Work Text:
Before the Incident
In Rome, at a café next to a fountain…
These lemon drops are so good, they ought to be illegal. It’s been a hell of a day, MaryAlice, the kind I can’t quite stand to think about any longer. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this way, and I’m hoping if I put it all down on paper that will get it out of my head. Help me process all these things that I can’t say.
I know we never talk about work. There’s reasons for that, and I’m not going to have that imaginary argument with you here, on paper. So, let’s just pretend you know all about what I do and why. I came in today, for what should be an easy, easy job. God, money so easy you can redo the kitchen with special order appliances and granite countertops. Cobb’s decent enough, and the chemist is my kind of girl (no need for you to worry about that though). It’s this other bloke, this Arthur, who’s going to drive me to murder. The bloke is so straight laced, he actually wears a waistcoat! In 30 degrees C! Who does that?!
‘Course, makes total sense, as every other thing he said was, got to keep to the timeline. As if the schedule was the important part of a job, like he’s never had it got tits up and needed to improvise to get out. It always goes tits up, and he won’t last long. Just wait and see, won’t be able to take the heat.
Can’t wait to see how he takes it on the job tomorrow.
It’s going to be a day, Mary Alice, going to be a day.
*Letter folded into a boat, placed in the fountain where it eventually disintegrated.
Madrid, in the hotel room…
Bloody Arthur.
Are his trousers even tighter than Rome? He’s done that on purpose hasn’t he. So full of himself for running that last job. I’ve never seen one cleaner, and we all had our share less than an hour after parting ways. Didn’t have to hunt him down like I’ve had to do before. And now, here he is in Madrid with his slicked hair and his no nonsense attitude and his time table, and those bloody trousers!
I might just have to fuck the confidence right out of him.
*written in the margins of a newspaper before being crumpled and thrown away.
Bath, in the Men’s, a text message...
Come to Joe’s Tavern, market st. Want to make you come. Want to taste it.
*message sent. Thirty minutes later Arthur came.
In Istanbul, in Paris, in Vienna, in Milan, in Brussels, more text messages.
Come, darling.
*For the most part, Arthur did.
In a shitty flat in Berlin…
Oh, I am fucked, fucked fucked fucked. So fucked I can’t posibly finish this mojito. I already ate the lemon I used as garnish, ate that first. Never been fucked like this before. Not that golden haired boy, not that gorgeous extractor in Mombasa. I don’t even think MaryAlice. Oh so fucked. Oh, it was a fine time in Madrid, and I’m always up for a repeat of a good thing. Then it was Istanbul, and Vienna, Milan, Brussels, fucking Odessa. Who goes to fucking Odessa? I do, that’s who. I go to fucking Odessa just for a bit of tail.
Except, it’s not really tail if there isn’t any fucking, is it?
I should have known! All the signs were there. That drive in France? We went to that fucking Burberry Store. God, I’m a moron.
This can never see the light of day.
This-this is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. In my entire life. And let’s face it, I still have MaryAlice. Should have given her up when that tosser followed me back to London.
Oh god, I have to give up Arthur, don’t I?
*Letter burned the next morning while waiting for the aspirin to kick in.
At the kitchen table…
It’s three am, and sure, I could be having a drink right now, but Darling, this is a night for just lemons.
It’s been six months, and I’ve worked three jobs. I don’t think I’ve worked this little since I started in this business. And I can’t tell if MaryAlice likes it or if I’m about to drive her barmy.
I miss you, Darling. I miss your waistcoats and your dimples and your bloody awful timetables.
God.
I want to tell you about my day. Not really the sort of thing we usually do, but I want it nonetheles. I try not to. I push those feelings down during the day. I smile and joke and help Mary Alice wash dishes until she sends me out to play poker. I tell myself I’m hustlin, but some days--today, I’m just playing the cards. And playing them badly.
I acidentally woke MaryAlice when I came to bed…
It didn’t go well.
I’d like to say it was because I was drunk or just tired. Or dehydrated. Surely there’s a million better excuses than the truth.
I’m not proud of it.
I’m ashamed really.
But he had dark curly hair and that charcoal waistcoat…
He didn’t talk like you, and he wasn’t precise like you. But his mouth was wet and warm and it was so easy to pretend.
I want you so badly, and at the end of it, I was so disappointed in him for not being you. So I drank and lost outrageous amounts of money and I came home to MaryAlice who rolled over and smiled and took off her nightgown.
And what was I supposed to do?
Confess?
Fake it?
I thought of you again. Of the way you’d claw up my back and writhe and whine. Of the mouthy way you boss me around, demanding perfection regardles of the activity. But MaryAlice is soft and easy, with breathy noises and light fingers. And it kept putting me off.
So I thought about what it would take for you to make those noises.
Would it take getting you drunk? Or maybe waking you up after an obscenely long job when you’re tired and wrecked? Maybe some wacky backy? And I remembered that drive in France, when you held my hand. That’s the kind of touch. I wonder if you would touch me like that while on vacation? While we’re driving absolutely nowhere and there’s nothing around except feilds and we have nothing but time.
I’ve never done that, not with anyone. Didn’t know I wanted it.
I miss you Arthur, miss you like a limb I’ve left behind on the battlefield. Crave you like an alcoholic craves a drink, or an addict a hit. But I’m in recovery now. And no matter how I want it, I’m not going to take it.
Everyone deserves better from me.
*Letter shredded in the garbage disposal.
In the hotel bar in Kiev…
It’s a Gin Sour sort of night.
I shouldn’t have taken this job. But it’s been a year, and I had to know if it worked. I can say that here, on this paper. I know I told you I wasn’t interested in working all those other jobs, that they were beneath my standards, not challenging enough. And I should have said no to this one, even though you pointed out I’d have to Forge, and the mark’s wife! It doesn’t get much more challenging than that! The chance to impersonate someone so close to the mark, every detail needing to be just right! The rush of it!
I could have said no though. There are reasons, even good ones, if personal ones, to say no. It’s an important date today, and I’m missing it. I ‘ll call later, sing over the phone and that whole bit. It’ll be fine. I’ll bring home a big present.
Because I had to know if it worked. It’s been a whole year.
And there you were, against the wall by the men’s, scrolling through your phone like any other businesman. It wasn’t just my trousers that went tight at the sight.
I have to stop this, have to bury it all down underneath. Can’t let anyone know, not even you. Especially not you, darling.
I saw the way you looked at me there in the airport. The way your eyes went to my mouth and my shoulders and my cock. You’re interested. Can I take you to bed and still hold you at arm's length? Can I fuck you silly, until your knees give out and your face goes slack and I can see that mind of yours go quiet for the first time all day? Can I do that and not let it be more?
There’s more than one challenge in this job, I think.
*Letter read twice more before being burned in the metal rubbish bin.
The Incident
In a Pub, not far from the Cottage…
I’m drunk on Shandy’s again, and I have to get all this out before it burns me up from the inside. Because I feel like it’s going to destroy me, like I’m going to combust, right here on this barstool.
I feel like I should have known, but we weren’t on the same job and I haven't been home in weeks. It’s my job to know these things though, I should have known.
And you were standing there in the kitchen, looking like a drowned kitten, so out of place, so vulnerable. I wanted to tuck you underneath my arms and hold you until the pain disappeared. You don’t belong in some country cottage. You’re made for high rises and the best of modern Swedish design.
I don’t belong in that kitchen either.
Whenever I think of home I think of an airport Starbucks, and you sitting at the gate, reading the news on your phone and complaining about some other passenger, you know, the one with the luggage that most definitely won’t fit in the overhead compartment.
How am I supposed to fix this? What did you want me to fix? My marriage? I think that sailed a long time ago, back in Kiev. And if you want me to fix what’s between us, I’ haven’t the slightest clue how to go about doing that. And besides, I don’t think that’s what you were talking about at all.
In one night, I’ve lost the three things most important to me.
How am I supposed to live with that?
*written on a napkin which was later used to clean up lemon rinds.
After the Incident
Somewhere in Osaka, a year later...
It’s Tom Collins tonight, Darling, and instead of that little swirl of lemon rind draped over the edge of the glass, the bartender gave me a large wedge. Of course, I took it off immediately, and now, at the end of the evening I’ve got nearly a whole lemon lined up in front of me. I haven’t quite decided if I’m going to eat them or not. Just looking at them is making me nostalgic for the Loire River Valley and cheap French wine. Do you remember? We went for a drive, following the mark--whatever his name was--to that chateau. You made me drive because I kept trying to get my mouth on your cock and you were upset that I might knock the car out of gear. And once we traded seats, you sat and stared out the window, but you kept your hand on top of mine, loosely holding, even when I moved to shift. You didn’t look at me, and we listened to the radio in silence for an hour, and I didn’t even feel the need to talk.
Why did you have to go and fuck all of that up? Why couldn’t you just leave it be, let us be? Why did you have to stick your nose in places you had to know were best left alone? Why did you ruin everything?
I don’t think I’ll eat those lemons after all. No need to make this any worse than it is.
*Note written on a bar napkin that was later used to wipe up a spill, the ink ran and became illegible.
A shitty pub in Dublin…
And here I thought there was no chance I would be thinking of you tonight, Darling. Not in this place--I think there is blood on the floor. What kind of pub doesn’t bother to clean the blood up when the patrons have a go at each other? Surely I wouldn’t think about you here. But Shandys are the special. Just one sip, and that hint of lemon takes me right back to you.
I think I got drunk off of Shandys that first night? Where was that, Madrid? And did you drink Sangria? Maybe, I can’t quite remember. I can remember your dimples though, I’d never seen them before and they were absolutely entrancing. I stared at them the whole night, couldn’t take my eyes off your mouth.
I’m sure you remember that job even though the details are lost to me. I still can’t believe you agreed to go out to that pub after it was all finished, even now, and it’s been years since that night. We were absolute monsters to each other the whole time, I do remember that. It’s been enough time now that I can admit I was insecure and afraid of making some mistake in front of you. You wore your suits like you’d been born in them, and you cocked your head to the side and listened. God, the way you listened.
And then at the end of it, you put the PASIV away, and all I could do was stare at your fingers and wonder what they would look like if I sucked you, what would they do if I pinned them above your head and ground myself up against you. I wanted to see you completely wrecked, a puddle on the floor.
There is a very distinct possibility that I need to get laid. It’s been a while. It’s been a while since I even wanted it.
There isn’t much going on in this pub though, one fellow in the corner, but he’s tall and thin and has dark hair that curls at the nape of his neck. Nothing but disappointment there. And I am so tired of disappointment.
God, do you remember that night in Brazil? When I bent you over your desk? And you had to take the keys off your laptop the next day because so many of them were stuck. I don’t know which part I enjoyed more, the feeling of you clenching all around me or watching the furrow in your brow as you tried to pull the keys up. And Cobb completely bought your line about Deit Coke. Good thing he was preoccupied, because I couldn’t keep the grin off my face.
Seriously, I need to find someone to take me home tonight, anything to forget you….
*Note written on a piece of paper gleaned from the bartender and torn to shreds before being flushed down the toilet.
A Pub in London, a respectable one, full of respectable people...
Darling-
It’s my anniversary, and it’s Old Fashions tonight. Ten years ago today I tied the knot. Why do people call it that, tying the knot, some knots are designed to be pulled apart easily. Yet we treat marriage like it’s this one and only sort of thing, something that can’t be undone, linked together permanently.
Well, that’s all fucked now.
Did you know MaryAlice was the one to introduce me to Old Fashioneds? She was my first and, I was so sure at the time, only love. And here I am, alone in a crowded pub on my anniversary. I know what you're thinking, a divorced man can’t have an anniversary, but set aside the nuances of language just for this evening, darling. You know, it made sense at the time to get married. We were childhood sweethearts, and I genuinely wanted to give her the world. Got into a bit of trouble, the way childhood sweethearts do--I don’t know if I’ve ever told you that. But, life is what it is, and it doesn’t seem to matter much now. It’s not like--I haven’t been back--
God, I can’t even write the words.
I’d forgotten how much it hurts.
Well, not forgotten, more like refused to let myself remember. But it’s my annicerary, I think I’m owed a moment of melancholy. And god help me, but your the one I want to share it with, darling.
I thought, I thought for sure I could never love anyone like MaryAlice. Thought for sure we were going to have this perfect little family, thatch roof and everything.
But it turns out I hate thatch, and I was a terrible husband. And there was just so much world out there, you know?
You weren’t the first. Not the first to capture my attention away from MaryAlice, not the first man to hold my interest. Not by a long shot. But you were the first to invade the thatch cottage. At first it was just little thoughts as I sat on the sofa watching the news, I’d think of some question to ask you, some comment that might make you smile. And then there was the moment in bed, with MaryAlice pressed tight to me, and I was--well, I had to think of you, is what happened. I’ve never had that problem with her before. It was always just her and me in that room. But then, all of sudden I was flagging, and longing for you.
And then, of course, you actually invaded my home. Destroyed any semblance of peace that place offered. Tore my home asunder and cast me adrift in this world with nowhere to go and no one to anchor me. Leaving me here, in this bar, in this city, with only the taste of lemons, a memory to haunt the rest of my days.
Fuck you, Arthur. Just, fuck you.
*letter burnt right then and there at the table
In Paris, written at his desk in the warehouse,
Specificity?! Specificity?! What crawled up your arse and died? Fuck you, Arthur, fuck you. You deserve to die alone in a ditch and eaten by feral cats before your body is found. This is Inception, you pompous wanker, not some heist of the crown jewels you’re planning. As the only one in the room who has even attempted this, I think you should give me a little more credit, you arogant arsehole. I can see you looking at me, and the only reason I am still sitting here writing is because I want you to think I am busy working, instead of fuming at the utter outragousness that is you! You think you know everything! You always do the right thing, don’t you! Well, news flash, you shit on a toilet just like everyone else does, pull your pants on one leg at a time. And you can go fuck yourself.
*Note left on his desk and later thrown away with empty take-away containers.
In Paris still, alone in the warehouse,
A girlfriend?!
I can’t even imagine.
I was quite angry, I can recognize that now.
It seems ridiculous that I would be angry. Also that you would have a girlfriend. But--
No, no buts, it’s just ridiculous. You, Arthur, are not made for the female form. You are made for no holds barred, rough biting,---
no that’s wrong too.
I can admit it here, this is a safe space. You will never read this letter. In fact, I think I am going to burn it just as soon as I am finished writing. These secrets are too risky.
Let me start again.
Arthur, Darling Arthur,
I love you. I thought two years apart would change that, convinced myself that you were nothing more than a pompous arsehole with unreachable expectations of a man. You push and you push and you push without even knowing you're doing it. I used to find that behavior annoying, your constant need for specifics and details and perfection--I tried to find it annoying now.
But I can’t.
I know now that all those tiny challenges, those moments of doubt and uncertainty pushed me far more than I have ever been able to push myself. You force me to be better. I think if you had been on the job in Chennai, the Inception would have been a success.
All that pushing makes me want to push you back, to drag you out to the bars, to art museums, into hotel rooms, to expand your horizons just as you expand mine. I think that’s what love is, the urge to make someone else’s life better. And I know your life is better when I push you, just as mine is better.
I had forgotten those feelings, forgotten the power of them, the way they burn through my body and set my skin alight. They're hard to keep under control, and I am starting to forget why I should even try.
I’m not sorry about what happened between us. I regret that you and MaryAlice and--I regret that people were hurt, innocent people. And I shouldn’t have let you find out about her that way. But I thought you knew, the way you research everything and everyone, I was so certain you knew. And I was afraid I would have to give you up.
I tried, once. That long stretch that first year. I don’t know if you know, but I kept careful track of you, refused jobs you might have been on, stayed home more often. I tried to make it work with MaryAlice, I really did. But I could only think of you and of the way I was failing everyone around me. Maybe I should have realized then, that I was so deeply in love with you that escape was impossible. But I’d only felt that way once before, and it was such a complete failure.
See Arthur, it isn’t that I want to shove you up against bathroom walls and to the floor of my hotel room or against your desk. Although I do, I very, very much do want to do those things. I just, I also want to spend hours kissing every place on your body. I want to know if the backs of your knees are ticklish, if I can get you to squirm just by rubbing my cheek against your inner thigh. I want to know if it’s possible to get tired of watching your expression as you come. I want to know what you eat for breakfast and your favorite coffee brand. What is your favorite restaurant and what do you do with your time when you aren’t working?
I want to tell you my secrets, Arthur. I want to take off my mask and let you see me for who I am, because, and isn’t this just terrifying, you might be the only one who could look, unflinchingly at the truth. Even if you can’t love me.
And that’s terrifying too. That I can’t seem to charm you like the others. It isn’t that I couldn’t, I possess the skills. I could make you fall in love with the idea of me. But there is something that stops me, that keeps our relationship more honest. I don’t know if you know that. But, you’re the only one in the room I am not trying to impress. Are you impressed?
This is me, all laid out bare for you to see, and only you Arthur.
*Letter burned while sitting at his desk in the warehouse while Arthur has gone to London for the weekend on a visit.
Still in Paris, in his hotel room several days later, seated at the desk and staring at the bed,
Darling,
I hope you don’t mind, but I couldn’t sleep. Now that I have you in my bed, it’s too important not to waste a single moment. So, I’m sitting in the chair watching you. I picked up this paper just to have something in my hands in case you wake up and think I am being an absolute creep. Which, in all fairness, I absolutely am.
I am sorry you are hurting. I meant what I said, that I know what it’s like to want to protect people. It’s the most difficult thing I have ever done, to walk away from them. But MaryAlice deserved so much better. Sure, I could offer her all the money she could dream of, but I couldn’t be the husband she deserved. I still send her money, you know.
And I have an Ashleigh of my own, I suppose you know. She’s beautiful. I wish I could tell you about her, about her hobbies and interests, whether she likes boys or girls or both, what she wants to be when she’s all grown. I wish I could tell you anything more than that she has her mother’s hair and, strangely, your eyes. I don’t know if she’s had her first kiss yet, she’s getting to be that age though. And I don’t know her friends. I don’t even know what her room looks like now, or if she likes to read or draw or if she’s a good student.
You see, I’m a terrible father. I always have been. When she was an infant, I ran away to Dream Sharing because I didn’t know what to do when she cried. I thought, I thought that if I could make a lot of money, then she could have all the dresses and toys she wanted. That she could live in a beautiful house in a good neighborhood and go to an excellent school. That if I just made enough money I could give her everything she wanted.
And now I don’t know my own daughter.
When I think about my childhood, I think maybe she’s better off for it. She deserves the world after all, and what kind of father could I possibly have been with the father I’d had?
Surely nothing good.
I remember being a young boy, maybe seven or eight, young enough that I still thought my father had hung the moon, old enough to remember this moment clearly. I was sitting at the kitchen table doing only god-knows-what, and he came in with a bag of lemons. He got out a knife and began to slice one. He said, and I remember so clearly what he said, “Son, life is going to hand you shite lemons, so you’d better learn to like them.” I thought it strange, because isn’t the saying, when life hands you lemons, make lemonade? From then on, he’d come home every so often with a bag of lemons and make me eat them, sometimes with salt. I hated it, began to dread the sound of his feet in the kitchen. It was awful.
But, I think I understand now, a little bit, what he meant. I don’t know what is going to happen when you wake up. Will you be business as usual? Will you look at me with bedhead and invite me back between the sheets? What will happen tomorrow? This moment is sweet and sour and sweeter for the sour, and if this moment is all I can have with you, then it’s going to have to be enough. I’m going to have to like it because I got to spend it with you.
You and Ashleigh, you remind me of the taste of lemons, a burst of something clear and cutting that forces everything else away, that stands in sharp relief to the rest of the world and makes me all the better.
You’re starting to wake now, and I don’t think I can quite bear to see what you will do.
*Letter read by Arthur after waking to hear Eames in the shower. It was haphazardly hidden under the remains of room service.
**Later, after Arthur was gone, Eames burned the letter none the wiser.
In Chicago, in the flat Eames now shares with Arthur…
Ashleigh,
I want to apologize for our fight. And to explain myself. As Arthur has pointed out on more than a few occasions, I am not always very good at sharing, so I am writing this letter. It’s a habit I picked up around your age...and that has absolutely nothing to do with why I am writing.
Let me try again.
I am sorry we fought. I know that Arthur is worried about you taking a gap year in India, and I also know that he would never, in a million years, let you know. I know, too, that he was worried about me taking this last job. And he would absolutely kill me if I told you about it, so don’t bother asking. It put a bit of a strain on things between us.
So, when I returned to the flat last night, after an eighteen hour flight, I was so utterly grateful to see him, and so utterly enraged to see him on the sofa, hands clenched in his trousers trying to keep himself seated, I knew that he was trying so very hard not to tell you to not follow that boy to Chennai. It doesn’t excuse my behavior.
You are right; I am not your father.
I am sorry about that.
When I look back on my life, I regret that I couldn’t be the father you deserved. I know, you may have blamed Arthur for your mother and I getting divorced, but I was well on my way to causing that, no help needed from Arthur. The truth is, I had one foot out the door long before Arthur was ever in the picture.
And you were the only thing keeping my other foot solidly in that house.
Don’t get my wrong, I loved MaryAlice, and I know my behavior towards her was inexcusable. But I’ve never felt the way I feel about you towards another living thing, and it was absolutely terrifying. I knew that then just as I know it now. It's a feeling I hope you never experience.
I suppose that is just a long way of saying what happened was inevitable.
I suppose if I were a better person, I would regret what happened, but no matter how I try (and I don’t try that hard, in all honesty), I can’t. Without Arthur, I would run away from you as far and as fast as possible. But with Arthur, I have the opportunity to see how wonderful you have grown up to be.
I see so much of your mother in you.
But I also see so much of Arthur.
It’s there in the way you make plans and the way you argue. Such a precision of language and fine attention to detail. I can see all of that reflected in your art, and I can’t wait to see what you do during your gap year.
I know it’s going to be brilliant, and you are going to learn so much. And you mustn’t let Arthur, or me, scare you off.
I don’t know how to support you in this endeavor. Arthur tells me offering to pay for everything is not what you want, and I know you don’t want to hear my advice on dealing with the locals. In truth, it’s probably better that way, for you to make your own way through the world.
Arthur just wants to make it easier for you. He just wants to make sure that nothing bad ever happens. Just like your mother.
So, I’m not going to tell you to call them more often (although, I know they would appreciate it), and I’m not going to tell you to boil your water (you’re intelligent, you’ll figure it out). I’m not even going to tell you to be patient with Arthur, because I know how infuriating he can be. You’ve got all those brains, you don’t need me to tell you anything.
I’m sorry we fought. I am sorry I hurt you and that I hurt Arthur.
I am so glad to have both of you, even just a little bit.
*Letter slipped into Ashleigh’s carryon luggage.