#342 - [FIC] Everything About You (Eames/Fischer), 3/3
Title: Everything About You (3/3)
Word Count: 7,909 (of ~19,000 total)
Pairing: Eames/Fischer
Rating: a softer NC-17
Disclaimer: Neither Fischer nor Eames belong to me. :(
Author's Note: First of all, this is dedicated to the lovely forgerness, who requested some Eames/Fischer from me a while back and is only now having her prayers answered. ;)
Secondly, this is meant to follow the events of Inception, so I’m hesitant to call it an AU, but at the same time, it’s only in my mind that Robert would ever work in a record store, listen to the Smiths, and own a Royal typewriter. I’ve taken the notion that the inception would change everything about him to extremes. Consider yourself warned!
Part III
Six months had passed and Eames had given up his own apartment and moved in officially. Robert hadn’t touched the Royal in months, his muse silent and tied up in her own thoughts, and it seemed there was nothing he could do to rouse her from her stupor. But even as his typewriter sat gathering dust with the rest of his grand plans, Robert welcomed all the distractions and messes that came with love. He was happy and nothing else seemed important.
It had been a long night at work when Robert finally came home, more than a little irritated after someone had knocked over a display in the store and watched idly as he cleaned it up. But as soon as he entered the apartment and saw Eames at the counter, putting the finishing touches on the most mouth-watering steak Robert had ever laid eyes on, he forgot all about the horrible night he’d had at work.
“Tell me you have two of those, or I’m going to be forced to fight you for it, because I’m starving and that looks incredible.”
Eames laughed, probably as much at the idea of Robert beating him in a fight as anything else. “Relax. This is yours, love. Have a seat.”
“Have I told you lately how much I love you?” he asked as Eames sat across from him at the table.
“Yesterday, actually,” he said, smiling cheekily.
Only the fact that Robert’s mouth was otherwise engaged saved him from a vicious retort. The steak tasted even better than it looked, so rich and tender it practically melted in his mouth. He chased it with a mouthful of wine, also incredible, and set aside his knife and fork for a moment.
“So, what did I do to deserve this, again? Because if I’m supposed to be forgiving you for something, I don’t even remember what you did, this is so amazing.”
Eames looked like he was trying very hard not to smile. “You really have forgotten, haven’t you? Come on, love,” he prompted, “what month is it?”
“September? Eames, I don’t see what-oh,” he said, realization dawning slowly. “It’s the seventeenth, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so, love. Happy birthday.”
“You know,” he said, after a moment, “I don’t remember telling you when my birthday was.”
“I saw it on your passport.”
“When did you see my passport?” Eames gave him a pointed look and Robert bristled. “You creep-you went through my wallet, didn’t you?
Eames shrugged. “As your significant other, I consider it my right. But fair’s fair, yeah?” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a raggedy, leather monstrosity and set it in front of Robert, his expression rather smug. “Go through it if you like.”
Robert went back to his steak without taking the bait. Knowing Eames, he’d anticipated the possibility of being caught-or brought it up deliberately for the pleasure of making Robert irritated-and cleaned his wallet of any potentially incriminating evidence.
Several bites later, it occurred to him that he was the only one eating.
“Aren’t you hungry?”
Eames waved the question away. “I’ll eat later.”
His grin took an oddly wolfish turn, and Robert’s stomach fluttered in a way that had nothing to do with dinner.
“Eames,” he warned, in a tone that rendered the man’s name synonymous with ‘sneaky, underhanded bastard,’ “I don’t know what you’re planning, but you better tell me now, or I’m sending you to bed-and by bed I mean the couch-without dinner or sex.”
Eames laughed and rocked back on the legs of his chair, unable to stay still. “You know, it’s funny you should mention that because I was actually hoping you might want to switch things up a little tonight,” he said, lips curling into what could only be described as a shit-eating grin. “So what do you say, love-how’d you like to fuck me, for a change?”
Robert was sure he had heard that incorrectly. “Come again?”
“God, I hope so,” Eames said.
Robert couldn’t tackle him to the kitchen floor fast enough, an action that was surprising not only for its swiftness and highly uncharacteristic nature but for the pain that resulted when his knee slammed into the linoleum between Eames’ thighs.
“That was moderately painful.”
Eames exhaled shakily. “If that had been any higher, darling…” He laughed, recovering quickly. “I may have told you this before, but I rather like this view of you. However,” he decided, “I’d enjoy it a lot more if you weren’t wearing so many clothes.”
Robert sat back on his heels. “I thought I was supposed to be in charge here.”
“I said you could fuck me, not that you could be in charge,” Eames said evenly, as if that explained everything. “But if you’re not going to do either, might I suggest that we continue this stalemate somewhere that doesn’t make my spine ache?” He pulled a face, and Robert had to concede that the kitchen floor was hardly the most comfortable place to be having sex.
Or the cleanest, for that matter. He was pretty sure Eames had neglected to mop the night before like he was supposed to.
Robert picked himself up off the floor. “Ten years ago, I bet we could have pulled it off.”
“Yes, well, let’s not get started on what we could have done ten years ago,” Eames said dryly as Robert gave him a hand. “We’re meant to be celebrating, not commiserating. Besides,” he added, having made it to the bedroom, “even if that little kitchen escapade hadn’t fallen through, I dunno what you were planning on using as lube.”
“I would have come up with something,” he said stubbornly.
“I shudder to think what,” Eames said, kissing him. He pulled back and cleared his throat, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. His green eyes were laughing. “I don’t know how to tell you this, love, but your mouth tastes awfully of garlic.”
“And whose fault is that?”
Eames raised his hands defensively. “Brush your teeth and all is forgiven.”
On the way to the bathroom, he breathed into his hand and had to agree that he had garlic breath bad enough to knock out a horde of vampires-hardly a thought that made him dizzy with desire. He scrubbed his teeth and swished with mouthwash for good measure, returning to the bedroom to find Eames sitting naked on the edge of the bed, swinging his legs and looking rather bored.
“I kind of expected you to be… doing something.”
“No point if you aren’t here to see it, is there?” He laid back on the bed as Robert approached, shifting his legs apart with a lazy grin and trailing a hand over his abdomen. “Wouldn’t want to cut your fantasy short, love.”
Robert leaned over him, still fully clothed, and nipped at his earlobe. “In my fantasy, you have the sense to shut your mouth.”
Eames snorted inelegantly and sat up. “That wasn’t quite what I had in mind, but it does sound fantastical enough, I suppose.”
“You know,” Robert said, the tiniest bit of irritating creeping into his voice, “when you insult me, I don’t think about fucking you. I think about punching you in the mouth.”
Eames eyed him, perfectly smug. “Your prick says differently.”
“Is that what it’s going to take to make you shut up?”
“You know I only respond to positive reinforcement, Robert.”
Eames hands made quick work of Robert’s jeans, not bothering to tug anything down further than was necessary to get it out of the way. As it happened, Robert was already half-hard with anticipation, which Eames, mercifully, neglected to comment upon before wrapping a hand around the base of his erection and taking him in.
He reached out for Eames’ shoulders to steady himself automatically, moaning at the hot, wet suction that engulfed him. Eames gripped hard at the back of his thigh and Robert spared a fraction of a second to wonder if he would leave bruises before he was crying out again, knees threatening to buckle underneath him. Eames sucked greedily at him for a handful of blissful seconds and then let him go, prompting a frustrated whine.
Eames tongue darted out to lick his lips, almost luridly red. “Consider it an incentive.”
Robert stripped quickly, stumbling a little when he stepped out of his jeans. He rummaged around in the dresser, quickly locating lube but not finding anything else.
Then he remembered. “Shit. I meant to pick up condoms when I went to the store yesterday.” He turned back to Eames. “You didn’t get any, did you?”
He shrugged. “I thought you were getting them. Anyway, you may recall that we got tested three months ago. You’re not going to catch anything from me,” he promised and patted the bed next to him. “Come here, love.”
Grudgingly, Robert sat and Eames curled his arm around his back, pulling him in for a kiss. The angle was a bit awkward and Robert pushed Eames onto his back, feeling a little thrill go through him at how readily Eames’ knees came up against his sides, pressing gently to steer his hips into the right alignment. It wasn’t difficult, considering the amount of practice they’d had, and Eames groaned into the kiss, grinding up against Robert and biting his lip. As they rutted against one another, Eames’ fingers-somehow already slick, the sneaky bastard-dipped into the cleft of his ass, pressing in and making him shudder and break the kiss.
“Not fair,” he moaned, arching back against Eames’ hand even as he tried to press his hips down for more friction. “Thought this was… was me fucking you for a change.”
Eames’ voice was infuriatingly clear. “So get on with it. I’m not stopping you.”
“You… oh, god, Eames,” Robert breathed, shuddering as Eames sunk his fingers to the third knuckle, crooking them wickedly. With great effort, he managed to keep still, not ready to admit defeat. “If you make me come like this, I’ll, oh,” he moaned, desperately resisting the urge to rock his hips backward, “I’ll hate you forever.”
All the same, he couldn’t help feeling a vague twinge of disappointment as Eames removed his fingers and wiped them on the sheets, grumbling under his breath and looking rather sour. Robert kissed his neck and rested his forehead against the man’s shoulder as he collected himself. After a moment, he straightened and grabbed the bottle of lube from the bed, squeezing a generous amount onto his fingers and rubbing them together to warm it up. Beneath him, Eames groaned and Robert tried not to laugh at how miserable he looked.
“Don’t be so impatient.”
“Don’t be so bloody nice to me, then.”
“You have a problem with me being nice now?”
“If you weren’t such a bloody gentleman, you’d be fucking me already,” Eames complained, even as Robert brought a hand between his legs.
Before he had even worked two fingers in, Eames was shoving his hips at Robert, cock hard and leaking against his stomach as his thighs trembled and his hands tangled in Robert’s hair, dragging him down and bringing their lips together. Robert licked into his mouth with a groan. Maybe it was only his imagination, but he thought he could still taste himself there, however faintly. This time, Eames was the first to break away.
“Enough with the fucking fingers,” he panted. “Just fuck me.”
As quickly as he could manage, Robert slicked himself with trembling hands and moved into position. Eames was groaning-“Come on, come on, come on”-and, with a sharp intake of breath, Robert slid home. The slick heat of Eames made him lightheaded and he wanted to savor it, but it was too much and he began moving immediately, unable to pause once he heard Eames begin to grunt and moan under him.
Eames set the pace, rocking so hard against him Robert felt it the force of it in his spine, shaking under the big, firm hands that forced his hips and made his eyes roll back in his head at the pleasure of it. It was a side of Eames Robert had rarely seen-sex was never about competition, never about domination, the fact that Robert was always the one to let Eames inside him notwithstanding. He knew he could have had this, if he had only asked. Their sex life was nothing if not egalitarian, and Eames would have been game for anything that ended with both of them naked and sated.
“That’s it, love,” Eames groaned. “Just like that.” He made a sound halfway between a laugh and a moan, though Robert barely heard it over the blood pounding in his ears. “Bloody fucking hell, I haven’t been fucked like this in ages,” he panted, punctuating the allowance with a sharp grunt and another roll of his hips. “That’s it, come on, love…”
Normally they would be caught up in a kiss, but tonight Robert couldn’t stop staring at the flush painting Eames’ cheeks or the way that ecstasy kept his mouth open, his lips red where he’d bitten at them. His eyes were heavily lidded, only the smallest sliver of color exposed. He was gorgeous like this, incredibly sexy, and, better still?
He was no one’s but Robert’s.
He might have lasted a few minutes longer with latex between them, but as it was the combination of Eames’ voice, his hands, the clutch of his body proved too much and Robert found himself hoarsely groaning his climax against Eames’ shoulder with the other man still hard against his belly. His pride in critical condition, he collapsed next to Eames on the bed.
The embarrassment set in before the fog of climax had completely cleared, motivated by several factors, the first and most obvious being that he had come so quickly. What was he-seventeen? Christ, he should have been able to last a little longer than that, even without a condom. Then there was the fact that he hadn’t tried to bring Eames off before, and then he’d been so distracted he hadn’t managed during sex, either.
So much for being a considerate lover.
Painfully aware that they had now reached that point in time best described as after sex with the same tally-Robert one, Eames zero-he rolled onto his side and tried his best not to look too guilty.
As usual, his efforts were in vain.
“You’ve got ‘apology’ written all over your face, love.”
Robert turned his face into the sheets, as much to stifle the nonsense pouring out of his mouth as to hide the flush that would be stealing into his cheeks at any moment now, like he was some awkward teenager and not a thirty-five year old man. The power Eames wielded over him in that respect never ceased to simultaneously amaze and horrify him.
Currently, he was more focused on the latter.
“Oh, come on, Robert,” Eames said, settling on his hips and running his broad hands over Robert’s back. “You’re not embarrassed, are you?”
He offered a dismal groan in response, prompting a quiet laugh from Eames.
“You were brilliant, if that’s what’s worrying you,” Eames assured him. He pressed a kiss to Robert’s neck. “Bloody amazing, yeah?”
“Liar,” Robert grumbled. “You didn’t even finish.”
“Let’s fix that now, then, shall we?”
His hands came down on Robert’s hips, his touch lighter than it had been before. He could feel Eames grind against him and Robert, still slick from before, lifted his hips to accommodate him automatically, The stretch, a slow burn that faded by degrees, made him moan and tense.
Eames paused. “All right there, love?”
“Just go slow, okay?”
Eames murmured his assent, moving languidly. Even though he hadn’t been on the receiving end the first time, Robert didn’t think he’d be able to handle anything quite so rough again tonight. Being manhandled-he didn’t quite know what else to call it-was fine on occasion, but he preferred lovemaking like this, slow and tender. He felt safe with Eames’ weight at his back as they moved together.
The kiss Eames pressed to his shoulder was open-mouthed and wet, his teeth scraping lightly over Robert’s skin once before he was kissing again, soothing the hurt with his lips. Eames was already feeling heavier, leaning on him more and more the way he always did when he was approaching climax. His thrusts were faster, harder now, his breath hot on the back of Robert’s neck.
“I love you,” he panted, his voice thick and slurred almost like he was intoxicated. “I love you, Robert, I love you so much…”
He came with a strangled moan, giving one more thrust before he withdrew, flopping gracelessly next to Robert, who couldn’t be bothered to move any further than he had to in order to curl himself against Eames’ chest, which he did with a loud yawn.
Eames kissed the top of his head. “Tired?”
“Mmm,” Robert agreed. He kissed Eames’ neck, nuzzling into the sweat-slick skin. “I love you. That was incredible, thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Are you okay? You sound a little distant.”
“Just thinking is all,” Eames said, a little puff of air over Robert’s ear. “Someone might be ringing me about a job soon.”
“How soon?”
“Dunno, love. Soon,” he repeated. His hand found Robert’s in the dark. “You’ll be all right, won’t you?”
“I’ll live,” Robert said, feeling Eames squeeze his hand gently in response. “I don’t want to talk about it right now. I’m not ready to be angry with you yet.”
Eames didn’t laugh like he’d expected and Robert looked up at him, concerned.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
His smile was tight. “I’m fine, yeah? Let’s just get some sleep.”
Robert didn’t entirely believe him, but the pull of sleep was stronger than his curiosity, and he was out almost as soon as he closed his eyes.
- - - - -
The next morning, Eames was standing at the kitchen window, dressed smartly in a suit jacket and slacks that Robert would have liked if not for what they signaled. His chest tightened up as he saw the dishes washed and draining in the tray-only leaving for a job was enough to guilt Eames into cleaning the kitchen. Soon, Eames had said, but Robert hadn’t expected it to be this soon.
Eames turned as he approached, curling an arm around him. His lips were warm on Robert’s forehead and he smelled like sandalwood and cigarettes.
“I’ve got to go away for a little while,” he said.
“Where are you going?”
He asked it just to spite Eames, who never answered, no matter how many times he asked. It was like a script at this point, the things they said to each other, and he was anticipating irritation, maybe outright anger; a sigh, a groan. But Eames’ response surprised him.
“Maybe I’ll send you a postcard.”
Robert smiled cautiously. “Yeah.”
“I won’t be long, all right? Two, three weeks at the outside,” he promised and then kissed him, just once, lips brushing chastely over Robert’s before they curved into a soft smile. “I’ll ring you when I land, okay?”
“Okay.”
Eames pulled him into a tight embrace, and though it was the last thing Robert wanted, knowing it would only make today that much harder, it was exactly what he needed. His heart stuttered and his knees felt like they would collapse under him. He thought he might fall to pieces if Eames weren’t there holding him together with his strong arms and his promise that everything would be all right no matter how many miles this job put between them.
Briefly, he touched a hand to Robert’s cheek. “I love you. Remember that.”
“I will,” he said. “I love you, too.”
“I’ll see you soon. I promise.”
- - - - -
Eames sent him a postcard from Barcelona that said only, “I miss you. -E.” with the return address blank. Robert pinned it to the fridge with a magnet. A reminder.
He called in sick to work on a Thursday and spent it in his pajamas watching old detective movies and smoking the French cigarettes Eames had left with the rest of his things-the thin, black ones that tasted like vanilla and smelled like Eames’ sandalwood cologne. He was disappointed to find that the taste wasn’t half as exciting when he wasn’t getting it secondhand as they kissed, but the slow burn it left in his chest was perfect.
Another post card came a few days later, this time from London. “Sit tight, love. I’ll be home soon. -E.”
He stuck that one up on the fridge as well. Maybe it wasn’t as good as having Eames greet him first thing in the morning, warm and tousled with sleep, but it reminded him that the man whose shirts he’d had dry-cleaned and whose books he’d picked up off the floor still existed out there somewhere, even if he wasn’t there with him.
But their bed felt empty no matter how much he stretched out in it. It was too cold and too big and Robert stood by the window and smoked instead of sleeping, drinking coffee and waiting for Eames to walk back into his life and fill it up again. It was lonely work. In the early hours of the morning he lay there imagining the worst, paralyzed with the fear that he would never know, even if something did happen.
Two weeks later, Eames showed up unannounced and Robert knew as soon as he dropped his bags that something wasn’t right. His shirt was stained, dirty, and everything he wore looked more slept in than the flight alone would account for, his face unshaven and his hair matted and greasy like it hadn’t been washed for days. He’d lost track of how much time had passed when Eames finally wet his lips and spoke, looking nowhere in particular.
“Arthur’s dead,” he said, without inflection. “ I’m going to lie down.”
Robert could do nothing but look on dumbly, replaying again and again the sight of Eames’ back as he retreated, his shoulders hunched with grief. Tears rolled hotly down his cheeks and he grieved for the man he would never know and for the man he loved, caught down in some dark place where no one, not even Robert, could follow.
- - - - -
Robert worked as much as he could during the weeks that followed, walking on eggshells when he was home and making a place for himself on the couch so Eames could have the bed. Initially, it had seemed like the best solution, but now the decision weighed heavily on his conscience. His heart thudded clumsily whenever he walked past their room, not knowing if Eames was awake or how he was hurting. Robert went to work distracted and stayed that way, hating himself for leaving Eames alone with his pain.
But part of him hated Eames as well, for letting him and for not needing him.
That was what stood out in Robert’s memories-that overwhelming need for comfort and reassurance, and the empty longing where it should have been. When his mother had died, he’d felt only grief, but as he grew older some portion of it twisted to resentment for his father for not comforting him. Maurice had chosen to shut him out instead, an action he had not until very recently been able to comprehend as anything but selfish. It had been an act of love, however misguided-a way to ensure that Robert never grieved for him the way he grieved for her. He understood that now, but it wasn’t the sort of thing that occurred to an eleven year old boy.
It hurt to be standing in his father’s shoes now, not wanting to put that distance between himself and Eames, but no more equipped to handle the situation.
He didn’t know what to say when he woke up several days later and found Eames slouched over the kitchen table, a mug of tea at his elbow as he chewed absently at a yellow pencil. The Sunday crossword lay in front of him, a few clues already lightly penciled in. Eames smiled distractedly when he sat down.
“The kettle’s on,” Eames said by way of greeting. They hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words to each other since he’d gotten back. Eames glanced up from his puzzle. “I could make some coffee, if you want. I didn’t know when you’d be up.”
“I’m okay. Thanks.”
They lapsed back into silence, Eames’ pencil scratching audibly over the newsprint. It was as uncomfortable as anything between them had ever been, worse than it had been the first time they met. They had never been such complete strangers as they were now, and it tightened Robert’s chest just to look at him. There were more lines around his mouth and his eyes than there had been before, Robert was sure, like the last weeks had aged him, somehow.
“It’s been lonely in there without you, you know,” Eames said, startling him out of his thoughts. He was doodling around the margins of his puzzle, eyes trained on the grey newsprint. “I keep expecting to wake up with you in my arms.”
Robert hadn’t thought it would be this hard, but his tongue was uncooperative, guilt twisting the pit of his stomach like a lead sinker.
“I was trying to give you space,” he said. It sounded cruel, now that he was saying it aloud. Worse than it ever had when he’d gone over it in his mind. “I didn’t know what else to do. I’m sorry.”
Eames set his pencil aside and nodded. He licked his lips but didn’t speak.
“I didn’t know what to do,” Robert repeated. He still didn’t, and the realization brought an edge of hysteria to his voice. “Eames?” He bit the inside of his cheek. “Fuck, Eames, I’m such a selfish asshole. I should be trying to help and I’ve just been sitting on my hands and wondering what the hell to say and how to say it…” he trailed off, pressing his lips tightly together. “I’m a horrible person.”
Eames looked up at that. The edges of his eyes were crinkled and he looked tired, but he was smiling, softly. He reached across the table and Robert took his hand, feeling his warm, dry grip as their fingers laced together. There was a half-familiar glint in his eyes as Eames looked at him. It took Robert a moment before he recognized it as amusement.
“You’re not a horrible person. A little lost, maybe, but not horrible,” Eames assured him. He gave Robert’s hand a squeeze and then pulled back. “It’s all right, love. No harm done.”
“We’re okay, then?”
Eames smiled. “We’re okay.”
Silence spread between them again as Eames dropped his eyes to his tea, his big hands wrapped around the mug in front of him as if to keep them warm. Maybe to keep them still. Robert pushed himself away from the table as unobtrusively as he could, busying himself with the coffee maker and putting away last night’s dishes. The work was too mindless to distract him, but it gave him something to do with his hands-something other than wring them-for a few minutes.
Eames’ eyes were still fixed on the bottom of his mug of tea, but he kept reaching up to rub the back of his neck. He’d guessed a long time ago that Eames didn’t know when he was doing it-like a nervous tic-and so Robert had never mentioned it, keeping it to himself a sort of gauge for the relative sincerity of Eames’ apologies.
Seeing that idiosyncrasy pop up now made him feel ill at ease.
“Eames?”
Robert saw him startle, watching the mug fly out of his hands involuntarily and nearly dropping his own coffee cup out of surprise as the mug hit and skidded across the linoleum, leaving a trail of hot tea in its wake.
Eames turned halfway in his chair, expression dazed as he surveyed the mess. His eyes flicked from the floor to Robert, back and forth, and then he was burying his face in his hands, head hanging between his knees. His shoulders shook and Robert thought he might be laughing-until a wretched sob ripped through the air.
As quickly as Robert could rush to his side, Eames was falling into his arms. They tumbled to the floor in an awkward tangle of limbs. Tea soaked into his sleep pants and his socks, already cold, but the discomfort was only an afterthought. Eames pressed his face into Robert’s neck, hot tears running under the collar of his t-shirt.
“I should’ve been there,” he said, voice choked with tears. “’s all my fault. I should’ve gone back with him to make sure it was all right. To, to-fuck,” he cut off, sobbing brokenly.
His fists were balled up in Robert’s shirt, the man’s knuckles digging into his ribs. Robert just held him as well as he could, rubbing Eames’ back and feeling his heart break as Eames shook with the force of huge, hiccupping sobs. It wasn’t that Robert had never seen him cry-Eames cried unabashedly at sappy movies with dogs in them-but this was different. Robert had never seen him fall apart like this.
Eames’ hold on his shirt finally gave and Eames lifted his head from Robert’s shoulder, scrubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. His lips looked raw where he had bitten them, tears sparkling on his eyelashes.
“I miss him so much, Robert,” he said, thickly, tears still rolling down his cheeks. “I miss him, and he’s gone. Just gone.”
After that, there were no more words. Eames leaned heavily on him, letting Robert lead him into the bedroom. It was early, but there was a weariness weighing heavily on his limbs as he undressed Eames and lay them both down. He fell asleep, waking sometime later, alone in the bed, and wandered out into the living room.
He could hear Eames retching and sobbing. The bathroom door was open, but he knocked gently to let Eames know he was there before sinking down beside him.
“It’s okay,” he said, rubbing Eames’ back as he gagged and gripped the toilet seat with white knuckles. Nothing was coming up, but he couldn’t seem to stop. When he had finally finished, Robert held the big man to his chest and kissed the top of his head, rocking them slowly.
“It’s not your fault. There’s nothing you could have done,” he said, trying to keep the awkwardness he felt out of his voice. He concentrated on being calm, soothing; strong so that Eames would know it was okay to be vulnerable, if only just this once. “Just let it all out, babe. It’s going to be okay.”
They stayed like that for a long time, Eames curled against him and clutching at his back until his sobs, reduced to shaky breathing, had subsided.
“Everything’s going to be all right,” he said and he did his best to believe it.
- - - - -
They were out at the same bar where they’d had their first drinks together, huddled in one of the bar’s few booths. There were already a couple of empty beer bottles on the table between them-Eames’, not his. Robert was monitoring his alcohol intake more closely this time, nursing the same beer he’d ordered an hour before.
Eames stirred his scotch with a finger, bringing the digit to his mouth.
“You’re quiet tonight. Fidgety, too.” It was true. Eames couldn’t seem to stay still, and that’s when Robert noticed what was missing. “Why aren’t you smoking?”
Eames shrugged. “I gave it up. Nasty habit, that.”
“When?”
“When I left all my smokes back at the flat,” he said with a sheepish grin.
Robert laughed. “They don’t have French cigarettes in France?”
“Fresh out, I’m afraid,” Eames said, without his usual enthusiasm. His eyes panned left over the rim of his glass, aloof. Something still wasn’t right between them, then.
“Hey.” He touched Eames’ hand across the table to get his attention. “What’s going on?”
Eames slouched back against the booth and scratched idly at his stubble before speaking.
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Oh, jesus,” Robert muttered. “Here we go.”
Those were three words he had hoped never to hear at a time like this, in the tone Eames was using now. His heart leapt into his throat and he knocked back the rest of his beer to coax it back down; a half-assed attempt to steel himself.
“I’m not right for you,” Eames said eventually.
Robert set-okay, maybe slammed-his bottle down with more force than was maybe warranted. He wasn’t ready for this. “Goddamn it, Eames! How can you even say that?”
“Settle down, will you? Christ,” Eames hissed. “Give us a chance to explain.”
Robert signaled for another beer. If Eames had taken him to a bar to do this, clearly he wasn’t drunk enough for whatever was coming next. He intended to remedy that as quickly as humanly possible.
“Okay,” he said at last. “Let’s do this. I’m interested to hear why you’re so wrong for me.”
Eames didn’t look particularly amused by his flippant remark, but he refrained from commenting. “I’m always leaving you.”
“Yeah, for work.”
“You deserve someone who cares about you more than work.”
Robert stared down at his hands. “You care enough to come back.”
“Don’t pretend that it doesn’t bother you. I know how much you hate it.”
“Fine,” he agreed. “I hate it. But that doesn’t mean I’d rather have you out of my life entirely.” He let his head loll back against the booth, closing his eyes and trying to relax. He worried his lip between his teeth. “I thought we were stupidly in love or something.”
Eames laughed at that. “We are stupidly in love.”
“What’s the problem, then?” Robert took another pull on his beer and watched Eames drum his fingers nervously on the table top. “That’s not enough for you?”
Eames raked a hand through his hair and over the back of his neck. “I just-I can’t take lying to you anymore. Do you remember asking me if we’d met before?” Robert nodded, not sure where this was going. “I may not have been entirely honest when I answered.”
He clenched his jaw reflexively. “It was a yes or no question, Eames. You were either entirely honest or entirely dishonest. There is no in between.”
“You’re wrong about that, love.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Robert had never seen Eames flounder the way he was now, flustered and-for once in his life-at a loss for words. He was rubbing the back of his neck again, opening his mouth and then closing it again as he thought better of it. What eventually came out of his mouth seemed, to Robert, a bewildering non-sequitur.
“When your father died, you jumped on the first plane to Los Angeles. Do you remember?”
“Yeah, but I don’t remember telling you that.”
“I know, love,” Eames said. “How much of the flight can you remember?”
Robert shook his head, feeling lost in all of this. He knew he’d never mentioned his father to Eames, and it didn’t make any sense to bring him up now in a discussion that was supposedly to do with their relationship. None of it made any sense.
“I don’t know.”
“Try to remember,” Eames said, less patient this time. “Really try, Robert.”
“I don’t see-”
Eames cut him off. “It’s important. Just trust me, yeah? You must remember getting on the plane at least. What happened then?”
Frustration and confusion warred for his attention, each as unsettling as the other. “I don’t know,” he repeated. “I guess I ran into some guy taking off his jacket on my way to my seat, but I don’t see how that’s-you,” he said, the memory coming back to him. “I ran into you.”
Eames’ level gaze was answer enough.
“I don’t understand.”
“What do you remember after that?”
Robert wet his lips, thinking. “I must have fallen asleep.”
Eames just nodded. “And do you remember what you dreamt?”
“No, of course not,” he said. “It was almost two years ago.”
“But you remembered me,” Eames pointed out. “In the airport terminal, you looked at me, and when you saw me six months ago, you recognized my face, didn’t you?” Robert took it for a rhetorical question and didn’t answer. “Why’d you split up the company, Robert?”
“I had a change of heart,” he said, but even as he said them the words tasted wrong and he couldn’t fathom why they were talking about this. He didn’t like the way Eames’ mouth twisted in response.
Eames pressed him. “And why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But it sounds like you do.”
Eames gave the bar a surreptitious glance, but it was as loud as ever, their booth still secluded. No one was paying them any attention.
“You know how extraction works in theory, yeah? Imagine the reverse of that. Instead of stealing, instead of taking information, you leave an idea behind.” He wet his lips, gaze almost pitying. “That idea was never yours, Robert.”
Robert swallowed hard. “How do you know that?”
“Because I helped to plant it.”
The confession hit him like a slap in the face, the sting of his words as hard and abrupt as if Eames’ palm had actually made contact with his cheek. A chill washed over him, making the hairs on the back of his neck and on his arms stand on end. He took a long pull of his beer, but it was tasteless and did nothing to chase away the strange, cold feeling that had settled on his shoulders.
“Going into it, I thought we’d be all right,” Eames admitted. “I worried a bit, when you told me about the dreams, especially when you didn’t seem satisfied with the explanation I gave, but you never brought it up again. There was no reason to tell you, after that.” Eames toyed with his empty glass. “I thought it wouldn’t matter as long as you loved me.” He gave a humorless laugh. “Probably should have told you before that ever happened and spared myself the hurt.”
“So why tell me now?”
“Because I love you, and I can’t lie to you anymore.”
Numbness had set in, a defense against the rapid crumbling of his world, and when Eames reached for his hand, Robert pulled it back, averting his gaze to avoid seeing the pain in the other man’s eyes.
“I’m going back to the apartment,” he said quietly. “It’s probably best if you find somewhere else to stay for a few nights.” He pulled a ten out of his wallet and set it on the table. “For the drinks,” he said, by way of explanation, and got up to leave.
“Robert, wait. Please,” Eames protested, and Robert granted him a final backward glance. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do without you.”
He shrugged. “Maybe someone will give you a good idea.”
- - - - -
Robert went through the next several days in a haze, able to function enough to get to work and back again but with little energy to do anything else. He let the piles of dirty laundry on his floor grow until he was forced to drag them to the dim, coin-operated Laundromat on the corner just to have a clean t-shirt to wear to work. He tried to push the knowledge of what Eames had told him into some remote, dusty corner of his mind, but he couldn’t contain it. It spread through his mind like wildfire, a cancer that infected his every action, his every thought.
He’d started second-guessing himself, unable to decide what to wear or what to watch or how to fix his coffee without first struggling to remember how he had done it before that fateful flight. More often than not, he couldn’t remember. There were too many things he had never done before and every day was an uneasy reminder of the life he had lead, and the man he had left behind. For the first time in six months, he could feel his fingertips pricking with the urge to write but he could only stare anxiously at the red-lacquered Royal, Eames’s voice reverberating in his skull: “That idea was never yours.”
Robert wondered if he could lay claim to any idea since.
Worse than anything in the waking world were his dreams, each dreamscape nothing more than bare walls of white as far as the eyes could see and as far as his feet could take him as he ran and ran in search of something, anything to remind him of who he was. But it seemed to go on indefinitely, anything he’d ever known lost there in the raw starkness of infinity.
When he came home from work and found Eames sitting on the loveseat, he was too tired to react. It didn’t matter-he wouldn’t have known whether to push Eames away or pull him close. There was a duffel bag sitting on the cushion next to Eames and a mug of tea in his hands, the sight quaint and familiar, yet somehow strange, like he was seeing it through someone else’s eyes.
Robert supposed he was, after a fashion, but it didn’t make it any less unsettling to look at the man he’d made love to almost every day for six months and feel a distinct lapse in recognition.
The silence between them bordered on oppressive.
“I thought I’d pop in, pick up a few things,” Eames said at last. “You know, to tide me over till I find a place. Maybe I’ll go back to London. I dunno, really.”
Robert sat with his back to the door, resting his arms on his knees. “You’re moving out, then.”
“You sound surprised.” Eames set his mug on the floor next to the couch and folded his hands in his lap. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
Robert didn’t answer. What he wanted was for the whole bar incident to have reversed itself so that he could continue loving a lie and believing it was possible for someone to change so profoundly as he thought he had changed. He wanted whatever was skittering over the interior of his skull, that maddening, unreachable itch in his brain, to stop. He wanted life to speed back up to where it all made sense again, whatever that entailed.
Mostly, he wanted the strength-the madness, the loss of memory, whatever it took-to forgive Eames. But he couldn’t forget what the man had told him.
“Makes sense, I guess,” he said eventually, evading the question and leaning his head back against the door. He closed his eyes against the whiteness of the ceiling. “How are you sleeping?”
“Alone,” Eames returned smartly. He sighed. “It’s shit, yeah? I don’t know what kind of answer you think you’ll get, asking me.”
Robert looked at him. “All of my dreams are blank.”
“Blank,” Eames repeated. There wasn’t much else to say, but he did his best. When he’d finished, Eames sat looking at him, brow furrowed over his green eyes. He finally admitted defeat. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of that, to be honest.”
Robert rested his chin on his arms. “Have you done this to a lot of people?”
“Aside from you, I know of only one other case where the idea’s taken, and I had nothing to do with what happened to her,” he said, and Robert knew he was telling the truth. There was no point in lying anymore-everything simply paled in comparison to the truth he already knew. Eames’ bitter tone seemed incongruous.
“What happened to her?”
At first, Robert didn’t think he would answer. Eames stared down at his hands for the longest time, silent and still.
Finally, he spoke. “She killed herself.”
“Because of an idea,” he said, and Eames shook his head.
“Not because there was an idea, but because of what it was. She didn’t…” He broke off with a sigh, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “She woke up thinking she was still dreaming. The only way to wake up from the dream is-”
“To die,” Robert finished. “I know.”
Eames nodded and wet his lips. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. Things went wrong. No one really knew what to expect, because no one had ever pulled it off. Cobb never meant to hurt her,” Eames said, hesitating. The name sounded vaguely familiar, though Robert couldn’t place it. “He couldn’t anticipate the kind of mess it would make of her mind when it didn’t let go. There was no way to know that something as simple as an idea could change her the way it did.”
“You knew, though, that whatever idea you put in my head would change me.”
“If it took, yeah. That’s what we were counting on,” Eames said. He looked up from his hands and smiled, suddenly. “You working in a record shop, though, that was a surprise. I didn’t dare believe you could change someone so much before I saw the proof of it in you.” He gave a shake of his head. “I still can’t believe how much you’ve changed.”
“You don’t sound sorry.”
“I take pride in my work. There’s no shame in that,” Eames said. He took a moment before he continued. “Look, either you think you haven’t changed for the better or you’ve got it in your head that the ends don’t justify the means, the latter of which, I assure you,” he said with a dry twist of his mouth, “is something Robert Fischer, heir to his daddy’s empire, would never have thought.”
Robert picked at the denim fabric of his jeans where they were wearing thin over his knee. The words stung more than they should have and he swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the lump that had risen in his throat. Eames sighed again.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t right of me to say that.”
After a moment, Robert shrugged. “It’s true, isn’t it? I remember what a jerk I was.”
“You’re still a jerk,” Eames reminded him gently.
He cracked a smile, though he didn’t laugh. “Can I ask you something?”
“Go ahead, love.”
“The idea,” he began. “It didn’t have anything to do with us, did it?”
“No. That I would never do.”
“Okay,” he said. Robert believed him. “I just wondered, after what you said about the idea not letting go. It seems weird to still, to still love you, you know?”
Eames smiled softly. “Maybe some things never change.”
“Maybe,” he agreed.
There was no way to take back what had happened, no way to erase it, but maybe there was still a chance to pick up the pieces and salvage what they could.
Previous Parts
Part 1
Part 2
Word Count: 7,909 (of ~19,000 total)
Pairing: Eames/Fischer
Rating: a softer NC-17
Disclaimer: Neither Fischer nor Eames belong to me. :(
Author's Note: First of all, this is dedicated to the lovely forgerness, who requested some Eames/Fischer from me a while back and is only now having her prayers answered. ;)
Secondly, this is meant to follow the events of Inception, so I’m hesitant to call it an AU, but at the same time, it’s only in my mind that Robert would ever work in a record store, listen to the Smiths, and own a Royal typewriter. I’ve taken the notion that the inception would change everything about him to extremes. Consider yourself warned!
Part III
Six months had passed and Eames had given up his own apartment and moved in officially. Robert hadn’t touched the Royal in months, his muse silent and tied up in her own thoughts, and it seemed there was nothing he could do to rouse her from her stupor. But even as his typewriter sat gathering dust with the rest of his grand plans, Robert welcomed all the distractions and messes that came with love. He was happy and nothing else seemed important.
It had been a long night at work when Robert finally came home, more than a little irritated after someone had knocked over a display in the store and watched idly as he cleaned it up. But as soon as he entered the apartment and saw Eames at the counter, putting the finishing touches on the most mouth-watering steak Robert had ever laid eyes on, he forgot all about the horrible night he’d had at work.
“Tell me you have two of those, or I’m going to be forced to fight you for it, because I’m starving and that looks incredible.”
Eames laughed, probably as much at the idea of Robert beating him in a fight as anything else. “Relax. This is yours, love. Have a seat.”
“Have I told you lately how much I love you?” he asked as Eames sat across from him at the table.
“Yesterday, actually,” he said, smiling cheekily.
Only the fact that Robert’s mouth was otherwise engaged saved him from a vicious retort. The steak tasted even better than it looked, so rich and tender it practically melted in his mouth. He chased it with a mouthful of wine, also incredible, and set aside his knife and fork for a moment.
“So, what did I do to deserve this, again? Because if I’m supposed to be forgiving you for something, I don’t even remember what you did, this is so amazing.”
Eames looked like he was trying very hard not to smile. “You really have forgotten, haven’t you? Come on, love,” he prompted, “what month is it?”
“September? Eames, I don’t see what-oh,” he said, realization dawning slowly. “It’s the seventeenth, isn’t it?”
“I’m afraid so, love. Happy birthday.”
“You know,” he said, after a moment, “I don’t remember telling you when my birthday was.”
“I saw it on your passport.”
“When did you see my passport?” Eames gave him a pointed look and Robert bristled. “You creep-you went through my wallet, didn’t you?
Eames shrugged. “As your significant other, I consider it my right. But fair’s fair, yeah?” He reached into his pocket, pulling out a raggedy, leather monstrosity and set it in front of Robert, his expression rather smug. “Go through it if you like.”
Robert went back to his steak without taking the bait. Knowing Eames, he’d anticipated the possibility of being caught-or brought it up deliberately for the pleasure of making Robert irritated-and cleaned his wallet of any potentially incriminating evidence.
Several bites later, it occurred to him that he was the only one eating.
“Aren’t you hungry?”
Eames waved the question away. “I’ll eat later.”
His grin took an oddly wolfish turn, and Robert’s stomach fluttered in a way that had nothing to do with dinner.
“Eames,” he warned, in a tone that rendered the man’s name synonymous with ‘sneaky, underhanded bastard,’ “I don’t know what you’re planning, but you better tell me now, or I’m sending you to bed-and by bed I mean the couch-without dinner or sex.”
Eames laughed and rocked back on the legs of his chair, unable to stay still. “You know, it’s funny you should mention that because I was actually hoping you might want to switch things up a little tonight,” he said, lips curling into what could only be described as a shit-eating grin. “So what do you say, love-how’d you like to fuck me, for a change?”
Robert was sure he had heard that incorrectly. “Come again?”
“God, I hope so,” Eames said.
Robert couldn’t tackle him to the kitchen floor fast enough, an action that was surprising not only for its swiftness and highly uncharacteristic nature but for the pain that resulted when his knee slammed into the linoleum between Eames’ thighs.
“That was moderately painful.”
Eames exhaled shakily. “If that had been any higher, darling…” He laughed, recovering quickly. “I may have told you this before, but I rather like this view of you. However,” he decided, “I’d enjoy it a lot more if you weren’t wearing so many clothes.”
Robert sat back on his heels. “I thought I was supposed to be in charge here.”
“I said you could fuck me, not that you could be in charge,” Eames said evenly, as if that explained everything. “But if you’re not going to do either, might I suggest that we continue this stalemate somewhere that doesn’t make my spine ache?” He pulled a face, and Robert had to concede that the kitchen floor was hardly the most comfortable place to be having sex.
Or the cleanest, for that matter. He was pretty sure Eames had neglected to mop the night before like he was supposed to.
Robert picked himself up off the floor. “Ten years ago, I bet we could have pulled it off.”
“Yes, well, let’s not get started on what we could have done ten years ago,” Eames said dryly as Robert gave him a hand. “We’re meant to be celebrating, not commiserating. Besides,” he added, having made it to the bedroom, “even if that little kitchen escapade hadn’t fallen through, I dunno what you were planning on using as lube.”
“I would have come up with something,” he said stubbornly.
“I shudder to think what,” Eames said, kissing him. He pulled back and cleared his throat, rubbing his hand over the back of his neck. His green eyes were laughing. “I don’t know how to tell you this, love, but your mouth tastes awfully of garlic.”
“And whose fault is that?”
Eames raised his hands defensively. “Brush your teeth and all is forgiven.”
On the way to the bathroom, he breathed into his hand and had to agree that he had garlic breath bad enough to knock out a horde of vampires-hardly a thought that made him dizzy with desire. He scrubbed his teeth and swished with mouthwash for good measure, returning to the bedroom to find Eames sitting naked on the edge of the bed, swinging his legs and looking rather bored.
“I kind of expected you to be… doing something.”
“No point if you aren’t here to see it, is there?” He laid back on the bed as Robert approached, shifting his legs apart with a lazy grin and trailing a hand over his abdomen. “Wouldn’t want to cut your fantasy short, love.”
Robert leaned over him, still fully clothed, and nipped at his earlobe. “In my fantasy, you have the sense to shut your mouth.”
Eames snorted inelegantly and sat up. “That wasn’t quite what I had in mind, but it does sound fantastical enough, I suppose.”
“You know,” Robert said, the tiniest bit of irritating creeping into his voice, “when you insult me, I don’t think about fucking you. I think about punching you in the mouth.”
Eames eyed him, perfectly smug. “Your prick says differently.”
“Is that what it’s going to take to make you shut up?”
“You know I only respond to positive reinforcement, Robert.”
Eames hands made quick work of Robert’s jeans, not bothering to tug anything down further than was necessary to get it out of the way. As it happened, Robert was already half-hard with anticipation, which Eames, mercifully, neglected to comment upon before wrapping a hand around the base of his erection and taking him in.
He reached out for Eames’ shoulders to steady himself automatically, moaning at the hot, wet suction that engulfed him. Eames gripped hard at the back of his thigh and Robert spared a fraction of a second to wonder if he would leave bruises before he was crying out again, knees threatening to buckle underneath him. Eames sucked greedily at him for a handful of blissful seconds and then let him go, prompting a frustrated whine.
Eames tongue darted out to lick his lips, almost luridly red. “Consider it an incentive.”
Robert stripped quickly, stumbling a little when he stepped out of his jeans. He rummaged around in the dresser, quickly locating lube but not finding anything else.
Then he remembered. “Shit. I meant to pick up condoms when I went to the store yesterday.” He turned back to Eames. “You didn’t get any, did you?”
He shrugged. “I thought you were getting them. Anyway, you may recall that we got tested three months ago. You’re not going to catch anything from me,” he promised and patted the bed next to him. “Come here, love.”
Grudgingly, Robert sat and Eames curled his arm around his back, pulling him in for a kiss. The angle was a bit awkward and Robert pushed Eames onto his back, feeling a little thrill go through him at how readily Eames’ knees came up against his sides, pressing gently to steer his hips into the right alignment. It wasn’t difficult, considering the amount of practice they’d had, and Eames groaned into the kiss, grinding up against Robert and biting his lip. As they rutted against one another, Eames’ fingers-somehow already slick, the sneaky bastard-dipped into the cleft of his ass, pressing in and making him shudder and break the kiss.
“Not fair,” he moaned, arching back against Eames’ hand even as he tried to press his hips down for more friction. “Thought this was… was me fucking you for a change.”
Eames’ voice was infuriatingly clear. “So get on with it. I’m not stopping you.”
“You… oh, god, Eames,” Robert breathed, shuddering as Eames sunk his fingers to the third knuckle, crooking them wickedly. With great effort, he managed to keep still, not ready to admit defeat. “If you make me come like this, I’ll, oh,” he moaned, desperately resisting the urge to rock his hips backward, “I’ll hate you forever.”
All the same, he couldn’t help feeling a vague twinge of disappointment as Eames removed his fingers and wiped them on the sheets, grumbling under his breath and looking rather sour. Robert kissed his neck and rested his forehead against the man’s shoulder as he collected himself. After a moment, he straightened and grabbed the bottle of lube from the bed, squeezing a generous amount onto his fingers and rubbing them together to warm it up. Beneath him, Eames groaned and Robert tried not to laugh at how miserable he looked.
“Don’t be so impatient.”
“Don’t be so bloody nice to me, then.”
“You have a problem with me being nice now?”
“If you weren’t such a bloody gentleman, you’d be fucking me already,” Eames complained, even as Robert brought a hand between his legs.
Before he had even worked two fingers in, Eames was shoving his hips at Robert, cock hard and leaking against his stomach as his thighs trembled and his hands tangled in Robert’s hair, dragging him down and bringing their lips together. Robert licked into his mouth with a groan. Maybe it was only his imagination, but he thought he could still taste himself there, however faintly. This time, Eames was the first to break away.
“Enough with the fucking fingers,” he panted. “Just fuck me.”
As quickly as he could manage, Robert slicked himself with trembling hands and moved into position. Eames was groaning-“Come on, come on, come on”-and, with a sharp intake of breath, Robert slid home. The slick heat of Eames made him lightheaded and he wanted to savor it, but it was too much and he began moving immediately, unable to pause once he heard Eames begin to grunt and moan under him.
Eames set the pace, rocking so hard against him Robert felt it the force of it in his spine, shaking under the big, firm hands that forced his hips and made his eyes roll back in his head at the pleasure of it. It was a side of Eames Robert had rarely seen-sex was never about competition, never about domination, the fact that Robert was always the one to let Eames inside him notwithstanding. He knew he could have had this, if he had only asked. Their sex life was nothing if not egalitarian, and Eames would have been game for anything that ended with both of them naked and sated.
“That’s it, love,” Eames groaned. “Just like that.” He made a sound halfway between a laugh and a moan, though Robert barely heard it over the blood pounding in his ears. “Bloody fucking hell, I haven’t been fucked like this in ages,” he panted, punctuating the allowance with a sharp grunt and another roll of his hips. “That’s it, come on, love…”
Normally they would be caught up in a kiss, but tonight Robert couldn’t stop staring at the flush painting Eames’ cheeks or the way that ecstasy kept his mouth open, his lips red where he’d bitten at them. His eyes were heavily lidded, only the smallest sliver of color exposed. He was gorgeous like this, incredibly sexy, and, better still?
He was no one’s but Robert’s.
He might have lasted a few minutes longer with latex between them, but as it was the combination of Eames’ voice, his hands, the clutch of his body proved too much and Robert found himself hoarsely groaning his climax against Eames’ shoulder with the other man still hard against his belly. His pride in critical condition, he collapsed next to Eames on the bed.
The embarrassment set in before the fog of climax had completely cleared, motivated by several factors, the first and most obvious being that he had come so quickly. What was he-seventeen? Christ, he should have been able to last a little longer than that, even without a condom. Then there was the fact that he hadn’t tried to bring Eames off before, and then he’d been so distracted he hadn’t managed during sex, either.
So much for being a considerate lover.
Painfully aware that they had now reached that point in time best described as after sex with the same tally-Robert one, Eames zero-he rolled onto his side and tried his best not to look too guilty.
As usual, his efforts were in vain.
“You’ve got ‘apology’ written all over your face, love.”
Robert turned his face into the sheets, as much to stifle the nonsense pouring out of his mouth as to hide the flush that would be stealing into his cheeks at any moment now, like he was some awkward teenager and not a thirty-five year old man. The power Eames wielded over him in that respect never ceased to simultaneously amaze and horrify him.
Currently, he was more focused on the latter.
“Oh, come on, Robert,” Eames said, settling on his hips and running his broad hands over Robert’s back. “You’re not embarrassed, are you?”
He offered a dismal groan in response, prompting a quiet laugh from Eames.
“You were brilliant, if that’s what’s worrying you,” Eames assured him. He pressed a kiss to Robert’s neck. “Bloody amazing, yeah?”
“Liar,” Robert grumbled. “You didn’t even finish.”
“Let’s fix that now, then, shall we?”
His hands came down on Robert’s hips, his touch lighter than it had been before. He could feel Eames grind against him and Robert, still slick from before, lifted his hips to accommodate him automatically, The stretch, a slow burn that faded by degrees, made him moan and tense.
Eames paused. “All right there, love?”
“Just go slow, okay?”
Eames murmured his assent, moving languidly. Even though he hadn’t been on the receiving end the first time, Robert didn’t think he’d be able to handle anything quite so rough again tonight. Being manhandled-he didn’t quite know what else to call it-was fine on occasion, but he preferred lovemaking like this, slow and tender. He felt safe with Eames’ weight at his back as they moved together.
The kiss Eames pressed to his shoulder was open-mouthed and wet, his teeth scraping lightly over Robert’s skin once before he was kissing again, soothing the hurt with his lips. Eames was already feeling heavier, leaning on him more and more the way he always did when he was approaching climax. His thrusts were faster, harder now, his breath hot on the back of Robert’s neck.
“I love you,” he panted, his voice thick and slurred almost like he was intoxicated. “I love you, Robert, I love you so much…”
He came with a strangled moan, giving one more thrust before he withdrew, flopping gracelessly next to Robert, who couldn’t be bothered to move any further than he had to in order to curl himself against Eames’ chest, which he did with a loud yawn.
Eames kissed the top of his head. “Tired?”
“Mmm,” Robert agreed. He kissed Eames’ neck, nuzzling into the sweat-slick skin. “I love you. That was incredible, thank you.”
“Don’t mention it.”
“Are you okay? You sound a little distant.”
“Just thinking is all,” Eames said, a little puff of air over Robert’s ear. “Someone might be ringing me about a job soon.”
“How soon?”
“Dunno, love. Soon,” he repeated. His hand found Robert’s in the dark. “You’ll be all right, won’t you?”
“I’ll live,” Robert said, feeling Eames squeeze his hand gently in response. “I don’t want to talk about it right now. I’m not ready to be angry with you yet.”
Eames didn’t laugh like he’d expected and Robert looked up at him, concerned.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
His smile was tight. “I’m fine, yeah? Let’s just get some sleep.”
Robert didn’t entirely believe him, but the pull of sleep was stronger than his curiosity, and he was out almost as soon as he closed his eyes.
- - - - -
The next morning, Eames was standing at the kitchen window, dressed smartly in a suit jacket and slacks that Robert would have liked if not for what they signaled. His chest tightened up as he saw the dishes washed and draining in the tray-only leaving for a job was enough to guilt Eames into cleaning the kitchen. Soon, Eames had said, but Robert hadn’t expected it to be this soon.
Eames turned as he approached, curling an arm around him. His lips were warm on Robert’s forehead and he smelled like sandalwood and cigarettes.
“I’ve got to go away for a little while,” he said.
“Where are you going?”
He asked it just to spite Eames, who never answered, no matter how many times he asked. It was like a script at this point, the things they said to each other, and he was anticipating irritation, maybe outright anger; a sigh, a groan. But Eames’ response surprised him.
“Maybe I’ll send you a postcard.”
Robert smiled cautiously. “Yeah.”
“I won’t be long, all right? Two, three weeks at the outside,” he promised and then kissed him, just once, lips brushing chastely over Robert’s before they curved into a soft smile. “I’ll ring you when I land, okay?”
“Okay.”
Eames pulled him into a tight embrace, and though it was the last thing Robert wanted, knowing it would only make today that much harder, it was exactly what he needed. His heart stuttered and his knees felt like they would collapse under him. He thought he might fall to pieces if Eames weren’t there holding him together with his strong arms and his promise that everything would be all right no matter how many miles this job put between them.
Briefly, he touched a hand to Robert’s cheek. “I love you. Remember that.”
“I will,” he said. “I love you, too.”
“I’ll see you soon. I promise.”
- - - - -
Eames sent him a postcard from Barcelona that said only, “I miss you. -E.” with the return address blank. Robert pinned it to the fridge with a magnet. A reminder.
He called in sick to work on a Thursday and spent it in his pajamas watching old detective movies and smoking the French cigarettes Eames had left with the rest of his things-the thin, black ones that tasted like vanilla and smelled like Eames’ sandalwood cologne. He was disappointed to find that the taste wasn’t half as exciting when he wasn’t getting it secondhand as they kissed, but the slow burn it left in his chest was perfect.
Another post card came a few days later, this time from London. “Sit tight, love. I’ll be home soon. -E.”
He stuck that one up on the fridge as well. Maybe it wasn’t as good as having Eames greet him first thing in the morning, warm and tousled with sleep, but it reminded him that the man whose shirts he’d had dry-cleaned and whose books he’d picked up off the floor still existed out there somewhere, even if he wasn’t there with him.
But their bed felt empty no matter how much he stretched out in it. It was too cold and too big and Robert stood by the window and smoked instead of sleeping, drinking coffee and waiting for Eames to walk back into his life and fill it up again. It was lonely work. In the early hours of the morning he lay there imagining the worst, paralyzed with the fear that he would never know, even if something did happen.
Two weeks later, Eames showed up unannounced and Robert knew as soon as he dropped his bags that something wasn’t right. His shirt was stained, dirty, and everything he wore looked more slept in than the flight alone would account for, his face unshaven and his hair matted and greasy like it hadn’t been washed for days. He’d lost track of how much time had passed when Eames finally wet his lips and spoke, looking nowhere in particular.
“Arthur’s dead,” he said, without inflection. “ I’m going to lie down.”
Robert could do nothing but look on dumbly, replaying again and again the sight of Eames’ back as he retreated, his shoulders hunched with grief. Tears rolled hotly down his cheeks and he grieved for the man he would never know and for the man he loved, caught down in some dark place where no one, not even Robert, could follow.
- - - - -
Robert worked as much as he could during the weeks that followed, walking on eggshells when he was home and making a place for himself on the couch so Eames could have the bed. Initially, it had seemed like the best solution, but now the decision weighed heavily on his conscience. His heart thudded clumsily whenever he walked past their room, not knowing if Eames was awake or how he was hurting. Robert went to work distracted and stayed that way, hating himself for leaving Eames alone with his pain.
But part of him hated Eames as well, for letting him and for not needing him.
That was what stood out in Robert’s memories-that overwhelming need for comfort and reassurance, and the empty longing where it should have been. When his mother had died, he’d felt only grief, but as he grew older some portion of it twisted to resentment for his father for not comforting him. Maurice had chosen to shut him out instead, an action he had not until very recently been able to comprehend as anything but selfish. It had been an act of love, however misguided-a way to ensure that Robert never grieved for him the way he grieved for her. He understood that now, but it wasn’t the sort of thing that occurred to an eleven year old boy.
It hurt to be standing in his father’s shoes now, not wanting to put that distance between himself and Eames, but no more equipped to handle the situation.
He didn’t know what to say when he woke up several days later and found Eames slouched over the kitchen table, a mug of tea at his elbow as he chewed absently at a yellow pencil. The Sunday crossword lay in front of him, a few clues already lightly penciled in. Eames smiled distractedly when he sat down.
“The kettle’s on,” Eames said by way of greeting. They hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words to each other since he’d gotten back. Eames glanced up from his puzzle. “I could make some coffee, if you want. I didn’t know when you’d be up.”
“I’m okay. Thanks.”
They lapsed back into silence, Eames’ pencil scratching audibly over the newsprint. It was as uncomfortable as anything between them had ever been, worse than it had been the first time they met. They had never been such complete strangers as they were now, and it tightened Robert’s chest just to look at him. There were more lines around his mouth and his eyes than there had been before, Robert was sure, like the last weeks had aged him, somehow.
“It’s been lonely in there without you, you know,” Eames said, startling him out of his thoughts. He was doodling around the margins of his puzzle, eyes trained on the grey newsprint. “I keep expecting to wake up with you in my arms.”
Robert hadn’t thought it would be this hard, but his tongue was uncooperative, guilt twisting the pit of his stomach like a lead sinker.
“I was trying to give you space,” he said. It sounded cruel, now that he was saying it aloud. Worse than it ever had when he’d gone over it in his mind. “I didn’t know what else to do. I’m sorry.”
Eames set his pencil aside and nodded. He licked his lips but didn’t speak.
“I didn’t know what to do,” Robert repeated. He still didn’t, and the realization brought an edge of hysteria to his voice. “Eames?” He bit the inside of his cheek. “Fuck, Eames, I’m such a selfish asshole. I should be trying to help and I’ve just been sitting on my hands and wondering what the hell to say and how to say it…” he trailed off, pressing his lips tightly together. “I’m a horrible person.”
Eames looked up at that. The edges of his eyes were crinkled and he looked tired, but he was smiling, softly. He reached across the table and Robert took his hand, feeling his warm, dry grip as their fingers laced together. There was a half-familiar glint in his eyes as Eames looked at him. It took Robert a moment before he recognized it as amusement.
“You’re not a horrible person. A little lost, maybe, but not horrible,” Eames assured him. He gave Robert’s hand a squeeze and then pulled back. “It’s all right, love. No harm done.”
“We’re okay, then?”
Eames smiled. “We’re okay.”
Silence spread between them again as Eames dropped his eyes to his tea, his big hands wrapped around the mug in front of him as if to keep them warm. Maybe to keep them still. Robert pushed himself away from the table as unobtrusively as he could, busying himself with the coffee maker and putting away last night’s dishes. The work was too mindless to distract him, but it gave him something to do with his hands-something other than wring them-for a few minutes.
Eames’ eyes were still fixed on the bottom of his mug of tea, but he kept reaching up to rub the back of his neck. He’d guessed a long time ago that Eames didn’t know when he was doing it-like a nervous tic-and so Robert had never mentioned it, keeping it to himself a sort of gauge for the relative sincerity of Eames’ apologies.
Seeing that idiosyncrasy pop up now made him feel ill at ease.
“Eames?”
Robert saw him startle, watching the mug fly out of his hands involuntarily and nearly dropping his own coffee cup out of surprise as the mug hit and skidded across the linoleum, leaving a trail of hot tea in its wake.
Eames turned halfway in his chair, expression dazed as he surveyed the mess. His eyes flicked from the floor to Robert, back and forth, and then he was burying his face in his hands, head hanging between his knees. His shoulders shook and Robert thought he might be laughing-until a wretched sob ripped through the air.
As quickly as Robert could rush to his side, Eames was falling into his arms. They tumbled to the floor in an awkward tangle of limbs. Tea soaked into his sleep pants and his socks, already cold, but the discomfort was only an afterthought. Eames pressed his face into Robert’s neck, hot tears running under the collar of his t-shirt.
“I should’ve been there,” he said, voice choked with tears. “’s all my fault. I should’ve gone back with him to make sure it was all right. To, to-fuck,” he cut off, sobbing brokenly.
His fists were balled up in Robert’s shirt, the man’s knuckles digging into his ribs. Robert just held him as well as he could, rubbing Eames’ back and feeling his heart break as Eames shook with the force of huge, hiccupping sobs. It wasn’t that Robert had never seen him cry-Eames cried unabashedly at sappy movies with dogs in them-but this was different. Robert had never seen him fall apart like this.
Eames’ hold on his shirt finally gave and Eames lifted his head from Robert’s shoulder, scrubbing at his eyes with the back of his hand. His lips looked raw where he had bitten them, tears sparkling on his eyelashes.
“I miss him so much, Robert,” he said, thickly, tears still rolling down his cheeks. “I miss him, and he’s gone. Just gone.”
After that, there were no more words. Eames leaned heavily on him, letting Robert lead him into the bedroom. It was early, but there was a weariness weighing heavily on his limbs as he undressed Eames and lay them both down. He fell asleep, waking sometime later, alone in the bed, and wandered out into the living room.
He could hear Eames retching and sobbing. The bathroom door was open, but he knocked gently to let Eames know he was there before sinking down beside him.
“It’s okay,” he said, rubbing Eames’ back as he gagged and gripped the toilet seat with white knuckles. Nothing was coming up, but he couldn’t seem to stop. When he had finally finished, Robert held the big man to his chest and kissed the top of his head, rocking them slowly.
“It’s not your fault. There’s nothing you could have done,” he said, trying to keep the awkwardness he felt out of his voice. He concentrated on being calm, soothing; strong so that Eames would know it was okay to be vulnerable, if only just this once. “Just let it all out, babe. It’s going to be okay.”
They stayed like that for a long time, Eames curled against him and clutching at his back until his sobs, reduced to shaky breathing, had subsided.
“Everything’s going to be all right,” he said and he did his best to believe it.
- - - - -
They were out at the same bar where they’d had their first drinks together, huddled in one of the bar’s few booths. There were already a couple of empty beer bottles on the table between them-Eames’, not his. Robert was monitoring his alcohol intake more closely this time, nursing the same beer he’d ordered an hour before.
Eames stirred his scotch with a finger, bringing the digit to his mouth.
“You’re quiet tonight. Fidgety, too.” It was true. Eames couldn’t seem to stay still, and that’s when Robert noticed what was missing. “Why aren’t you smoking?”
Eames shrugged. “I gave it up. Nasty habit, that.”
“When?”
“When I left all my smokes back at the flat,” he said with a sheepish grin.
Robert laughed. “They don’t have French cigarettes in France?”
“Fresh out, I’m afraid,” Eames said, without his usual enthusiasm. His eyes panned left over the rim of his glass, aloof. Something still wasn’t right between them, then.
“Hey.” He touched Eames’ hand across the table to get his attention. “What’s going on?”
Eames slouched back against the booth and scratched idly at his stubble before speaking.
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Oh, jesus,” Robert muttered. “Here we go.”
Those were three words he had hoped never to hear at a time like this, in the tone Eames was using now. His heart leapt into his throat and he knocked back the rest of his beer to coax it back down; a half-assed attempt to steel himself.
“I’m not right for you,” Eames said eventually.
Robert set-okay, maybe slammed-his bottle down with more force than was maybe warranted. He wasn’t ready for this. “Goddamn it, Eames! How can you even say that?”
“Settle down, will you? Christ,” Eames hissed. “Give us a chance to explain.”
Robert signaled for another beer. If Eames had taken him to a bar to do this, clearly he wasn’t drunk enough for whatever was coming next. He intended to remedy that as quickly as humanly possible.
“Okay,” he said at last. “Let’s do this. I’m interested to hear why you’re so wrong for me.”
Eames didn’t look particularly amused by his flippant remark, but he refrained from commenting. “I’m always leaving you.”
“Yeah, for work.”
“You deserve someone who cares about you more than work.”
Robert stared down at his hands. “You care enough to come back.”
“Don’t pretend that it doesn’t bother you. I know how much you hate it.”
“Fine,” he agreed. “I hate it. But that doesn’t mean I’d rather have you out of my life entirely.” He let his head loll back against the booth, closing his eyes and trying to relax. He worried his lip between his teeth. “I thought we were stupidly in love or something.”
Eames laughed at that. “We are stupidly in love.”
“What’s the problem, then?” Robert took another pull on his beer and watched Eames drum his fingers nervously on the table top. “That’s not enough for you?”
Eames raked a hand through his hair and over the back of his neck. “I just-I can’t take lying to you anymore. Do you remember asking me if we’d met before?” Robert nodded, not sure where this was going. “I may not have been entirely honest when I answered.”
He clenched his jaw reflexively. “It was a yes or no question, Eames. You were either entirely honest or entirely dishonest. There is no in between.”
“You’re wrong about that, love.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
Robert had never seen Eames flounder the way he was now, flustered and-for once in his life-at a loss for words. He was rubbing the back of his neck again, opening his mouth and then closing it again as he thought better of it. What eventually came out of his mouth seemed, to Robert, a bewildering non-sequitur.
“When your father died, you jumped on the first plane to Los Angeles. Do you remember?”
“Yeah, but I don’t remember telling you that.”
“I know, love,” Eames said. “How much of the flight can you remember?”
Robert shook his head, feeling lost in all of this. He knew he’d never mentioned his father to Eames, and it didn’t make any sense to bring him up now in a discussion that was supposedly to do with their relationship. None of it made any sense.
“I don’t know.”
“Try to remember,” Eames said, less patient this time. “Really try, Robert.”
“I don’t see-”
Eames cut him off. “It’s important. Just trust me, yeah? You must remember getting on the plane at least. What happened then?”
Frustration and confusion warred for his attention, each as unsettling as the other. “I don’t know,” he repeated. “I guess I ran into some guy taking off his jacket on my way to my seat, but I don’t see how that’s-you,” he said, the memory coming back to him. “I ran into you.”
Eames’ level gaze was answer enough.
“I don’t understand.”
“What do you remember after that?”
Robert wet his lips, thinking. “I must have fallen asleep.”
Eames just nodded. “And do you remember what you dreamt?”
“No, of course not,” he said. “It was almost two years ago.”
“But you remembered me,” Eames pointed out. “In the airport terminal, you looked at me, and when you saw me six months ago, you recognized my face, didn’t you?” Robert took it for a rhetorical question and didn’t answer. “Why’d you split up the company, Robert?”
“I had a change of heart,” he said, but even as he said them the words tasted wrong and he couldn’t fathom why they were talking about this. He didn’t like the way Eames’ mouth twisted in response.
Eames pressed him. “And why do you think that is?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But it sounds like you do.”
Eames gave the bar a surreptitious glance, but it was as loud as ever, their booth still secluded. No one was paying them any attention.
“You know how extraction works in theory, yeah? Imagine the reverse of that. Instead of stealing, instead of taking information, you leave an idea behind.” He wet his lips, gaze almost pitying. “That idea was never yours, Robert.”
Robert swallowed hard. “How do you know that?”
“Because I helped to plant it.”
The confession hit him like a slap in the face, the sting of his words as hard and abrupt as if Eames’ palm had actually made contact with his cheek. A chill washed over him, making the hairs on the back of his neck and on his arms stand on end. He took a long pull of his beer, but it was tasteless and did nothing to chase away the strange, cold feeling that had settled on his shoulders.
“Going into it, I thought we’d be all right,” Eames admitted. “I worried a bit, when you told me about the dreams, especially when you didn’t seem satisfied with the explanation I gave, but you never brought it up again. There was no reason to tell you, after that.” Eames toyed with his empty glass. “I thought it wouldn’t matter as long as you loved me.” He gave a humorless laugh. “Probably should have told you before that ever happened and spared myself the hurt.”
“So why tell me now?”
“Because I love you, and I can’t lie to you anymore.”
Numbness had set in, a defense against the rapid crumbling of his world, and when Eames reached for his hand, Robert pulled it back, averting his gaze to avoid seeing the pain in the other man’s eyes.
“I’m going back to the apartment,” he said quietly. “It’s probably best if you find somewhere else to stay for a few nights.” He pulled a ten out of his wallet and set it on the table. “For the drinks,” he said, by way of explanation, and got up to leave.
“Robert, wait. Please,” Eames protested, and Robert granted him a final backward glance. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do without you.”
He shrugged. “Maybe someone will give you a good idea.”
- - - - -
Robert went through the next several days in a haze, able to function enough to get to work and back again but with little energy to do anything else. He let the piles of dirty laundry on his floor grow until he was forced to drag them to the dim, coin-operated Laundromat on the corner just to have a clean t-shirt to wear to work. He tried to push the knowledge of what Eames had told him into some remote, dusty corner of his mind, but he couldn’t contain it. It spread through his mind like wildfire, a cancer that infected his every action, his every thought.
He’d started second-guessing himself, unable to decide what to wear or what to watch or how to fix his coffee without first struggling to remember how he had done it before that fateful flight. More often than not, he couldn’t remember. There were too many things he had never done before and every day was an uneasy reminder of the life he had lead, and the man he had left behind. For the first time in six months, he could feel his fingertips pricking with the urge to write but he could only stare anxiously at the red-lacquered Royal, Eames’s voice reverberating in his skull: “That idea was never yours.”
Robert wondered if he could lay claim to any idea since.
Worse than anything in the waking world were his dreams, each dreamscape nothing more than bare walls of white as far as the eyes could see and as far as his feet could take him as he ran and ran in search of something, anything to remind him of who he was. But it seemed to go on indefinitely, anything he’d ever known lost there in the raw starkness of infinity.
When he came home from work and found Eames sitting on the loveseat, he was too tired to react. It didn’t matter-he wouldn’t have known whether to push Eames away or pull him close. There was a duffel bag sitting on the cushion next to Eames and a mug of tea in his hands, the sight quaint and familiar, yet somehow strange, like he was seeing it through someone else’s eyes.
Robert supposed he was, after a fashion, but it didn’t make it any less unsettling to look at the man he’d made love to almost every day for six months and feel a distinct lapse in recognition.
The silence between them bordered on oppressive.
“I thought I’d pop in, pick up a few things,” Eames said at last. “You know, to tide me over till I find a place. Maybe I’ll go back to London. I dunno, really.”
Robert sat with his back to the door, resting his arms on his knees. “You’re moving out, then.”
“You sound surprised.” Eames set his mug on the floor next to the couch and folded his hands in his lap. “It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”
Robert didn’t answer. What he wanted was for the whole bar incident to have reversed itself so that he could continue loving a lie and believing it was possible for someone to change so profoundly as he thought he had changed. He wanted whatever was skittering over the interior of his skull, that maddening, unreachable itch in his brain, to stop. He wanted life to speed back up to where it all made sense again, whatever that entailed.
Mostly, he wanted the strength-the madness, the loss of memory, whatever it took-to forgive Eames. But he couldn’t forget what the man had told him.
“Makes sense, I guess,” he said eventually, evading the question and leaning his head back against the door. He closed his eyes against the whiteness of the ceiling. “How are you sleeping?”
“Alone,” Eames returned smartly. He sighed. “It’s shit, yeah? I don’t know what kind of answer you think you’ll get, asking me.”
Robert looked at him. “All of my dreams are blank.”
“Blank,” Eames repeated. There wasn’t much else to say, but he did his best. When he’d finished, Eames sat looking at him, brow furrowed over his green eyes. He finally admitted defeat. “I can’t say I’ve ever heard of that, to be honest.”
Robert rested his chin on his arms. “Have you done this to a lot of people?”
“Aside from you, I know of only one other case where the idea’s taken, and I had nothing to do with what happened to her,” he said, and Robert knew he was telling the truth. There was no point in lying anymore-everything simply paled in comparison to the truth he already knew. Eames’ bitter tone seemed incongruous.
“What happened to her?”
At first, Robert didn’t think he would answer. Eames stared down at his hands for the longest time, silent and still.
Finally, he spoke. “She killed herself.”
“Because of an idea,” he said, and Eames shook his head.
“Not because there was an idea, but because of what it was. She didn’t…” He broke off with a sigh, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “She woke up thinking she was still dreaming. The only way to wake up from the dream is-”
“To die,” Robert finished. “I know.”
Eames nodded and wet his lips. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like that. Things went wrong. No one really knew what to expect, because no one had ever pulled it off. Cobb never meant to hurt her,” Eames said, hesitating. The name sounded vaguely familiar, though Robert couldn’t place it. “He couldn’t anticipate the kind of mess it would make of her mind when it didn’t let go. There was no way to know that something as simple as an idea could change her the way it did.”
“You knew, though, that whatever idea you put in my head would change me.”
“If it took, yeah. That’s what we were counting on,” Eames said. He looked up from his hands and smiled, suddenly. “You working in a record shop, though, that was a surprise. I didn’t dare believe you could change someone so much before I saw the proof of it in you.” He gave a shake of his head. “I still can’t believe how much you’ve changed.”
“You don’t sound sorry.”
“I take pride in my work. There’s no shame in that,” Eames said. He took a moment before he continued. “Look, either you think you haven’t changed for the better or you’ve got it in your head that the ends don’t justify the means, the latter of which, I assure you,” he said with a dry twist of his mouth, “is something Robert Fischer, heir to his daddy’s empire, would never have thought.”
Robert picked at the denim fabric of his jeans where they were wearing thin over his knee. The words stung more than they should have and he swallowed hard, trying to dislodge the lump that had risen in his throat. Eames sighed again.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t right of me to say that.”
After a moment, Robert shrugged. “It’s true, isn’t it? I remember what a jerk I was.”
“You’re still a jerk,” Eames reminded him gently.
He cracked a smile, though he didn’t laugh. “Can I ask you something?”
“Go ahead, love.”
“The idea,” he began. “It didn’t have anything to do with us, did it?”
“No. That I would never do.”
“Okay,” he said. Robert believed him. “I just wondered, after what you said about the idea not letting go. It seems weird to still, to still love you, you know?”
Eames smiled softly. “Maybe some things never change.”
“Maybe,” he agreed.
There was no way to take back what had happened, no way to erase it, but maybe there was still a chance to pick up the pieces and salvage what they could.
Previous Parts
Part 1
Part 2