On S'appelle
Wednesday.
They never really talked about What Happened. It was a subject nobody liked breaching. Not even after years of sitting silently among cold stones and empty pathways on the wrong date because Cobb still couldn’t go home. Of course, he always went home. But not home.
Arthur was positive the unspoken padlock was still intact on the subject when Eames called, so it was anger that first bubbled behind his eyelids.
“I know, Eames.”
I know you want to talk about it. I know you only hold back for us. I know she’s gone.
“We were going to meet for drinks.”
The slurred words were hardly there, the occasional slips not clear enough to notice. He wasn't drunk, but he was buzzed enough. Arthur wanted to hang up. Arthur wanted to tell him he could meet for drinks with anyone. Arthur wanted to offer to meet Eames for drinks himself. He would need one after this conversation. The conversation that clearly was not coming to a halt no matter how hard he tried to press on the brakes.
“Knew she was acting diff’rent. Knew something was…”
“Wrong,” Arthur finished.
Off, different, broken.
“Wrong,” Eames repeated.
Arthur heard clinking of ice in glass, heard the quite hum of chatter in the background, heard the harsh words on a speaker somewhere beyond Eames.
“Eames,” he started in a cautionary voice, an offended crack of warning, “are you in an airport?”
Public, people, secrets.
Arthur hated the subject. Hated bringing up What Happened. He’d known her. He’d loved her. Just as he loved Cobb, just as he tried to love Eames. But the unforgivable was speaking her name in front of those that didn’t know her. Promising them a glimpse of her smile, of her accent, of her words and never letting her shine past those words that were never enough.
“Australia seems nice this time of year.”
“Australia is hell this time of year,” Arthur responded, changed the subject, hoped for everything to settle in the dust of a departing plane.
“Where’s Cobb?”
“Home, I imagine.”
Cobb was home and Arthur and Eames had taken to leaving country when the date rolled around. They had only ever gone with Cobb for Cobb. Neither was one for mourning. Not the year round kind. Not the kind that didn’t leave the surface of your mind. Not the kind that turned to a sad, romantic smile.
They packed, they left, they shoved it away.
But Eames was stuck and if Eames was stuck, so was Arthur.
“D’you ever go back?”
“You’re far from drunk enough for this, Mr. Eames,” Arthur answered curtly, accusations buried deep in every syllable.
“Christ, Arthur. Don’t you ever stop?”
Arthur didn’t ask for clarification. The words were there and so was the understanding. Not the understanding that fell silent and cut off any teasing words. Not the understanding of I'll get your coffee if you get mine.
Running, lying, hiding.
The why should I? was on the tip of his tongue.
“Of course I do,” he spat instead.
“You’re a terrible liar, darling.”
“You seem to take the lies pretty willingly.”
And there it was.
The possibility that everything surrounding them was a lie spun by a Point Man always on the run. An elaborate mask stitched together by a Forger more comfortable in somebody else’s skin. The idea that It – the only thing with a line just as bold and italicized as What Happened – was nothing to either of them, was built on false pretenses and misunderstood actions.
Arthur could hear Eames breathing over the stinging pulse in his ears, wrists, chest. He could hear the buzzing of the airport, the calling of flight numbers. His mind vaguely wondered which one was Eames', how long it would take him to change his flight, change his destination to one Arthur wasn’t aware of. He automatically calculated how long it would take him to find out where Eames really was, how many tense seconds of silence it would take for the ice hanging between them to melt into something warmer than below zero.
The clinking of glass and ice cubes sounded harshly against Arthur’s ears. They dotted out the simple phrase of I’m not drunk enough for this.
Arthur realized with uncomfortable chills that neither of them was drunk enough for this. Both of them would likely remember every word. The cold of that realization rubbed him in the same way jamming a needle in his arm to get paid did, the same raking feeling of I need out that exploded across his vision when he dug too deep into a mark’s background.
“Call me when you’re safely sober, Mr. Eames.”
“Will do, Arthur.”
Despite the ice cracking between them, Arthur was convinced of the parting words.
Arthur was positive the unspoken padlock was still intact on the subject when Eames called, so it was anger that first bubbled behind his eyelids.
“I know, Eames.”
I know you want to talk about it. I know you only hold back for us. I know she’s gone.
“We were going to meet for drinks.”
The slurred words were hardly there, the occasional slips not clear enough to notice. He wasn't drunk, but he was buzzed enough. Arthur wanted to hang up. Arthur wanted to tell him he could meet for drinks with anyone. Arthur wanted to offer to meet Eames for drinks himself. He would need one after this conversation. The conversation that clearly was not coming to a halt no matter how hard he tried to press on the brakes.
“Knew she was acting diff’rent. Knew something was…”
“Wrong,” Arthur finished.
Off, different, broken.
“Wrong,” Eames repeated.
Arthur heard clinking of ice in glass, heard the quite hum of chatter in the background, heard the harsh words on a speaker somewhere beyond Eames.
“Eames,” he started in a cautionary voice, an offended crack of warning, “are you in an airport?”
Public, people, secrets.
Arthur hated the subject. Hated bringing up What Happened. He’d known her. He’d loved her. Just as he loved Cobb, just as he tried to love Eames. But the unforgivable was speaking her name in front of those that didn’t know her. Promising them a glimpse of her smile, of her accent, of her words and never letting her shine past those words that were never enough.
“Australia seems nice this time of year.”
“Australia is hell this time of year,” Arthur responded, changed the subject, hoped for everything to settle in the dust of a departing plane.
“Where’s Cobb?”
“Home, I imagine.”
Cobb was home and Arthur and Eames had taken to leaving country when the date rolled around. They had only ever gone with Cobb for Cobb. Neither was one for mourning. Not the year round kind. Not the kind that didn’t leave the surface of your mind. Not the kind that turned to a sad, romantic smile.
They packed, they left, they shoved it away.
But Eames was stuck and if Eames was stuck, so was Arthur.
“D’you ever go back?”
“You’re far from drunk enough for this, Mr. Eames,” Arthur answered curtly, accusations buried deep in every syllable.
“Christ, Arthur. Don’t you ever stop?”
Arthur didn’t ask for clarification. The words were there and so was the understanding. Not the understanding that fell silent and cut off any teasing words. Not the understanding of I'll get your coffee if you get mine.
Running, lying, hiding.
The why should I? was on the tip of his tongue.
“Of course I do,” he spat instead.
“You’re a terrible liar, darling.”
“You seem to take the lies pretty willingly.”
And there it was.
The possibility that everything surrounding them was a lie spun by a Point Man always on the run. An elaborate mask stitched together by a Forger more comfortable in somebody else’s skin. The idea that It – the only thing with a line just as bold and italicized as What Happened – was nothing to either of them, was built on false pretenses and misunderstood actions.
Arthur could hear Eames breathing over the stinging pulse in his ears, wrists, chest. He could hear the buzzing of the airport, the calling of flight numbers. His mind vaguely wondered which one was Eames', how long it would take him to change his flight, change his destination to one Arthur wasn’t aware of. He automatically calculated how long it would take him to find out where Eames really was, how many tense seconds of silence it would take for the ice hanging between them to melt into something warmer than below zero.
The clinking of glass and ice cubes sounded harshly against Arthur’s ears. They dotted out the simple phrase of I’m not drunk enough for this.
Arthur realized with uncomfortable chills that neither of them was drunk enough for this. Both of them would likely remember every word. The cold of that realization rubbed him in the same way jamming a needle in his arm to get paid did, the same raking feeling of I need out that exploded across his vision when he dug too deep into a mark’s background.
“Call me when you’re safely sober, Mr. Eames.”
“Will do, Arthur.”
Despite the ice cracking between them, Arthur was convinced of the parting words.