Chapter Text
When Eames sets his foot into the shrink’s office he is still fuming with fury after having received referral for psychological evaluation two days ago from his boss. The whole matter is simply ridiculous, really, but - by the silent agreement - no one before won against labour laws in this ‘land of freedom and endless possibilities’ it seems. Eames would gladly have a few words with people who spread such bollocks about America on their bloody fliers handled to you on the streets and airports by the outstretched hands of smiling arseholes.
Nevertheless he smiles at the petite brunette sitting behind the reception desk. “I have an appointment at 8.30 with –“
“Oh yes. Mr Eames, right?”
“Yeah,” he breathes, feeling a little bit sheepish.
“You’re a little bit early. Please sit down in our waiting room and the doctor will attend to you as soon as the present session ends.” Her voice is very pleasant but way more richer and lower than her physique would indicate, but who is Eames to know about those things anyway.
“Yes. Thank you,” he answers politely and turns towards the row of comfortable looking armchairs. The coffee table in front of him is covered in magazines, sorted into neat piles categorized by their themes, as it seems. He takes a look at some of them – National Geographic, Boat Journal, Monthly Psychological Journal and Natural Medicine – chooses National Geographic and starts thumbing its pages, insistently trying to ignore how much his hands sweat and tremble. It’s just a routine procedure required by the law; his boss must have sent him to do it, it’s normal, it’s nothing wrong with him, it’s just one more piece of paper in his work file.
When he loses a fruitless battle with his anxious brain he gives up on the reading and smirking puts the magazine into the Monthly Psychological Journal pile and looks around. Nice petite brunette still types something on her computer, the sound of fast clicking filling the whole, rather empty hall.
The building where the office is located is a bit unusual, stands out like a sore thumb from the generic houses in the quiet family neighbourhood, but in a good way – tall, modern with a heavy massive oak door and neatly kept front lawn. Everything about this place so far is neat; it’s the first word that comes to Eames’ mind when thinking about the office itself too. Dimmed lights and victorian décor put Eames at ease, making him feel almost cozy. ‘Nice psychological trick’ he laughs to himself, because seriously, this shrink guy must know his work. Perhaps he must be aged then, too. Well, no – experienced, is what you call it nowadays to not sound too rude. Not that it matters in any way – Eames is here only because he has to, these are the procedures and in about an hour he’ll walk out of here and will proceed with his life like all of this was just an unpleasant dream, hopefully the last one of many he’s had recently.
He’s jostled from his thoughts by the door opening and soon a very short man walks out of the office saying, “Thank you doctor. I hope things will progress better from now on.”
“Very possible. Make sure to follow my instructions.” Eames was almost shocked hearing the doctor’s voice – surprisingly deep and low and young, strong. He has his back to Eames, but it’s already easy to say that he’s nothing like Eames expected: short, fat and with greasy gray hair.
“Oh, I will. Thank you once again.” They shake hands vigorously.
“For nothing. Ariadne has already signed you up for an appointment next week. Drive safe.”
Eames watches as the doctor checks his watch and turns around to face him, asking with a smile , “Mr. Eames. Am I right?”
Eames just blinks while three thoughts are crossing his mind in a matter of four seconds: it’s exactly 8.30, bloody hell he’s young (is he really qualified or still a student?) and is he talking to me at the moment? He recovers quickly enough though and strides to the doctor offering his hand. “Yes, you’re right and Eames is just fine. Doctor Arthur Lecter as I presume?”
“Yes. That's correct. I’ve been expecting you. Please, come in.” He ushers Eames inside and Eames could swear that he saw the doctor checking him out and smirking. The door to the office closed after them with a prominent sound of finality.
Doctor Lecter leads him to the two comfortable looking armchairs facing each other in front of a big, very old-school looking, colonial style mahogany desk. Sitting down, Eames takes a quick look around. The office is not what Eames would imagine when thinking about the psychiatrist office. Instead of white walls with dull medical posters, the colors on the walls are dark green and gold with paintings framed in thick gold frames, all this accented by the warm light of the setting sun coming from a wide floor-to-ceiling window, the dark grey curtains on every side. No trace of cheap plastic furniture and doctor’s couch either, only wooden floor and open space dotted with sculptures and a few lone wooden cabinets.
What really stands out in this place for Eames though is a fireplace tucked neatly on the side of the desk and spiral staircase leading to an entresol above the fireplace where rows of bookcases filled to the brim with books stand. Eames can’t help but sigh when his eyes land on this sight, it’s really marvelous. Instantaneously he wonders if all these books are of psychological or medicine matter only.
“So…” The doctor’s deep voice breaks him from his little bubble to the earth, his eyes snapping down to the person sitting currently in front of him smirking like he sees something particularly amusing and Eames blushes, because he doesn’t know how long he’s been out, just gaping with open mouth and dreamy eyes; it feels like a solid hour has passed, but it were probably just seconds. Three minutes at most. He hopes he wasn’t drooling. He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand just in case.
“So…” Eames mimics back, giving his best sheepish smile, that had saved him from the deepest shit many times before, hoping it will help to break the ice, but other words die in his throat when he fully takes in this Doctor he’s facing. To tell the truth, he’s bloody gorgeous with his dark brown eyes and almost black hair slicked to the back. This, plus adding his outfit – charcoal three piece suit, tailored like a glove with a pumpkin orange tie, very classy and very not like Eames has expected – he’s probably aiming to look older, though his baby face is quite lovely. Judging from the way he’s holding himself so far – short efficient movements, precise wording and sitting with his leg crossed, shoulders straight, confident and at ease - Eames has no doubt that Doctor Arthur is a very capable man. All his gorgeousness and youthfulness aside.
“You’ve been sent to me for your psychological evaluation, I’ve been told. I already familiarized myself with your case.”
“With… my case? Am I a case now?” This is already not going how it’s supposed to.
“Yes. Every patient is a case. Every person who comes to me is a patient.”
“Well. I’ve been told that my evaluation is a routine procedure I must take to be permitted to go back to work.” He’s starting to feel a little bit defensive, because what the hell?
“That’s correct. I don’t see anything routine about your case so far though.”
Eames just blinks.
“What do you see instead then?”
“I’ve been approached by an old acquaintance of mine, who asked me to meet with you and help you deal with some issues that you have. After I will be able to evaluate your psychological state.”
“Who?” Eames growls feeling betrayed suddenly. “Who approached you on my behalf?”
Doctor Lecter visibly hesitates, but seems to make his mind up when he answers, “Dominic Cobb.”
“Of bloody course!” Eames snaps angrily. Yes, fucking Cobb would do that. “Fucking wanker,” he mumbles under his nose.
“I think he’s worried about you.”
“Yeah, worried my ass. I know him. He’s always doing everything for his own benefit only.”
“I don’t think that’s right.” The way the Doctor said it, with such conviction and finality, tells Eames that this is not a thing to argue. He decides to drop it. Shouldn’t Doctor Lecter be a more suitable person to know such things, with being a better judge of the character plus Cobb’s acquaintance anyway? Something tells Eames, that he might not be as good as he thinks he is if he’s fooled by Cobb’s charms.
“And how do you even know Cobb? I haven’t seen him interact with many civilized people thus far.” He hopes his mocking expression conveys what words ever couldn’t.
“I’ve treated his wife for depression.”
Well, that perks Eames’ attention. It is a clear breach in protocol. Eames is still curious to see how far this goes, nonetheless. “Oh yeah? And how has that went?” He’s smirking. He just can’t help himself, because he knows very well how Cobb’s wife, Mallorie, ended, so to speak. Not so good a therapist this Doctor Lecter is, then.
“She committed suicide,” the answer comes, and it takes Eames a little aback. He wasn’t expecting the straightforward truth. It’s not a common occurrence to brag about failures among any medical representative, if any is willing to talk about his patients with his other patients in the first place. Perhaps this Lecter guy here has his work ethic a little askew? Very interesting.
Eames sends a challenging smile as an answer to Doctor Arthur’s tight expression. “Yes. So I’ve heard,” and then he adds after a beat, “Let’s hope that my prognosis is a bit more optimistic here,” just to ruffle some feathers.
The look his companion sends him chills Eames to the bone marrow and he feels his smile dying on his face. Searing gaze meets his, searching, penetrating, the big wheels turning behind those brown eyes for sure, deciding, probably even assessing, like turning Eames’ person inside-out and making a decision about his fate, before landing on a challenging glint. It’s scary and fascinating at the same time. Eames vaguely wonders if he didn’t overstep here a little. He probably shouldn’t have had almost made fun of Mal’s death and that Arthur here hadn’t been able to help her. Eames and his bloody tongue. Always faster than his brain.
Thrown under such scrutiny he starts fidgeting with the straps of his bag until Arthur decides he drew enough conclusions about him and that he has a whole detailed plan of how to destroy Eames and to make sure he never will be able to go back to work again and speaks, “Yes. Let’s hope it is.” He’s smirking again, the bastard.
“Tell me what happened two months ago.” Arthur’s voice, so cool and professional, makes Eames shudder, for the reasons he is not able to dwell on right now, or simply refuses to do so, because it could only lead to one of two things: fear or arousal.
He snorts crossing his arms over his chest. “Like you don’t know already. I’m sure Cobb introduced you to my ‘case’ . He has a big mouth.” He’s absolutely not sulking.
“He did, yes, he told me what happened from his side, plus I did my own research on you. Now I would like to know at first-hand about that night and its repercussions,” Doctor explains patiently with an even voice like talking to a spooked horse. ‘Shrink’s voice’ , Eames’ mind supplies.
“Oh please, amuse me. What have you heard so far?” He’s not sure the Doctor will tell him anything, even if his approach to the matter of confidentiality so far is a bit vogue.
“Cobb only told me you’re a very successful and established cage MMA fighter, that five months ago, during your latest fight you beat your opponent to death,” the Doctor recited from memory.
Oh, that’s enough. Now Eames gets angry for real. He points accusingly at this cheeky doctor with his finger. “That’s bollocks. I fought honestly and by the rules.”
Getting more and more angry at the memory, he continues “We were at it for three rounds and he wasn’t fine from the start. I said so to my coach, who told it to Cobb, but they did nothing. This guy was swaying on his feet and wasn’t focused, his gaze was absent. I immediately assumed he was high as a kite, which goes against the rules, but cancelling the fight wasn’t even an option for me, nor was for Cobb. He would lose too much money.” He almost spat the last words with disgust.
“At the time, he was going desperate,” he continued, willing himself to calm down, “money's tight since the death of his wife. Everyone knows Mal was doing logistics and books while he was responsible for people. He knows shite about running a business and it showed.”
With arms crossed over his chest and breathing fast and deep through his nose he feels something akin to relief. It’s probably the first time he ever said any of it aloud. Such a simple thing as listening never crossed anyone's mind from his circle before; his mates and colleagues aren’t the ‘let’s sit and talk this through’ type of lads – they’re dealing with matters with low grunts of acknowledgement and shoulder slapping in a seemingly supportive manner. This is a man's world, full of testosterone. The world of which Eames is a part of, though he likes to think about it as some form of acting.
Doctor Lecter is listening attentively, his face emotionless, straight even at the mentions of Cobb’s wife. When he speaks his voice is hoarse. “What happened next? How your opponent lost?”
Eames thinks about lying, saying he got seizures or something like that, but Arthur probably already knows the end result. Besides, he’s not seeking an absolution from a third party here - he’s not at church but on a therapy session to help him work it through and maybe, maybe he would be able to finally forgive himself.
“The fight continued, although it wasn’t hard to throw punch after punch until after one particularly hard blow he fell to the ground and never stood again.” He exhales loudly. “When the ambulance came the doctor declared him dead. Later announced the cause of death had something to do with subdural hematoma he wasn’t aware he’d had. The drugs and the punching only helped it to crack. And puff, dead in a second.”
“You’re blaming yourself for this accident?”
“I do believe I caused it, yeah. He’d had a shit show under his skull, but if I only would have listened to my guts and maybe been more assertive about fighting him, things would go differently. At least to my conscience.” When he looks up from the floor at the Doctor, he’s met with suddenly vivid brown eyes, sparkling and empathetic.
Eames loses himself to the Doctor’s stare and almost misses what Arthur is saying when he answers quietly, “You couldn’t have had prevented his death. Some things are beyond your control.”
“Like Mal was beyond yours?” Eames asks whispering, trying to sound comprehensive.
At that, the Doctor turns his head to the side, narrowing his eyes at the window. Eames notes how his left hand resting upon the armrest balls into a fist.
“The only problem is, I do love to have control,” he says with a voice so tight that Eames barely restrains himself to not to reach across and pet him.
“I don’t,” he confesses instead.
This is really stupid. No one needs to know that he doesn’t feel so manly inside, that all his life he tried desperately to fit in, wanted to be one of the boys doing so much stupid things because of it. His sexuality wasn’t helping either, so he bulked up, started associating himself with some local London thugs, then got involved in pick pocketing, art and cars theft, until finally into street fighting. He was surprisingly good at it, and so it stuck to him.
This is how he met Mal, at some hole in the wall bar. After his winning fight she came to him and asked if he wanted to be a professional fighter in America. He almost puked from the intensity of his laughter that her proposition caused, but long story short he ended up moving to The States and being one of the best, most accomplished cage fighters of present times.
Doctor Lecter simply looks at him with squinted eyes, assessing. Eames rubs his sweaty palm over the material of his chinos and fidgets. The air is suddenly impossibly thick as his companion only stares him down and it makes Eames anxious to the point he thinks he has to get himself out of this situation, so he blurts, “Look, I don’t know what you think you know about me, but I assure you I’m fine. I need this paper from you –“
“Troubles with sleeping, cold sweat, losing consciousness for longer periods of time, constant feeling of anxiety, difficulties with focusing on a singular activity,” the doctor’s voice, icy voice, cuts in. “Does it sound familiar?”
“How,” Eames swallows and tries again, “How could you possibly –“
“Know your symptoms?” doctor Lecter interrupts him again. “I know a lot of things about you, though these are typical tale tells of your trauma.” He sounds smug saying this. Eames wants to shove his words back into his cupid’s bow lips just to be contrary.
Maybe, if he tries again to reason with Arthur he’ll get the idea and give Eames his evaluation so Eames can be on his way. “Again, your assumptions are fascinating –“
“Even though you’ve never set a foot into any University,” doctor cuts in again and Eames huffs irritated, “you forged your major art history degree almost flawlessly. I am impressed.”
Eames gapes, taken aback. How could he possibly know that, if no one besides Eames himself has this knowledge. His anger builds at rapid pace, even quicker when doctor Lecter speaks again.
“Shame that you didn’t use your full real name though, Theodor Eames Thompson-Wright III.”
This is too much. “What the buggering fuck, mate?” he shouts, almost knocking back the armchair when he gets to his feet. “You don’t have any idea what you’re talking about now, doc,” he sneers, looming over Arthur, casting shadow on him with his bulk.
The Doctor stands as well, apparently not even a little scared and when he meets Eames’ eyes with his level stare he says simply, “I disagree,” and raises his brow challengingly.
Eames squeezes his eyes shut tightly and wills himself not to lose it, not to just pounce on him and knock the breath out of him, his nails bite viciously into his fisted palms.
Opening his eyes to send this prick a threatening look he points his finger at Arthur, his voice low and hard, “Don’t psychoanalyze me. You won’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed.” After a bit of loaded silence he adds with malice, “You and Cobb can take this evaluation and shove it in your arses. I’m done.”
He turns on his heels and strides out of the office. He doesn’t bother to close the door behind him just like Arthur doesn’t bother to stop him. He barely remembers walking out of the building. Nice short brunette only turned her head after his retreating back with mild curiosity.
-
That same evening Eames leaves Cobb a very angry voice message telling him exactly what he thinks about his methods and his stupid idea of sending him to Doctor Lecter.
The next day he receives back a short voice message, “He’s good at what he does.”
‘Oh, he’s the best,’ Eames barks angrily under his nose. Who does Cobb think he is? And silly of him to think so after what Lecter did with his wife. Or rather what he didn’t do. Anyway, Eames won’t be another soul thrown to the sharks.
He stays inside of his house for the rest of the week, he’s that put out and angry.
-
Of course Eames’s curiosity gets better of him. After the first week of stubborn sulking he’s finally sitting down in front of his laptop googling doctor Lecter. Common search gives him nothing interesting besides dates of his dissertation, faculties and titles of his articles and publications, his specialty being serial killers. He learns though that Arthur worked as an FBI profiler and even has some success in this regard such as helping with catching the Minnesota Shrike and tracking down the Chesapeake Ripper, just to name a few most famous cases.
Eames goes on, checking a couple of psychological sites until he comes across some juicy stories regarding the last case Arthur worked on, of some guy named Francis Dolarhyde, also known as The Tooth Fairy. If to believe the rumors this killer caught up with the FBI’s lead and ambushed Lecter in his office slashing his abdomen with a hunting knife. He spent months recovering in a hospital and then had been referred to the psychiatric ward of the local mental hospital due to the profound disturbance the incident caused. After a month in the latter hospital, he retired from the FBI. Count Eames shocked about all of this.
Despite not being the best hacker Eames is able to break into the mental hospital’s database and reads notes of Arthur’s former psychiatrist and still therapist, some doctor Bloom, and realizes that Mal died three weeks after Arthur was released from the psychiatric ward, which means she must have been getting worse at the same time Arthur was working with FBI on Dolarhyde’s case. It’s very probable that it was simply too late for Arthur to help her when he was finally able to. It’s even more probable that Eames is simply a tremendous arsehole.
-
The lights in the hall are almost completely out when Eames walks in. It’s already too late for visits, just as he hoped, he wanted to make sure he could catch doctor Lecter alone. If he walked upon someone still there he would probably chicken out. The receptionist, Ariadne as Arthur referred to her the last time, isn’t there, most probably left work for the day. He knocks at the door to Lecter’s office and steps back, not wanting to scare the doctor.
Arthur is visibly very surprised when he opens the door and sees Eames standing in the darkened hall with his coat hung over his arm.
“Mr. Eames? What a surprise. What can I do for you?”
Eames clears his throat before saying, “I’m so sorry I came this late. I hope I’m not bothering you. Can I come in?”
Doctor stands aside in silent invitation. “Never apologize for coming to me,” he says, closing the door. “I wasn’t sure you would come back, judging from how you all but stormed out from here the last time.”
Eames drops his coat onto the armchair and walks slowly towards the staircase leading to the entresol. “I wasn’t intending to come back,” Eames admits, distracted by the sight of all these books.
“What made you reconsider?”
“Let’s say new circumstances came up to the daylight. I also wanted to apologize for my behavior at the last session,” Eames says and glances behind his back at Arthur before continuing with ogling the books.
“Apologies accepted,” the doctor answers softly.
Eames can feel the hair on his neck stand on end and his hand stops in its attempts to reach for a book placed on the lower shelf when he feels Dr. Lecter leaning to him, his nose a breath away from the skin of his neck and his shoulder. He shifts minutely his head to the side and the force of realization almost knocks him over, though he schools his face impassive. He has a remarkable poker face when it’s needed.
“Did you just smell me?” Eames asks incredulous and amused at the same time. He can feel more than see, not quick enough to turn in time to catch Arthur straightening himself swiftly, his expression like someone who is caught red-handed but not feeling guilty about it.
“Difficult to avoid,” the doctor says smugly, his lips twitch involuntarily upward and Eames is at a loss for words, because seriously ? Before he’s able to gather his thoughts and open his mouth with some witty retort, ready to tease the Doctor, Arthur is already speaking, “So are you here to resume your therapy?”
Eames just nods.
“Perfect. I suggest we meet three times a week for start and see how it goes.”
Eames wants to protest, he’s not that damaged to require sessions this often, but it’s he who came here after all so maybe he got what he deserves. On the other side, the more often they meet and work through Eames’s problems the sooner Eames would get his evaluation.
“So let’s be it,” he sighs heavily, theatrical.