night_reveals who is the bestest beta and deserves all the awards for going through the rough draft with her giant red pen and making this story actually readable in the tiny amount of time I gave her. Em, I'm shit at writing odes, so instead, take this and this. *mwah*
And finally, an endless amount of thanks to lick_j, who is an amazing, super patient artist, who never once complained that I was taking forever to write, and for always believing that I would definitely make the deadline. ♥! And to you, the reader, who slogged through 15k of words. You're a champ.