Fic: The Consequences of Trust part 9
Warnings: Suicide Themes
Author's notes: If you for some reason haven't been informed, there is a companion WIP to this piece from Eames point of view.
This is no longer being beta'd. Please, if you find mistakes, feel free to point them out.
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8
This chapter on AO3
____________
“How are you feeling today, Arthur?” Dr. Steffe sits in her chair, clipboard in hand and legs crossed at the knee. She taps the top of her pen against her shoulder as she thinks.
“Better,” Arthur says. He brushes lint off of his charcoal gray slacks. Dr. Steffe sits forward, taking note of the tone of Arthur’s statement.
“What changed?” She asks, as she starts taking notes.
Arthur looks out the window, to the parking lot where Eames is sitting, the sun’s heat beating down on the roof of the rental. He thinks about the way Philippa seemed days ago, too old and too young, the way her face distorted in anguish as she cried for him. He never wanted to be the cause for that kind of sadness again. “I realized, that I am the only person in the way of my recovery.”
Dr. Steffe smiles hopefully, nods in a way that makes it obvious she’s controlling her enthusiasm. “Okay then, let’s get started. I’d like to take you through the basic exercises still, and then, hopefully, we can get to the more difficult subjects later.”
Arthur tilts his chin in agreement. He starts to tap his toe anxiously, still isn’t quite sure if he can do this, but he is determined. Success is what he does. Today he dressed more like his former self, forgoing jeans or borrowed sweatpants in favor of his fitted slacks. He’s not wearing a tie, but he’s in a button-down instead of a t-shirt and he feels better already, more in control. A far cry from where he has been, at least. Eames had given him an appraising look when he sat down for breakfast in the morning. Arthur caught him staring several times throughout the meal; quick glances up through his eyelashes, a thumb swiped over his lip in thought. Arthur doesn’t know what to make of it, though. Eames didn’t indicate pleasure or disapproval, simply interest in Arthur’s state of dress.
Arthur frowns, he can never quite read Eames, can never pick apart his emotions like Eames can his. He always feels at a disadvantage when in Eames’ presence, which may be why they grate on each other. Arthur doesn’t like the unknown, the unquantifiable. He likes to be able to break things down, figure them out, work through weak points and solidify his tactical position. He likes to think through every possible outcome, everything that could hurt him or his team.
Eames is his blind spot.
They start with simple statements of facts, assessments of stress levels and a relaxation exercise. They’ve made their way through the dream, Arthur’s reaction, and how he felt helpless after. They go over ways to cope with anxiety and real world stressors again. Then, after Arthur starts to lose patience repeating things they’ve been over many times, Dr. Steffe makes a loaded request.
“Tell me about Eames,” she says in the middle of Arthur’s breathing exercise. He coughs with surprise and his heart starts to beat faster instantly. Arthur glances over sharply and thinks about deflecting the question and moving on to something else, Cobb maybe, Mal’s death. Dr. Steffe looks at him unwaveringly. They stare at each other for a moment before Arthur clears his throat and starts to put together his answer. He came here to confront his problems and move on, so he sucks in air through his teeth and begins.
“I’m sure you are familiar with the idea of forgers?” Dr. Steffe nods that she does. Arthur continues, “Well, Eames is the best in the business. You ask for someone, he delivers.”
Dr. Steffe urges him on. “And on this particular job?”
Arthur grimaces. “He was perfect.” Arthur swallows and chews on his lip nervously. “We asked for a thug.”
“And he delivered?”
Arthur nods. The memories play in his mind, vivid but broken up. Little snippets of actions, of feelings, of emotion fight for attention in his mind as he tries to organize his thoughts. Pain. Eames. Kohler. Blood. Fear. No. He needs to control them, to put them in their place, organized and safe and ready to be pulled out when he needs them and only when he needs them.
“So what changed between you and him? What didn’t you expect?”
Arthur fidgets. He pulls at the cuff of his sleeve, plays with the button. He glances out the window again before speaking. “There has to be a line, right? One that you don’t cross,” he says.
“Which line was that?”
Dr. Steffe stops writing notes. He looks directly at her when he answers. “Pain is in the mind. You don’t torture someone.”
Dr. Steffe cocks her head skeptically. “Have you ever tortured anyone?”
“Not someone I cared about,” Arthur mumbles as he looks away again. The hypocrisy of his statement is not something that he wants to delve into right now. Dr. Steffe continues her questions.
“Eames cared about you?”
“I … I don’t know.” Arthur brings a fingernail to his mouth and starts to chew, before catching himself and hooking his hand in his pocket to stop the nervous habit. He doesn’t want to think about Eames. Thinking about Eames always leads down a terrible road in his mind.
“But you trusted him?” Dr. Steffe prods.
All these months that he spent holed up in his house because he couldn’t trust his own actions, fearful of other’s intentions, fearful of his own. He thinks of how everyone he could truly rely on has let him down. Cobb, Mal, Eames. Not Ariadne though, but Arthur would never rely on her, never trust his life to her; she’s too green. Anyone left who he might have trusted with his life are now called into question by the error of his judgment. He knows them less than he knew Cobb and Eames. If those two can betray him, than anyone can.
“What are you thinking, Arthur? I can’t help if you don’t tell me what you are thinking.” It’s not condescending the way she says it. Arthur is struck, yet again, by the way she can be so hard to hate while she still forces uncomfortable subjects.
“I trusted him, yes,” he answers quietly.
“Why is that?”
“He never let me down before. He never sold me out. He’s had opportunity, motive in the past. He never gave me a reason to doubt him.”
“And now?”
Arthur pauses again, to collects his thoughts, palming the red die in his pocket before he answers. “I doubt everyone. I doubt myself.”
“Why do you doubt yourself?”
Arthur’s grip on the die tightens and he can feel the blunted edges of it dig into his palm. He leans forward, his shoulders sagging as he stairs at the laces of his shoes. He’s not even angry when he thinks about it, just defeated. “How could I have been so stupid to trust anyone?” He whispers.
Dr. Steffe reaches out a hand to lie on his shoulder lightly. Not a hint of judgment or superiority graces her voice when she says softly, “We all have to trust in others, Arthur. We have to have a little faith.”
“Well I don’t.”
“You wouldn’t be here if that were true.”
Arthur jerks his shoulder away, glaring daggers towards her as he hisses, “I almost wasn’t! Eames just happened to show up in time.”
“Just happened to show up?”
Arthur snaps his mouth shut, argument caught in his throat. He remembers Eames taking him to the park in a dream. He remembers what Eames had said. I should have never let you think I didn’t care.
Everything about that statement tears at Arthur’s mind. It’s like a sliver caught under his skin, irritating, unignorable as it sticks there, deep enough that he can’t pull it out. It doesn’t make sense. Eames ignored him during the Colombia job. He was so cold, so distant, as if nothing had happened.
I should never have let you…
So it was all an act? He thinks. For what reason? He wonders what Eames had to gain by letting him suffer. Eames had to know, he had stopped joking with him, talking to him, being near him when it made Arthur uncomfortable. Eames had definitely picked up on his animosity. But why didn’t he say anything?
“I think that’s enough for today,” Dr. Steffe says, closing her notebook. She looks worried. Arthur realizes he’s digging fingernails, white with the blood pushed from the skin, into the upholstery of the chair. Flexing his fingers, he releases his grip, letting the blood circulate back in. He closes his eyes and starts another breathing cycle to calm himself down.
“Do we need to call you another ride? I’m not sure I feel comfortable with Eames driving you home today.”
“No,” he says after a while. His heart is still racing, but he can feel it start to slow. “No, I’ll be fine.”
Arthur scribbles his signature on the sign-out sheet with a huff. The receptionist frowns sympathetically and Arthur grits his teeth against a scathing remark about her minding her own business, even though she hasn’t said anything at all to him today. Dr. Steffe steps out of her office before he’s about to turn to leave.
“Arthur, I really think we should call you another ride, today,” she says. “I can try Cobb.”
“No.” Arthur doesn’t wait for her to offer again. He shoves through the door into the afternoon air. It’s summer in LA and the week has been particularly warm. He tugs the car door open and collapses into the seat. Eames gives him a wary glance but starts the engine without comment. The air conditioner comes on but it does little to make Arthur feel less itchy and uncomfortable in his clothes.
When they get back to Cobb’s house, Arthur locks himself in his room and sits on the edge of his bed. He skips dinner, which he knows he’ll hear about from Cobb and Ariadne later, but he doesn’t care. All he wants it to be left alone, to curl up on the sheets and shut the world out. All he can think about is what he said to Philippa. I know what it’s like to not trust someone that you care about.
Arthur thinks about how he can feel Eames’ presence in the house. Any corner he turns and Eames may be there, sitting on the couch reading a book, in the kitchen making tea, on the patio, in the hall, anywhere. The thought of it makes Arthur’s stomach hurt and his shoulders tense. It’s too much to deal with. It too hard to parse what he feels for Eames, what he feels for anything anymore when he’s always on the defensive.
Arthur rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. The evening light casts stripes from the blinds across the speckled plaster. He wants to get better. He wants his life back. He thinks about how he can gain some leverage, can make progress. He thinks into the night, until the moon is high and everyone else in the house has gone to bed. Every successful scenario he can imagine for recovery starts with one thing.
After breakfast, when Cobb is driving the kids to school and Ariadne is off drawing or something, Arthur corners Eames in the kitchen. He steels himself, squaring his shoulders, which he knows is not as intimidating or strong a gesture as it has been in the past, and asks Eames to leave.
You can read this entry at dreamwidth where it has
comments.
Author's notes: If you for some reason haven't been informed, there is a companion WIP to this piece from Eames point of view.
This is no longer being beta'd. Please, if you find mistakes, feel free to point them out.
Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8
This chapter on AO3
____________
“How are you feeling today, Arthur?” Dr. Steffe sits in her chair, clipboard in hand and legs crossed at the knee. She taps the top of her pen against her shoulder as she thinks.
“Better,” Arthur says. He brushes lint off of his charcoal gray slacks. Dr. Steffe sits forward, taking note of the tone of Arthur’s statement.
“What changed?” She asks, as she starts taking notes.
Arthur looks out the window, to the parking lot where Eames is sitting, the sun’s heat beating down on the roof of the rental. He thinks about the way Philippa seemed days ago, too old and too young, the way her face distorted in anguish as she cried for him. He never wanted to be the cause for that kind of sadness again. “I realized, that I am the only person in the way of my recovery.”
Dr. Steffe smiles hopefully, nods in a way that makes it obvious she’s controlling her enthusiasm. “Okay then, let’s get started. I’d like to take you through the basic exercises still, and then, hopefully, we can get to the more difficult subjects later.”
Arthur tilts his chin in agreement. He starts to tap his toe anxiously, still isn’t quite sure if he can do this, but he is determined. Success is what he does. Today he dressed more like his former self, forgoing jeans or borrowed sweatpants in favor of his fitted slacks. He’s not wearing a tie, but he’s in a button-down instead of a t-shirt and he feels better already, more in control. A far cry from where he has been, at least. Eames had given him an appraising look when he sat down for breakfast in the morning. Arthur caught him staring several times throughout the meal; quick glances up through his eyelashes, a thumb swiped over his lip in thought. Arthur doesn’t know what to make of it, though. Eames didn’t indicate pleasure or disapproval, simply interest in Arthur’s state of dress.
Arthur frowns, he can never quite read Eames, can never pick apart his emotions like Eames can his. He always feels at a disadvantage when in Eames’ presence, which may be why they grate on each other. Arthur doesn’t like the unknown, the unquantifiable. He likes to be able to break things down, figure them out, work through weak points and solidify his tactical position. He likes to think through every possible outcome, everything that could hurt him or his team.
Eames is his blind spot.
They start with simple statements of facts, assessments of stress levels and a relaxation exercise. They’ve made their way through the dream, Arthur’s reaction, and how he felt helpless after. They go over ways to cope with anxiety and real world stressors again. Then, after Arthur starts to lose patience repeating things they’ve been over many times, Dr. Steffe makes a loaded request.
“Tell me about Eames,” she says in the middle of Arthur’s breathing exercise. He coughs with surprise and his heart starts to beat faster instantly. Arthur glances over sharply and thinks about deflecting the question and moving on to something else, Cobb maybe, Mal’s death. Dr. Steffe looks at him unwaveringly. They stare at each other for a moment before Arthur clears his throat and starts to put together his answer. He came here to confront his problems and move on, so he sucks in air through his teeth and begins.
“I’m sure you are familiar with the idea of forgers?” Dr. Steffe nods that she does. Arthur continues, “Well, Eames is the best in the business. You ask for someone, he delivers.”
Dr. Steffe urges him on. “And on this particular job?”
Arthur grimaces. “He was perfect.” Arthur swallows and chews on his lip nervously. “We asked for a thug.”
“And he delivered?”
Arthur nods. The memories play in his mind, vivid but broken up. Little snippets of actions, of feelings, of emotion fight for attention in his mind as he tries to organize his thoughts. Pain. Eames. Kohler. Blood. Fear. No. He needs to control them, to put them in their place, organized and safe and ready to be pulled out when he needs them and only when he needs them.
“So what changed between you and him? What didn’t you expect?”
Arthur fidgets. He pulls at the cuff of his sleeve, plays with the button. He glances out the window again before speaking. “There has to be a line, right? One that you don’t cross,” he says.
“Which line was that?”
Dr. Steffe stops writing notes. He looks directly at her when he answers. “Pain is in the mind. You don’t torture someone.”
Dr. Steffe cocks her head skeptically. “Have you ever tortured anyone?”
“Not someone I cared about,” Arthur mumbles as he looks away again. The hypocrisy of his statement is not something that he wants to delve into right now. Dr. Steffe continues her questions.
“Eames cared about you?”
“I … I don’t know.” Arthur brings a fingernail to his mouth and starts to chew, before catching himself and hooking his hand in his pocket to stop the nervous habit. He doesn’t want to think about Eames. Thinking about Eames always leads down a terrible road in his mind.
“But you trusted him?” Dr. Steffe prods.
All these months that he spent holed up in his house because he couldn’t trust his own actions, fearful of other’s intentions, fearful of his own. He thinks of how everyone he could truly rely on has let him down. Cobb, Mal, Eames. Not Ariadne though, but Arthur would never rely on her, never trust his life to her; she’s too green. Anyone left who he might have trusted with his life are now called into question by the error of his judgment. He knows them less than he knew Cobb and Eames. If those two can betray him, than anyone can.
“What are you thinking, Arthur? I can’t help if you don’t tell me what you are thinking.” It’s not condescending the way she says it. Arthur is struck, yet again, by the way she can be so hard to hate while she still forces uncomfortable subjects.
“I trusted him, yes,” he answers quietly.
“Why is that?”
“He never let me down before. He never sold me out. He’s had opportunity, motive in the past. He never gave me a reason to doubt him.”
“And now?”
Arthur pauses again, to collects his thoughts, palming the red die in his pocket before he answers. “I doubt everyone. I doubt myself.”
“Why do you doubt yourself?”
Arthur’s grip on the die tightens and he can feel the blunted edges of it dig into his palm. He leans forward, his shoulders sagging as he stairs at the laces of his shoes. He’s not even angry when he thinks about it, just defeated. “How could I have been so stupid to trust anyone?” He whispers.
Dr. Steffe reaches out a hand to lie on his shoulder lightly. Not a hint of judgment or superiority graces her voice when she says softly, “We all have to trust in others, Arthur. We have to have a little faith.”
“Well I don’t.”
“You wouldn’t be here if that were true.”
Arthur jerks his shoulder away, glaring daggers towards her as he hisses, “I almost wasn’t! Eames just happened to show up in time.”
“Just happened to show up?”
Arthur snaps his mouth shut, argument caught in his throat. He remembers Eames taking him to the park in a dream. He remembers what Eames had said. I should have never let you think I didn’t care.
Everything about that statement tears at Arthur’s mind. It’s like a sliver caught under his skin, irritating, unignorable as it sticks there, deep enough that he can’t pull it out. It doesn’t make sense. Eames ignored him during the Colombia job. He was so cold, so distant, as if nothing had happened.
I should never have let you…
So it was all an act? He thinks. For what reason? He wonders what Eames had to gain by letting him suffer. Eames had to know, he had stopped joking with him, talking to him, being near him when it made Arthur uncomfortable. Eames had definitely picked up on his animosity. But why didn’t he say anything?
“I think that’s enough for today,” Dr. Steffe says, closing her notebook. She looks worried. Arthur realizes he’s digging fingernails, white with the blood pushed from the skin, into the upholstery of the chair. Flexing his fingers, he releases his grip, letting the blood circulate back in. He closes his eyes and starts another breathing cycle to calm himself down.
“Do we need to call you another ride? I’m not sure I feel comfortable with Eames driving you home today.”
“No,” he says after a while. His heart is still racing, but he can feel it start to slow. “No, I’ll be fine.”
Arthur scribbles his signature on the sign-out sheet with a huff. The receptionist frowns sympathetically and Arthur grits his teeth against a scathing remark about her minding her own business, even though she hasn’t said anything at all to him today. Dr. Steffe steps out of her office before he’s about to turn to leave.
“Arthur, I really think we should call you another ride, today,” she says. “I can try Cobb.”
“No.” Arthur doesn’t wait for her to offer again. He shoves through the door into the afternoon air. It’s summer in LA and the week has been particularly warm. He tugs the car door open and collapses into the seat. Eames gives him a wary glance but starts the engine without comment. The air conditioner comes on but it does little to make Arthur feel less itchy and uncomfortable in his clothes.
When they get back to Cobb’s house, Arthur locks himself in his room and sits on the edge of his bed. He skips dinner, which he knows he’ll hear about from Cobb and Ariadne later, but he doesn’t care. All he wants it to be left alone, to curl up on the sheets and shut the world out. All he can think about is what he said to Philippa. I know what it’s like to not trust someone that you care about.
Arthur thinks about how he can feel Eames’ presence in the house. Any corner he turns and Eames may be there, sitting on the couch reading a book, in the kitchen making tea, on the patio, in the hall, anywhere. The thought of it makes Arthur’s stomach hurt and his shoulders tense. It’s too much to deal with. It too hard to parse what he feels for Eames, what he feels for anything anymore when he’s always on the defensive.
Arthur rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. The evening light casts stripes from the blinds across the speckled plaster. He wants to get better. He wants his life back. He thinks about how he can gain some leverage, can make progress. He thinks into the night, until the moon is high and everyone else in the house has gone to bed. Every successful scenario he can imagine for recovery starts with one thing.
After breakfast, when Cobb is driving the kids to school and Ariadne is off drawing or something, Arthur corners Eames in the kitchen. He steels himself, squaring his shoulders, which he knows is not as intimidating or strong a gesture as it has been in the past, and asks Eames to leave.
You can read this entry at dreamwidth where it has