Work Text:
June 28, 8:30pm
“You,” Saito barks, pointing at Arthur.
“Me?” Arthur practically falls out of his desk chair. There are only maybe ten people in Mission Control at this time of night. In the morning, it’s all science, experiments, and data crunching. At night, it’s cleaners, hangabouts, and Arthur with his spreadsheets. “The powerpoint on Ms. Simpson’s new trajectories isn’t ready yet.”
“What?”
“I thought you—“
Saito waves for him to follow. “We need to find Mr. Acharya. Mr. Cobb is out tomorrow. I need you to sit with Lieutenant Eames.”
Arthur stops dead in his tracks.
“You need me to what?”
“I need you to babysit our most expensive asset,” Saito says over his shoulder. “Come along, Mr. Aaronson. We need Mr. Acharya to add the necessary software to your laptop.”
“I didn’t— should I get—“
“Yes, get your laptop,” Saito sighs.
There’s an entire field of dust bunnies behind Arthur’s set up. He does his best to have the neatest station in the center. However, he hasn’t had to move desks in five years, and he’d admit, he’s gotten lazy about the hidden spots. His fingers fumble over USB cords. He sneezes. He straightens his tie, absently.
There has to be somebody trained for this.
“Surely there’s somebody trained for this,” he says, rushing back towards Saito.
“There is,” Saito agrees, moving again toward the hallway door. “Mr. Cobb. And he’s going to be out tomorrow.” Arthur finds it hard to believe there is no backup to the psychoanalyst trained to monitor the first year-long, solo mission of an astronaut working for a private corporation. “All you have to do is take notes, Mr. Aaronson,” Saito explains, seemingly sensing Arthur’s unease. “Have a conversation with him. He’s just a man.”
^~*~^
June 29, 8:00am
The third cup of coffee was a bad idea. Arthur is a night shift boy. He doesn’t do six a.m. wake ups. He doesn’t do early at all. He’s running on two hours of sleep, and his nerves were jangled to begin with.
It’s not that he’s starstruck. He isn’t. Lieutenant Eames is just another employee in a company Arthur also works in. They’re colleagues, in a sense. But he’s never held the mental and physical wellbeing of another human being in the palm of his hand before, and he’s never felt the urge to. Arthur is not a doctor. Arthur has no medical training. He’s not a therapist. He doesn’t know what kind of signs to watch for— what kind of conversations mean trouble, what kind of vitals mean illness. He has no idea how to tell if a man who’s been floating in a refrigerator alone for two months is doing ok.
As it turns out, it really isn’t all that hard. He’s got a literal desk guide to follow on Eames’ physical readings, and he’s been told Cobb will review his notes of their conversation. All he has to do is type and talk. It doesn’t make him feel any less like he might vomit last night’s spaghetti. Maybe he should have had a bagel with that coffee.
His headset crackles to life. “Good morning, Palm Beach,” a voice says. “It’s freezing up here, today.”
Arthur clears his throat. He adjusts his Plantronics headset. “Well, you’re in space,” he says.
“You don’t say,” the voice mocks. “You’re not Cobb.”
“I’ll give you points for sharpness, Lieutenant.”
“Oh I like you,” Eames purrs. “Cobb has no personality at all. What’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Arthur,” he replies, a bit snippy. “Not ‘sweetheart.’”
“Oh, don’t be like that, darling. I don’t get to talk to anybody. Let me feel close to you, just for a minute.”
“I'm sorry,” Arthur sighs. He is fucking this up. Already, he is fucking this up.
“You’re not fucking anything up. You sound tired.”
“I work the night shift,” Arthur admits. “Dr. Cobb is out today. Saito asked me to check in on you for him.”
“Saito made you pull a swing shift just to keep me company? Maybe he does care after all.”
“He said you’re our most important asset,” Arthur says, a grin playing around his mouth.
“Did he now? Well I am. I’m the best.”
“You know what, he said ‘expensive,’ I’m sorry.”
“Well that might have been the Oberon he was talking about, then.”
Arthur clears his throat. “How are you feeling? Your heart’s beating a little fast.” The pulse on his screen picks up even faster. “Hey, calm down,” Arthur frowns. “I’m not trying to upset you.”
“I’m not upset at all.” And he isn’t. He sounds amused. “I feel alright,” he says. “Even. Functioning. Bloody cold.”
“How are you feeling, emotionally?” Arthur reads, cringing.
“Rather fragile and volatile,” Eames says. “Arsenal lost to Tottenham last night,” he says. “And I think my girlfriend’s planning to leave me.”
“Your girlfriend?” Arthur slips.
“That’s what you focus on?” Eames asks, bemused. “I suggest I have any clue what’s going on in reality, and you want to know if I’m dating someone? Why Arthur,” he drawls. “You are infinitely more fun than Cobb.”
“I’m just trying to do my job, Lieutenant.” Arthur is acutely aware that embarrassment makes him bitchy. So is everybody else in Arthur's life.
“You can just call me Eames,” says Eames. “I’m not really a lieutenant. They just call me that to make it sound more official. Should be ‘Captain,’ anyway, shouldn’t it? I’m the only one manning this boat.”
“I feel like Ms. Simpson would disagree.”
Eames scoffs. “The Earth orbits the sun based on calculations computed by God, and Ariadne and Bobby think they have the same power. You know what gets done if I don’t do it? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Who feeds the worm farm? I do. Who cleans the air vacuum and filters his own urine into drinking water? Me. Who manually adjusts the flap when the rudder goes out? That’s me too. Who does some maths in a Florida cubicle and tells me how to angle the ship? Ariadne and Bobby.” Arthur tries to hide a smile.
“You sound frustrated, Mr. Eames.”
“Tell me a story then, Arthur,” he suggests. “What did you do this weekend?”
^~*~^
June 30, 9:02pm
“Good evening, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says, bemused. “I can’t say I expected to hear from you today.”
“Well you’re in luck, Arthur,” Eames says. “I’m switching to night shift.”
“Now why on Earth would you do that?” Arthur asks.
“I’m not on Earth,” Eames purrs. “I think you know why.”
“Cobb’s that big of a bore, huh?”
Eames sighs heavily. “It’s more that everything looks the exact same, every day. If I’m on night shift, at least I can tell myself it’s supposed to be dark.”
“How’s your lighting situation?” Arthur asks. He closes his spreadsheet and pulls up the environment readouts of the Oberon.
“There’s plenty of fake light,” Eames grouses. “Too much of it. Fluorescents everywhere. It’s a damn supermarket in here.”
“How are you feeling today?”
“Cold. Fine. Tired. Bored.” Eames pauses. Arthur’s fairly certain he hears something bouncing repeatedly against the metal wall of the craft.
“Your blood pressure’s a little high.” The bouncing continues. “Where are you right now?”
“Space, darling.”
“Eames.”
“The western airlock.” More specifically, he’s playing upside down racquetball against the airlock wall with a spare ball bearing.
“You should eat something,” Arthur says. “Your blood sugar is low.”
“Yes, mum.”
“I’m serious,” Arthur frowns.
“‘I’m serious’— what, are you one of the medical staff?”
“Excuse me?”
“Who are you, Arthur?”
“I’m Arthur Aaronson, technical writer and statistician.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Arthur Aaronson. My name’s Jonathan Eames, and I’m an astronaut.” Oh yes. Arthur’s aware. Eames isn’t just an astronaut— he’s an astrobiologist. He’s got military training and a Ph.D. He is literally the whole package.
“An astronaut,” Arthur whistles. “Eames, I’m impressed.”
“Your condescension is much appreciated, Arthur. Thank you.” Arthur hears the ball bearing hit the wall especially hard. “Surely we’ve at least seen each other, though. I’m sure you’ve seen me.”
“Yes. I’ve seen you leaving meetings with Saito.”
“So what do you look like, then?”
“Glasses,” Arthur says, drily. “Neck beard. Star Trek t-shirt, most of the time.”
Eames is silent.
“I’m kidding,” Arthur huffs. “Um, I’m the only one here who wears suits every night.”
“That one,” Eames gasps. “I know exactly which number bunny you are. You wore that navy number with the purple tie to Miles’ retirement party.”
“That’s an oddly specific memory.”
“Well, it was a memorable look,” Eames rushes out, sounding mildly strangled.
“It was just a suit.”
“I just noticed, is all. I have a good memory.”
“Ok.”
“And you do sometimes wear glasses.”
Arthur smiles. “I do.”
^~*~^
July 3, 12:02am
“How are the spreadsheets coming?” his headset crackles. Arthur starts.
“Mr. Eames,” he says. “How are you feeling?”
“I believe I asked you a question first.”
“My spreadsheets are excellent,” Arthur says. “Everybody’s data is at my fingertips. I could draw graphs of your oxygen levels in seven colors, if I wanted to.”
“I had this really weird dream last night,” Eames says, a casual lilt to his voice.
“Oh yeah?” Arthur asks, passively chewing a Twizzler. His computer monitor is filled with numbers and graphs. Somewhere, a formula is disastrously wrong. That, or Eames’ mint plants should be six feet tall by September.
“I was riding a snowmobile through some kind of military ski resort. But then, I wasn’t even me. When I looked down I was a woman.”
“Maybe we should talk about that,” Arthur suggests with a smile. He clicks around in his file, and he really should be paying more attention because before he knows it, he’s got a circular reference and the mint plants are all going to die.
“If we do, I’d like to focus on my best attributes, please.” Arthur is clicking furiously. “You alright?”
“I’m fine,” Arthur grunts. The spreadsheet breaks down entirely at this point. The mint plants will take over the interior of the Oberon by October. In April, they’ll obtain sentience and form their own government. By June, they’ll have a treaty with earth on the treatment of botanical life in space exploration. On top of that, Column BF now has gradient pink conditional formatting, which Arthur most certainly did not add.
“Hey can you tell me about your plant project?” Arthur asks. “I’m working on a report on it right now and it’s falling completely apart.”
Eames releases a deep breath. “Well, I’ve got these plants, you see.”
“Go on.”
“They’re in basic potting soil, watered by irrigation. And we’re looking to see if they grow right, or if their little roots go wooo in zero gravity.”
“‘Woo,’” Arthur repeats blandly. “Is that a technical term?”
“It is,” Eames agrees. “What’s got you fussed?”
“Your plants are going to destroy a small moon, given enough time.”
“Ah,” Eames says. Arthur can hear him smiling. His computer beeps angrily at him, so he briefly pulls up Eames’ vitals.
“Your heart rate is up again.”
“I’m not surprised. What have you done with your covariance?”
Arthur stares silently at his monitor. He takes his glasses off and sets them down on the desk. “Damn,” he whispers.
“Arthur,” Eames purrs. “You’re the best, you know. Never let anyone tell you otherwise.”
^~*~^
5:15pm
That afternoon, he dreams of the ocean. In the dream, everything’s the perfect temperature. The sand is warm where he’s laying, the breeze is cool. The ocean waves lapping around his bare feet are low and gentle. He can hear gulls in the distance, but no one else is around. There are no clouds, only the sharp streak of light as an object falls from the sky.
It isn’t long before Eames is walking out of the shimmering, sunset tinted surf. He drops to the sand next to Arthur, gear rattling heavily. “Hello darling,” he says, smiling warmly.
“Mr. Eames,” Arthur returns.
At once, Eames is on him, helmet dropping with a thud in the tide. Arthur wraps his sandy arms around Eames’ neck and kisses back.
And then he’s just staring at his ceiling, and the cat is pawing his face.
“Fuck.”
^~*~^
July 7, 8:32pm
At this point, Arthur is used to his soft phone crackling to life with no notice. Eames kept appointments with Cobb. Arthur is no doctor, so it seems that ritual is out the window. Arthur suspects Cobb still checks in on day shift, especially since Saito seems content to just let this continue, regardless of OSHA rules or Arthur’s actual job. He also suspects Cobb is happy to share the “workload.” Arthur though— he doesn’t see it as work at all.
It’s probably neither great nor professional that he doesn’t.
“So I’m stuck here. There’s a year of food. If I had to, I could make it last two. So let’s say they keep extending the mission, or it turns out there’s a problem with my re-entry system and I can’t come home. Then I’m just up here, becoming an old man, waiting to die alone.”
“Well first of all,” says Arthur, “you’re not going to become an old man in two years.” He’s distracted by a rustling sound, and a repeated popping noise.
“Arthur...”
“What are you doing, anyway?”
“I’m releasing water blobs into the air and catching them with my mouth like PacMan.”
Arthur is stunned into silence, briefly.
“Well back to you being stuck in limbo—You’ll be dead before you’re old. And secondly, I’ll be here.” He cringes a little bit at his own phrasing.
“Yes you will, darling, won’t you? But then one day you’ll be gone, and I’ll be here in limbo, by myself.”
“Well that won’t happen.”
“What, will you fly a spaceship up here and pick me up?”
“Yes,” Arthur says, confidently. “I’ll make Ariadne and Robert fly it. I’ll bring Yusuf to fix whatever broke on your ship. I’ll leave Cobb home with Saito.”
Eames bursts out a surprised laugh. “The best choice you made is leaving Cobb behind.”
“He’s a liability,” Arthur grins.
And then he remembers he has a job to do. His smile falters.
“How are you feeling? Your heart’s beating fast again.”
“That’s normal these days, love,” Eames says, quietly.
^~*~^
July 13, 9:34pm
“I feel off.”
“I’m gonna need a little specificity here, Eames.”
“Specificity?” Eames whispers.
“Specificity? You are familiar with that word, right? Being an astronaut and all?”
“You’re kind of a prick sometimes, Arthur.”
“So I’ve been told. How do you feel off? Your vitals look normal.”
“I feel restless,” Eames says. And he sounds it. “I feel like I want to open a door and walk outside.”
“Well, let’s not do that,” Arthur says, dropping his pen onto his desk. He rubs his palms against his thighs nervously. “Are you thinking with a suit or without?”
“Without,” Eames says. Arthur stands abruptly. “But not like that,” Eames adds. “I mean I’m struggling with not being able to walk out the door and go literally anywhere else. Just a bit of claustrophobia, nothing to be alarmed about.” Arthur sighs heavily and sinks back into his seat.
“How can I help?”
“You are helping.” Arthur can hear the smile in Eames’ voice. “I know I complain a lot,” Eames sighs. “And I would truly like to be anywhere else right now. But it really is beautiful up here. I wish you could see what I see.”
Arthur closes his eyes and just breathes. “Me too.”
“Goodnight, darling.”
“Goodnight, Mr. Eames.”
At some point, Arthur may stop lying to himself. But for now, he is confident that it’s only professional concern for a colleague that makes him want to find some way help Eames. Weird dreams are just weird dreams.
“Hey Yusuf!” Arthur calls. “What’s the radius on these soft phones?”
^~*~^
July 14, 8:24pm
“So based on where the Oberon is, this should be Eames’ view as well?” Arthur confirms. Ariadne pushes a few more buttons on her laptop to adjust the brightness of the planetarium screen.
“Out of the western airlock, yes. That’s got the biggest window.” Arthur remembers the schematics. The airlock has the closest thing to a full size picture window you can get in space.
“Excellent.” He plugs his laptop and phone base into the wall, and sits down on the floor to wait. It takes him a minute to realize Ariadne is staring at him, and smiling like a fool. “What?”
“This is the most romantic thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”
“It’s not romantic,” Arthur scoffs. He softens immediately. “He’s up there by himself. It’s my job to keep him feeling connected to home.”
“No it’s not,” she says, flopping into a recliner. “That’s Cobb’s job. You run spreadsheets, and get to talk to your boyfriend at work.”
“He isn’t my boyfriend.” A blush creeps up Arthur’s ears.
“Have you even met him in person, or is this love before first sight?”
“Thank you for your help, Ariadne, I really appreciate it.”
“If it’s not romantic, you won’t mind me watching with you,” she teases. “I could stand to talk to him about the weather forecast for next month.”
“Goodnight, Ariadne,” Arthur grits out, fully aware he is blushing furiously. She pops out of her chair with more energy and cheer than he’s ever felt in his life, and winks.
“Have a good date.”
She hasn’t been gone ten minutes when his phone crackles on.
“Good evening, Arthur.”
“Good evening, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says. He closes a spreadsheet full of worm data and climbs up into one of the recliners.
“Are you in Control?” Eames asks, curious. “You sound like you’re in a cave.
“I’m in the planetarium,” Arthur says. He is at once second guessing every choice he’s made for this evening, and extremely pleased with himself.
“The planetarium,” Eames repeats, awed. “Arthur.”
“Ariadne says my view should be roughly the same as the view out of the western airlock.” Arthur slides his hands behind his head. On the other end, he can hear banging and muttered cursing. “You ok?”
“I’m alright, I’m alright. Trying to get to the airlock. Can’t exactly turn on a dime in zero gravity.” The banging continues.
“I feel like you might be making this harder than it has to be.”
“Alright, let’s stick you in zero gravity and see how you fare.”
“I think I’d do pretty well. I’m pretty flexible.”
“Don’t tempt me, darling,” Eames growls. “Ok. I’m here.”
“It’s a nice view you’ve got there, Mr. Eames.”
“Thank you, Arthur,” Eames chirps. “I did know that.”
“So what am I looking at?”
“You are looking at a frighteningly clear image of the Milky Way galaxy. And if you’re really paying attention, you can see Pegasus and Andromeda to your left.”
He’s right. Arthur hasn’t worked for a space exploration company for six years without learning his constellations. He did, however, make it that long without ever meeting Eames.
“Eames,” Arthur hums. “How have we never met before?”
Eames hums. “I think it’s because you’re locked up in Control running your statistics every night, and I’m always in the training building. If I’m in Control, it’s during the day.”
“Makes sense.” It’s silent for a while, as Arthur draws Cassiopeia in his mind’s eye. “Would you want to change that?”
“Change what, darling?”
“Nothing.”
“Arthur,” Eames purrs. “Are you asking me if I’d want to meet you in real life?”
“I imagine you’ve got plenty of friends and family down here that would be more interesting,” Arthur says. “But I’m getting pretty used to shooting the breeze with you while I’m working on my spreadsheets.”
“Do you know that I can’t stand talking on the phone?” Eames says. “It’s one of my least favorite ways of communicating with people. It’s always seemed impersonal. I like face to face. If we have to talk on the phone, we might as well email.” Arthur frowns. “But you, Arthur— it’s like I can see you clearly when you’re talking. I can tell what’s on your mind from just your tone, and you always seem to get me too. I wake up in the evening, and all I want to do is put on my headset and tell you about the worms I’m feeding. I want to spend hours talking about how my mint plants have stopped growing, and hearing about a PowerPoint you’re making for Bobby on jet propulsion. I want to hear you read me the phone book. Just your voice, in my headset. Of course I want to meet you when I get home.”
“I’d like that.”
“Tell you what— once I’m back, let’s go for a drink. My treat. I haven’t spent any money in months.”
Arthur laughs. “Yeah, I guess you haven’t.” He smiles up at the stars above him. “Alright, where do you want to go?”
“Somewhere without a view of Vulpecula, preferably,” Eames grouses.
“Are you a beer guy or a wine guy?”
“I’m a beer guy, obviously.”
“How is that obvious?”
“Ah, so you’re a ‘wine guy’ then.”
Arthur sighs toward the starry ceiling. “When I was a kid, my grandparents owned a vineyard in Southern California.”
“Really?”
“Mmhmm.”
Arthur looks over his shoulder when he hears a throat clearing. Cobb is standing in the doorway, looking very serious.
“I think we should talk,” he mouths.
^~*~^
10:13pm
Of course, Cobb has to be a dick about it. There’s no way to get through this conversation without wanting to murder somebody. They talk in an empty hallway, because Arthur refuses to dignify the conversation with an office, or even his cubby in Control.
“How are you doing, Arthur?”
“Don’t do that.”
“You sound like Eames,” Cobb observes, smiling tightly.
“I sound like a normal person with a nosy asshole poking around their business. What are you even doing here this late?”
“I wanted to check on you. I’ve had concerns about what’s going on.”
“And what exactly do you think is going on?” Arthur growls.
“You’re not the first person to get in too deep with an astronaut,” Cobb says, somewhat imperiously.
“What, I suppose you did?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” Arthur blinks. “My wife Mal. She works in the training center these days.”
“So what are you here about?”
Cobb sighs. “Eames is the issue. He’s a genius, but he isn’t trustworthy. He’s a great astronaut. Earth bores him, Arthur. You are part of Earth. Professional distance would be a good idea.”
“I don’t think that’s—“
“Eames never takes anything seriously, and if it looks like he is, he’s pretending. He is good at pretending to be what he thinks other people want to see. Look, I don’t mean to be an asshole, here. You seem like a nice guy, and you were asked to help with something you aren’t trained for.”
“I think I’ve been handling this perfectly fine—“
“And you have, you have. It’s just that you’ve been lucky with that. You’ve been lucky, Arthur. I don’t want to see your luck run out.”
^~*~^
July 16, 7:33pm
He’s in the break room when Saito finds him, eating his Salad of the Week. Arthur maintains a polite level of focus on his food while Saito sits across from him, sipping old coffee. The silence is peppered with sighs and frustrated “hmms” on Saito’s part, but Arthur has worked here long enough to know when to wait.
“I expect you’d like to know why I chose you to talk with Lieutenant Eames, and why I’ve allowed it to continue.”
To be honest, he hasn’t thought about it in days.
“Sure,” Arthur says. He eats another regrettable mouthful of lettuce. He rarely questions his life choices, but when he does, there’s usually salad involved.
Saito shifts uncomfortably in the plastic chair. He looks particularly washed out under the fluorescents. “You spend too much time in your tabulations. I wanted you to see that there is more to life than numbers and data. There are people to share things with. You and the lieutenant are very similar people. You are both isolated in unique ways.”
Arthur looks up at that. He sets his fork down. “I’m not isolated.”
Saito sips his coffee. “No, not anymore.”
Arthur tries to hide a smile when his headset chirps in his ear. “Good evening, Arthur.”
“Hey Eames.”
Saito doesn’t try to hide his smile at all.
^~*~^
July 17, 4:32pm
The dreams keep happening. There’s not exactly much Arthur can do about it.
“Lieutenant Eames!” calls a reporter, as flashbulbs pop crack throughout the room. “What’s it like to be back on Earth?” Saito pushes in toward the microphone.
“We don’t have time for any more questions. Lieutenant Eames has other matters to attend to.”
“Thanks everyone,” Eames says, with a smile. He hurries off the stage. Despite the commotion, there’s nobody in the back hall but Arthur. It’s abruptly silent, like there’s nobody in the theater either.
“Other matters, hmm?” Arthur asks. Eames presses into him, pushing his back up against the sky blue drywall.
“I think you know,” Eames says. He runs his hands across Arthur’s hips, slowly. “You, me, and the simulator.” Arthur chokes as Eames hands reach his ass and grip. “That’s two Easy Copper Pots for $19.99,” Eames whispers in Arthur’s ear.
Arthur frowns. “What?”
“Act now, and you receive a set of our famous Perfect Cut Vegetable Knives for free!” The television blares.
“Fuck.”
The cat chirps at him from his stomach, one paw on the remote. Arthur nearly falls off the couch as he pushes himself up, one leg still asleep.
^~*~^
July 19, 12:49am
“I would serve this to friends,” Eames says. “Not close ones. But I would serve it.”
“Stop,” Arthur says. “Seriously. I’ve got work, you’ve got work.” He doesn’t mean it. His heart’s not in it. But he does actually have to finish three presentations and a report tonight, and he really doesn’t have time to listen to Eames play Chopped: Space Edition.
“Come on, Arthur, smile for me. That’s all I want.”
“You don’t even know what my smile looks like,” Arthur laughs. “For all you know, my face could do something weird. Maybe I look like I smelled something nasty.”
“I don’t think that’s the case. Besides, I looked you up online.”
Arthur sits up. This, he is not prepared for. “How much time did you waste doing that? You basically have dial-up.”
“Princeton orange looks good on you. And you should wear your hair loose more often.” Arthur is overwhelmed with (slightly excessive) embarrassment. He is a private person, and he is also strangely invested in Eames’ opinion of him. He is also entirely unprepared to defend himself if Eames decides to take a mocking road. He tries to push Cobb from his mind, but he’s there, like a persistent ghost. Eames never takes anything seriously, and if it looks like he is, he’s pretending.
“Now you’re raising my blood pressure, Mr. Eames.” He takes a deep breath. “Tell me how you’re feeling, emotionally.”
“Wounded, darling, truly.”
“Eames—“
“Alright, alright, I’m fine. Perfectly happy. Is that what you want to hear?”
“Is it the truth?”
“No,” Eames snips. “The truth is, I’m not really in the mood to call you up and go through my vital signs. I don’t want to do that right now.”
With that, Arthur is angry. This is a new emotion for an Eames conversation, if not a new emotion for Arthur. Arthur didn’t ask for this. He didn’t ask to be the phone-a-friend to a lonely space man. He is just a statistician. He’s in too deep, and he knows it. He is leaning over the edge of a cliff, and he’s not certain Eames will reel him back in.
“If you don’t care about your health why should I?” he snaps.
“Why would you care to begin with?” Eames asks, equally hot.
Arthur is done.
“What do you think is the point of these conversations? Hmm? You think Saito just lets me take extra breaks on my shift?”
“I didn’t realize talking to me was such a burden.”
“Sometimes it’s a nightmare, Mr. Eames.”
“So are you, darling. Let’s not make this worse on ourselves than it has to be.”
Eames disconnects.
^~*~^
12:43pm
It’s all Arthur thinks about when he gets home.
He’s still thinking about it when the sun comes up.
He’s still thinking about it at noon, when he gives up and starts his day. He’s thinking about it as he does his sit-ups. There’s a negative thought for each abdominal crunch.
Eames needed me and I let him down.
He probably hates me now.
He should hate me now.
I kind of hate me now, too.
Cobb was probably right.
It’s the last thought that snaps him out of it, because fuck that, and fuck Cobb. He rolls over and begins doing push-ups.
I can fix this.
I need to fix this.
And then he’s laying face down on the carpet, and the cat is purring on the back of his calves because he isn’t moving, and he is overwhelmed with embarrassment and anger for his own stupidity.
I need to fix this, because I’m a little in love with Eames.
Eames, whom Arthur has never actually met. Eames, who likes to use expensive equipment as toys. Eames, who is precise enough to know his mint plants are growing less than a millimeter a day, and bored enough to try mixing orange drink powder and freeze dried ice cream “for the experience.” Eames, who is apparently a consummate professional, except when it comes to Arthur. Eames, who has a fully audible smile. Eames, by whom he has never been starstruck, but who he absolutely had noticed before the flight. He was there for the launch, after all— there to watch placidly while a very handsome stranger climbed into a very fancy plane and jettisoned himself into space. He’d felt nothing. He’d been thinking about all the reports he’d have to write, and hoping the man took notes as well as he worked out. The launch hadn’t affected him at all. If anything, he’d been a little aggravated at the air pollution, and at having to be out of bed before 5:00pm. The whole memory is surreal now.
Arthur isn’t good at this. He knows that. Arthur is good at writing reports, drafting presentations, and making data look beautiful. He is good at doing research, and at finding patterns in piles of numbers. He is terrible at building any kind of relationship. It’s no surprise to him that feelings like this hit him square in the face, after he’s already screwed things up. It’s also no surprise when the guilt hits. He pushes himself up and heads out into the tropical wasteland that is Palm Beach.
Even as he’s running in the sunlight down an obnoxiously humid Florida street, all he can think about is Eames, stuck up there, in a glorified Mazda. He can move, but he feels nothing. He is floating, adrift in the middle of a giant black sea, utterly alone. And Arthur made him feel like talking to him meant nothing, like it was just work. Like they weren’t even friends.
Arthur is the worst person in the entire universe.
He may never hear from Eames again, and that’s one hundred percent his fault.
Honestly, at this moment, he’d trade every other person in the world, just to talk to Eames.
He is absolutely fucked.
^~*~^
9:08pm
“Hello, Arthur.” Arthur is startled by the feeling of relief that washes over him. It is replaced almost immediately with anxiety. He wants to say everything. He wants to say nothing at all.
He starts with, “Hey.”
“Sometimes I am an asshole for no reason at all,” Eames says.
“Me too.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” Arthur could cry, and he’s worried he sounds like it.
“I really enjoy talking to you. I’m sorry for being such a bother.”
“Eames, you’re not bothering me. You’re never bothering me.”
“You sound tired.”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“Look,” Eames begins, hesitantly. “I’m going to start meeting with Cobb again on dayshift.” The bottom drops out of Arthur’s stomach. His hands are numb, and his face is cold.
He swallows. “Ok.”
“It’s just that I don’t want you to be my therapist, or my doctor,” Eames blurts.
“Ok, I understand.”
“No, Arthur it’s—“ Eames sighs. “Cobb says I’m too close this, and he’s probably right.”
Arthur frowns. “What do you mean ‘too close to this?’” Arthur hears the tell tale sound of a ball bearing hitting the airlock wall.
“I mean you’re trying to do your job, and I’m making it too personal. It’s not fair to you. It’s not your job to be my friend.”
“Eames,” Arthur pauses.
“It’s ok, I—“
“No,” Arthur snaps. “Just give me a second.” He runs his hand across his face and into his hair. The air conditioning groans to life. Robert lets the door bang shut behind him as he goes to get a Coke. “If you want to go back to Cobb, I’m not going to try to talk you out of it. He’s trained to help you, and it’s probably healthier for you if he’s the one helping you.”
“Right,” Eames agrees, quietly.
“But I’m not doing this because of the job. When you call me…” He swallows, heavily. “Look, if you don’t want to talk to me anymore, that’s fine. But I need to just say— I love talking to you. You call me, and it’s the best part of my night. I want to hear about your worms and your plants and the stupid things you do to make your life more interesting. I talk to you, Eames, because I like you. I ask all the questions because I care about you, and I worry about how you’re doing, and if you’re ok. I feel completely helpless down here, and I’m totally out of my depth. And maybe it only makes it worse for you that I care. Maybe that’s weird. I don’t know. I don’t do this kind of thing.”
“What kind of thing?” Eames interrupts.
“I just— I like you, Eames.”
“Oh.”
“You can lose this extension. I’ll understand. I just didn’t want you to think that it was all about the job. You’re important to me.”
“I like you too, Arthur,” Eames says.
“Oh,” Arthur swallows.
“I’d like to keep talking to you, but not because of the job. I just like talking to you.”
It’s quiet for a minute.
“Eames?”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want you to stop calling me.”
“Ok, then. I won’t.
^~*~^
August 3, 10:42pm
“My muscles look weird,” Eames murmurs. He shifts his forearms, flexes his biceps.
“Weird how?” Arthur asks, propping his feet on the desk.
“Weird like I’m lifting twenty pound weights for thirty minutes a day, and I’m losing weight.”
“Well, that’s space,” Arthur reasons. He hears a solid thunk across the line and grins. “You playing with your balls again?”
“You make it so easy, sometimes.”
“Hey put him on speaker,” Robert says, dropping into the seat next to Arthur. “I need to talk to him about the weather next week.” He’s got his laptop with him, and the screen looks like one of the magic eye pictures his aunt used to buy him as puzzles when he was a kid. He could never see anything in them then, and he can’t see anything in this either.
“Is that Bobby?” Eames asks.
“That would be Robert,” Arthur agrees. Arthur switches the soft phone audio to his computer array.
“Bobby!”
“Hi Eames.”
“How can I help you?” Arthur is startled by the formality in Eames’ voice. He is reminded of the night in the planetarium, and Eames’ insistence that he hates talking to people on the phone.
Arthur dares to hope he’s truly an exception.
“There’s a dust cloud that looks like it might be moving into your area.”
“Hmm,” Eames hums, and he sounds fairly concerned. “How serious are we talking?”
“I’m not sure yet,” Robert sighs. “Ariadne and I both think it could hit you— or not. There’s not a whole lot of certainty with something like this. It could be a direct hit, or it could end up floating by a couple miles out.”
“Can you send me the readouts?”
“Let me upload them.”
For a minute, all Arthur hears is Robert typing. Then, “A batch of the worms died.”
Arthur frowns. “I’m really sorry to hear that.”
“I am bereft.” The ball bearing hits the wall with another heavy clang.
“What was that?” Robert asks, brushing his hair out of his eyes.
“Just keeping myself busy,” Eames says.
“He’s playing with a ball bearing,” Arthur explains.
“Those things are platinum!” Robert wails. “Never mind the damage you do to the airlock paint— that ball bearing is worth $500 alone!”
“Well it’s not your money, is it, Bobby?” Arthur smiles, despite himself. “I’ve got to let you boys go. I need to download this data and take a look at it.”
“Have a good night, Eames,” Arthur says.
“You too, love.”
It’s shorter than usual tonight, but Arthur will pretend to not be disappointed. He starts to spellcheck his latest write up on the mint plants. It takes him a moment to realize Robert hasn’t gone anywhere, and is staring at him. Arthur slowly returns the gaze.
“So,” Robert says, severely. “How long has this been going on?”
Arthur blinks. “I’m sorry?” Robert looks around, as if concerned someone might overhear. He leans in closer.
“He never talks to anyone like that. I don’t know how you did it, but I’m glad. That’s a man who willingly chose to lock himself away from everyone for a year. A year. God. I can’t even go a week without striking up a conversation with somebody in my apartment building, and I don’t even like any of them.”
“Cobb thinks I’m being exceptionally unprofessional,” Arthur laughs.
“Cobb is one to talk. I’m not sure how he’s even still employed or licensed, except that Mallorie Cobb always gets what she wants.”
^~*~^
August 12, 8:23pm,
“Arthur,” Eames says urgently. Arthur sits up straight in his chair, startled.
“Eames, you ok?”
“I’m f—“ but whatever he is Arthur misses, because the sound is interrupted by feedback.
“What is that noise?” Arthur groans, pulling his headset away from his ears. His feed is full of static, a low, somehow rumbling hiss.
“Dust st—“
“Eames?”
“—probably from— in the other—“
Abruptly, it’s silent.
“Eames?” Arthur sits up.
Eames doesn’t call back.
^~*~^
August 13, 5:15pm
He dreams that he’s floating. He’s in a long hallway, and everything is dark and light at the same time. As he expected, he is infinitely better at this than Eames. And there he is, floating in his orange jump suit, hovering near a light fixture.
“Eames,” Arthur says.
“Arthur,” Eames frowns. “Arthur, we need to get out of here.”
“I don’t know how to wake you up in zero gravity.”
Eames reaches a hand up. He cups Arthur’s face. “Darling, you have to wake up. Help me. Something’s wrong.”
^~*~^
9:52pm
“Arthur, are you there?”
He is, but he’s half asleep, lost in a sea of fuel use to thruster ratios.
“Hmm?” Arthur grunts.
“Would you like to hear what Kevin did today?”
Arthur takes a drink of his water. He listens to the ice shaking against the steel bottle before responding. The night crew is vacuuming in the hall. “Who’s Kevin?”
“Kevin the worm, darling. Haven’t we talked about him?”
“I don’t think so, no.”
“Well Kevin is the dumbest worm in the colony.”
“You can tell the difference from one worm to another?”
“Of course you can, Arthur. They’re individuals. Don’t be a dick to the worms.”
Arthur smiles. “Sorry. Go on.”
“So today Kevin rolled over in his bag. Then he wiggled in the dirt for a bit. That was his whole day.” Eames trails off.
“That’s a big day for a worm.”
“Kevin is a fucking imbecile, like his father, Kevin Senior, and his grandfather before him.”
“You feeling ok?” Arthur asks. Eames sighs heavily. There’s a grating sound on his end. “What are you doing?”
“Cleaning the air filters.”
Arthur frowns. “I thought you just did that.”
“I did, but something’s wrong.”
Arthur frowns harder. “What do you mean, ‘something’s wrong?’”
“I think the storm broke something,” Eames says. Arthur can hear his frustration. “I can’t tell if it’s electrical or structural. The diagnostics are all fine, but I can tell there’s something wrong.”
“I’ll call Ariadne.”
^~*~^
August 14, 11:03pm
“Eames,” Arthur barks. “Eames, you get your ass back in that ship right now.”
“I know you’re not trained for this darling,” Eames replies. His voice sounds extra tinny as it hops by relay from the mic in his helmet. “But this is actually part of my job.”
“Ariadne ran diagnostics on the Oberon this morning,” Arthur says. “She didn’t find anything out of order. There’s nothing for you to find by a physical inspection.”
“I’m telling you,” Eames urges. “Something is wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong, Eames.”
There’s no response.
“Eames?”
“I hate to say I told you so, Arthur.”
“Eames…”
“Fucking dust storm,” Eames murmurs. Arthur hears rustling as Eames brushes his hand across the foil hanging loose. “The insulation’s shot.”
“What— what does that— Eames I think you need that,” Arthur says, dumbly.
“Yes, I do, Arthur, thank you for your condescension.”
“Who do I call?”
“Ariadne,” Eames says. “And Saito. She won’t survive another hit like that. As it is, re-entry’s going to be rough.”
So come home, Arthur thinks. Come home right now.
“Yes, that’s going to be the plan, I think,” Eames says, seriously.
“Get inside, please,” Arthur says, his voice dropping.
“Arthur,” Eames sighs.
“I’m going to call for help.” Arthur swallows. “Please go inside. Please.”
^~*~^
August 15, 7:12am
“I can’t fix it,” Ariadne whispers, tears in her eyes. “If I was up there, maybe. But we don’t have the robotics, and Eames doesn’t have the equipment to do it by hand.”
“Right,” Eames says. From the volume, Arthur doesn’t think he’s facing the microphone. “How long have I got?”
“You don’t,” Robert says, frowning. “The satellite shows more debris heading your way. We’ve got maybe eighteen hours to get you out of there.”
“It’ll take me twenty just to get the interior prepped,” Eames says, loud and clipped.
“Eames,” Arthur pushes. “Do it in ten.”
“Your blood pressure is high, lieutenant,” Cobb warns. “Take a deep breath.”
“You bloody take a deep—“
“Eames,” Arthur barks.
Eames sighs. “Yes, dear.”
Robert hangs up the phone. “Let’s plan a trajectory.”
“I see you took my advice,” Cobb grouses.
“I considered it.” Arthur snips. “I disregarded it.”
“He doesn’t take things seriously. You’re going to get hurt.”
“Dom, leave it,” Robert warns.
“I just thought one of you would listen to me. You seem like a reasonable guy, Arthur. I’m disappointed.”
Arthur is frozen. He’s not sure how he missed it. Of course Cobb went after both of them. Of course he murmured the same bullshit in Eames’ ear. Well, not the same. Arthur’s not actually sure what negative bullshit Cobb would have to say about him. He supposes it was something about him being cold, or unable to sustain a long term connection with a person literally thousands of miles away. He turns slowly in his chair.
“You keep talking around me like I’m an idiot, like I’m new here. I have a doctorate in statistical probability from Princeton. Believe me when I say I have done the math. I know what the odds are of this working out. I know it’s worth the risk.”
“If you’re sure—“
“Cobb. Thanks. I’m sure.”
Cobb walks away.
Ariadne smiles and punches Arthur (hard). She actually growls. “I just wanna pinch your fucking cheeks,” she grits out.
^~*~^
12:23pm
“Are you ok?”
“I’m fine, darling.”
It’s silent for an hour.
Arthur keeps his headset on.
^~*~^
11:00pm
“Ok, Mr. Eames,” Saito barks into the radio. There are at least six different flickering views up on the wall of monitors. None of them shows what Arthur wants to see. He leans against the back wall, nervously chewing the cuticles on his thumb. “You’ve got three hours left on your trip to space. I hope you’ve used your time wisely.”
“All good, Saito, thank you,” Eames chirps. “I’m rather keen to get on with this, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Start your primary burner, Lieutenant.” On the left side of the wall, a few numbers light up, yellow, then green.
“You there, darling?” Eames asks. Arthur rushes forward. He yanks Saito’s mic to the side roughly.
“I’m here,” he swallows.
“Think I’d like that drink, when I get there, if you’re up for it.” Arthur smiles, ruefully.
“Tomorrow, Mr. Eames. Tonight, the goal is to get you home and safely into bed.”
“I like the sound of that even better,” Eames purrs. Saito fixes Arthur with a glare. A rather unattractive flush creeps up Arthur’s throat.
“That’s not what I—“
“Secondary burner, Lieutenant,” Saito barks, yanking his microphone back.
^~*~^
August 16, 2:43am
Arthur’s not sure how he should feel. It’s hard to shake the terror out of his bones, even knowing Eames safely splashed down thirty minutes ago. He runs a hand across the three day scruff on his face, and through his thoroughly messy hair. He’s a sight, he knows. Maybe too much of one.
His mind is grasping for anything besides the soul deep anxiety he feels, still almost unable to believe Eames is safely on terra firma. Cobb is watching him sympathetically. For all his assholery, he of all people understands worrying about an astronaut in danger. “He’s ok,” Cobb says, in his most reassuring voice.
“I know,” Arthur huffs out. He does. Eames is fine. He is safe. A little voice in Arthur’s head is telling him to cling to that— cling to having done a good job and gotten his colleague home safe. Eames actually is a celebrity, and he’s got more than one person to talk to now. Outside of their radio vacuum, Arthur’s just another person. Maybe Eames won’t even want to see him— will just say “thanks for the assist,” pat him on the shoulder, and never speak again. What does “I like you too” even mean, anyway? But he’s alive.
It’s not nearly enough. But it’s the most important thing.
When he sees him— when Eames walks through the door, finally— it all evaporates. There’s nothing but radiant joy. He couldn’t stop the smile straining his cheeks if he wanted to. The entire hall is full of clapping people. Eames looks as tired as Arthur does, and twice as scruffy. He’s wearing a battered, navy shirt, the top of his jumpsuit tied around his waist. At once, he is surrounded by medical personnel. Someone’s checking his temperature with a touch-free thermometer. Someone else is actually trying to put a blood pressure cuff on him as he walks. Eames’ eyes find Arthur’s, and he shrugs, relieved. He pushes away from the doctors and moves towards his radio partner.
“You’ve got dimples,” Eames says, with wonder.
Arthur’s smile falters. “I told you, you might think my face moved weird, or—“
But Eames’ hands are cupping his jaw and dragging him closer. Eames kisses him, hard, and careful.
He tastes out of this world.
Arthur is momentarily stunned at the feeling of being in Eames’ arms. He takes in the experience— the brush of stubble against his skin, the pressure against his spine, the heat beneath his hands. He is overwhelmed with pure contentment, like he’s got a taste of something he craved in his very soul and never even knew. That craving will never be satisfied.
“I’ve been wanting to do that for weeks,” Eames says.
“Welcome back, Mr. Eames,” Arthur whispers against his mouth, and kisses him again for good measure. Eames smiles.
“It’s good to be home.”