Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first time Eames met Arthur, he isn’t quite Eames yet, and Arthur definitely isn’t Arthur .

Their world was always a seedy one, but back then the threat of constant death had only begun to graze the darkest parts of each of their minds. They were younger, bolder. Fearless and full of the bravado of youth. 

He notices Arthur immediately. It isn’t attraction, at first — Arthur didn’t quite hit that stride until later in his twenties. Instead, Eames had been a bit flummoxed by Arthur’s presence in this particular venue. He’s gangly and awkward, with too-large ears and a face that would look more at home in the hallways of a high school then…well, here .

An hour later, when Arthur’s face is splattered with blood — not his — and his nimble fingers curve around the trigger guard of a handgun, Eames begins to re-think his initial impressions.

“Bloody brilliant, darling,” he gasps, chest heaving, “Ascher never saw that coming, did he?”

“He wouldn’t,” Arthur — not that Eames knew his name, back then — sounds almost disappointed, finally lowering the gun once he decides Eames doesn’t pose a threat to him, “He underestimated me. Most people do.”

“You sound disappointed.”

The glare shot Eames’s way would bring lesser men to their knees, “I’m not exactly a fan of being thought incapable. Especially in this line of work.”

“You’re young.”

“I’m twenty .”

“That’s young,” Eames says, despite being just barely a half-decade older, “Enlist straight out of school, did you?”

The glare shifts to something more hesitant, a little calculating, “Shipped out two days after graduation.”

Eames does the math in his head, “One of the first recruits, then?”

“Delta Group. Fresh out of boot camp.”

“Impressive,” Eames has heard of Delta Group, of course. All of them have. Of the tests they’d run — most of them successful. But also of the experiments they’d conducted on their own recruits, even worse than the ones on his side of the pond, “All that shit they say true, then?”

“Some of it.”

“How long you been AWOL?”

A slow smirk. Only one member of Delta Group had disappeared, had run off with some very expensive equipment belonging to the U.S. military, had vanished into thin air with a handful of tech and a head full of secrets.

“Four months. Been growing my hair out specifically, what gave it away?”

“You stand like them,” Eames says, nodding at the man’s still-stiffly held shoulders, “All stiff and proper-like. Hard habit to break, I would know. And you don’t exactly strike me as a man used to relaxing.”

There’s a beat of silence, and Eames can almost see the struggle in the other man’s head — to adjust his posture, to prove he gave a shit about Eames’s words, or to stay steadfast. He clears his throat instead, fiddles with the safety of his weapon before shoving it back into the hidden holster beneath his jacket. 

“You should let them, by the way.”

A raised eyebrow.

“Underestimate you,” Eames explains, “It’s not a bad move, at your age. Let them think you can’t handle yourself. Then laugh in their faces when you prove them all wrong.”

“It’s a little difficult to get work if people think I’m worthless.”

“Trust me, darling, nobody who witnessed that little display will think you worthless. Hell, I’ll put in a few good words for you, if you’d like?”

Those dark eyes narrow in suspicion, “Why would you do that?”

“Not quite sure,” Eames admits, tilting his head, “But I’ve got a good read on people. I like you. Eames, by the way.”

“That a first or a last name?”

“Just Eames.”

“Eames, then. Arthur.”

Eames grins, “That a real name?”

“It’s what you can call me.”

“Arthur,” Eames likes the way the name tastes on his tongue, “Yes, darling, I definitely like you.”

.

The first time they really meet, when Eames is really Eames and Arthur has started to become Arthur , the situation is surprisingly less violent. 

Eames has been hired by a man with far too much money to pull a job that, frankly, is a joke. He’s not sure he’d consider it beneath him , yet, even if it’s far too simple for his skill set. He’s bored as all fuck, scoping out the target. Tailing the mark is a slog , and a small part of him wants to say fuck it to the money and bow out right then.

Until the door of the café he’s holed up in swings open, bell dinging. His mark glances up at the sound, and he does a double take. Eames can’t help but follow his gaze, and

“Oh, fuck me ,” he breathes, watching as a familiar figure strolls into the coffee shop. 

Arthur doesn’t look towards the mark, even if Eames knows damn well they’re both here for the same man. He’s focused on the menu board instead, looking every inch like a curious passer-by interested in one of the seasonal lattes. He’s older than Eames remembers, obviously , looking less like a lost teenager and more like — 

— well, fuck . If Eames didn’t know better, he’d peg Arthur as some sort of high-class rentboy. His shorts are sinfully short, the v-neck of his shirt low enough to show off a mostly hairless chest. He’s successfully grown his hair out, now, and it falls in a series of swoops over his forehead. It’s curly . As Eames — and the mark — watch, he sidles up towards the counter, flashing a bright smile to the barista as he places his order. He pays (in cash, smart man) and bites at his lower lip as he watches the drink made. His smile as he takes the finished product is flirtatious. 

Eames shifts in his seat.

Drink in hand, Arthur turns. His eyes skim the room, like he doesn’t already know exactly who he’s looking for. For a fraction of an instant, he looks right at Eames, and Eames is fairly certain he doesn’t imagine the momentary shift in Arthur’s eyes.

But then he’s moving, ambling towards the mark’s table with wide, innocent eyes. He says something, a questioning look towards the empty chair at his table, and the mark nods eagerly.

Eames just sighs, taking a sip of tea from his long-cold mug. He could press this, he knows. He’s good at his job, good at what he does. But he’s done his research. Arthur — or, at least, the Arthur that’s currently present in this café — is exactly the mark’s type. He’s young, and gorgeous, and eager to please, one hand resting lightly on the mark’s arm as he laughs at a joke. 

Rumors of Arthur’s competence have been swirling for a while now. No one seems to know much about him, but the moment Eames first heard the name he’d been sure Arthur was the same man he’d met back then. He’s damn good at his job, bloody terrifying if the rumors are true.

The thing is, Eames is still fairly confident he could regain control of this job, if he really wanted. 

The thing is, Eames isn’t quite sure that’s what he wants.

Watching Arthur flirt is fucking fascinating . He smiles, and he laughs, and he bats his eyelashes. But beneath all that, he calculates . Eames watches the shift in his eyes, the cogs turning in his brain. It’s like watching living goddamn art.

The time ticks by, and Eames ignores the buzzing of the phone in his pocket. That’ll be an ask for updates, he knows, and he can’t be arsed to address them just yet. Not when his mark has lingered in this shop far longer than usual, has guaranteed he’ll be late for his standing afternoon meeting.

Eventually, the mark glances at his watch. His eyes widen, and he looks both panicked and apologetic, scribbles something on a napkin that he shoves Arthur’s way. Arthur blinks at him, pouting, lets his fingers wrap around the man’s hand as he takes the note. The man looks anguished, for a moment, and then Arthur’s saying something that brings a soft smile to his face. He finally leaves, and both Eames and Arthur watch the door closed behind him.

When Arthur turns his way, he looks like a different person entirely. His eyes are sharper, focused. His posture shifts, away from the lazy, devil-may-care slouch he’d adopted and back to his stereotypical drilled formality. He rises from the table, abandoning his mostly-ignored iced latte as he stalks Eames’s way. 

“Going to kill me, darling?” Eames asks, leaning back in his seat, “Can’t imagine that’d go over well here, shall we take it outside?”

“No need,” Arthur says, not bothering to take a seat. Instead, he stands behind the empty chair, hands pressing against the table, “They didn’t tell me someone else was after him.”

“Money makes enemies, I suppose.”

“He your mark?”

Eames scoffs, “Obviously.”

“His brother’s the real mastermind,” Arthur says, “Got way more useful information.”

“So why’re you here, then?”

One side of Arthur’s mouth curls upward, “I took your advice. Let them underestimate me.”

Eames blinks, then leans forward, “Darling, were you here as the distraction ?”

“Played the part pretty well, didn’t I?”

“Disturbingly so. Didn’t take you as the sort to take that plan lying down.”

“Who says I did?” Arthur slips a hand into the back pocket of his jeans, pulling out a slim, fresh-off-the-market phone, one Eames hadn’t even noticed him swipe, “There’s a lot you could get off one of these, right? If you hack into it?”

Eames feels, inexplicably, proud , “I know a guy who could drain your bank accounts within five seconds of unlocking your phone.”

“Hm,” Arthur looks down at him, contemplative, “You know, if he was your mark…you can still do what you’ve been paid to do, can’t you?”

“So long as nobody finds out about your team extracting from his brother, I ‘spose.”

“Which means you could still use information, then?”

“The point, if you don’t mind. I’m a busy man.”

“You need information. I have information. You have a guy. I need a guy,” Arthur shrugs, “Seems we could help each other out.”

“I find it very hard to believe you don’t already have a guy , Arthur.”

Something in Arthur’s eyes shifts at the sound of his own name, “Maybe I don’t like my guy. Could use a new one.”

“What makes you think I’m willing to help you?”

“Well,” Arthur smirks, “Mostly the fact that you’ve been staring at my ass since the moment I walked in here.”

And, well — Eames may be good at his job, but he’s also just a man .

Arthur is a goddamn firecracker in bed. He fucks like he’s trying to prove a point, and Eames almost feel as if he might be shot if he doesn’t prove himself satisfactory. They’ll both be bruised and scratched and scarred after, will both walk out of this room looking more like they’ve been fighting than fucking. 

By the time Eames rolls over, he feels like he’s just spent half a day in the gym.

“Give me the phone,” he slurs, “I’ll get you whatever you want.”

Beside him, Arthur chuckles. There’s a soft shnick , and the familiar scent of burning tobacco. Eames glances over, watching as Arthur takes a long pull from a just-lit cigarette. He hands it over without a glance, and Eames takes it.

“I pulled what I needed back in the café,” Arthur says, “Left it on the table when we left. He’ll have noticed it missing within minutes.”

Eames watches the smoke curl from between his lips as it spirals upward, dissipates before it hits the ceiling.

“Right,” he says, “So this — ”

“I wanted to,” Arthur steals the cigarette back. Eames really shouldn’t feel a shock of arousal at the act. He’s just had his cock up Arthur’s ass, for christ’s sake, how is watching Arthur’s lips purse around the cigarette Eames had just touched what gets him?

“You wanted to.”

Arthur’s head lists to the side. His hair is mussed around his face, and he’s still sex-limp and relaxed.

“I’m a little surprised you went with it,” he says, eyes raking over the marks he’s left down Eames’s chest, “ You’re the one who gave me that lecture on being underestimated.”

“Let me be perfectly clear, darling,” Eames rolls onto one side, props himself up on one forearm, “I would absolutely never underestimate you. I find you — well, if we’re being honest I’m not entirely sure there’s a word for how I find you.”

“Intimidating is what I’m aiming for,” Arthur offers helpfully, “Terrifying. Menacing. I’d settle for unnerving.”

He takes another drag from the cigarette, and Eames can’t help but stare at the movements of his mouth.

“Well,” he says, finally, “I best not get on your bad side, then.”

.

The next time they meet, Eames narrowly avoids killing Arthur.

It’s an accident, he swears. 

“ Fuck you,” Arthur hisses, even as Eames takes as much weight as Arthur will allow, “You fucking asshole , I’ll kill you.”

“Didn’t know it was you , darling, did I?” Eames retorts, careful to keep any pressure off Arthur’s left leg as he maneuvers them into one of his many safehouses, “You’re just lucky I wasn’t actually aiming.”

Had Eames actually wanted to kill him, Arthur would be dead now. Or at least bleeding out. Instead, Eames had shot blindly over one shoulder, had shattered the ancient stone steps beneath Arthur’s feet and sent him tumbling down ten feet, landing in a way that made his knee go wonky.

Eames had hesitated only a moment before jogging to his aid.

“Just here,” he promises, digging into his pocket for his keys. The door sticks, still, and he slams a shoulder into it, pulling Arthur safely inside. The other man collapses the moment he’s past the entryway, sliding down the wall with a pained groan.

“There’s a sofa,” Eames offers, gesturing, “A chair. A bed, even.”

“If I move right now I’ll throw up,” Arthur grits out, eyes shut tight, “Could you — water?”

Eames bustles into the kitchen. The flat isn’t the most well-stocked, but he digs out a glass and fills it from the tap. There’s some ice in the freezer, too; he grabs a handful with a dish towel, wrapping it up best he can before heading back to Arthur.

He does look worryingly pale, head thrown back against the wall as he takes deep, gulping breaths. Eames presses the ice to his injured knee, and Arthur hisses.

“I hate you,” he says, and Eames can’t quite blame him.

“If I’d known it was you, I wouldn’t have pulled the trigger,” he says, “Drink this.”

Despite hating him, Arthur sips from the glass Eames presses to his lips. It seems to help, a bit, and his eyes crack open.

“You’re an asshole,” Arthur says, and Eames just nods.

“A bit, yeah. Sip.”

Arthur obliges him once more. 

“Let me know when you can move without being sick, darling. You’ll be much more comfortable on a bed, and I’d very much like to get a better look at that knee.”

Arthur looks a bit like he might swear again. He takes another deep breath, and his fists clench at his sides.

“I can’t really stand right now,” he finally admits, “My knee was shit already. Couldn’t risk a hospital stay the first time, and it healed wrong.”

“Alright,” Eames nods, “Alright. I’m going to offer something. You’re going to hate it. I’m going to do my best to convince you it’s a favor to me , somehow. You’ll eventually agree. So how ‘bout we skip all that middle part, yeah?”

Arthur’s death glare is a bit less powerful when he’s crumpled on Eames’s floor, “You are not carrying me to the bedroom.”

“Because the floor is more comfortable, yeah? You’d rather suffer for a bit first?”

Arthur says nothing, at first. He lets Eames feed him another long sip of water, takes another few deep breaths.

“We’re never speaking of this again,” he finally says, “I’m claiming temporary insanity.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, darling.”

It takes a bit of self-control to not crack a joke, to be perfectly honest. Arthur stiffens up as Eames gathers him up in his arms, looking both humiliated and furious about this situation. He lets one hand drop to Eames’s shoulder, but the other stays firmly on his knee, holding the ice pack in place. 

“‘s not the nicest place,” Eames tells him, mostly to fill the silence, “Mattress is a bit shit, to be honest. But we’ll get a pillow under that leg of yours, and I’ll get a better look. Fairly certain I’ve got a brace in my emergency kit.”

“You a medic all of a sudden?” Arthur asks, as he’s set gently on the bed. He winces when he moves his leg, but he’s regained at least some color in his face.

“Trained enough,” Eames says, “So long as it’s not broken, I can manage.”

It’s not broken, as it turns out. Arthur chokes on a whine when Eames presses his fingers into the bruised skin, but it’s not broken . He does his best to get Arthur out of his trousers without much fuss, very deliberately avoids looking at Arthur’s now-exposed thighs as he fits a brace around his knee, elevating it with an extra pillow.

“Thanks,” Arthur mutters, “For…for stopping, I guess.”

“Can’t have you dying,” Eames tells him, “You’re the kind of man who makes this work exciting.”

Arthur smiles. He looks young, almost like the first time all over, “Because you like me, hm?”

“It’s a very confusing feeling,” Eames tells him, “Especially since you’re so irritating.”

He can’t quite decipher the look Arthur gives him. He’s got that now-familiar calculating look, like he’s measuring Eames up. Like he’s deciphering his words, determining whether or not he believes him.

“You don’t happen to have any painkillers, do you?”

“You’d trust me, having you high and vulnerable?”

“Promise not to take advantage of me and once I can kneel again I’ll suck your dick so hard you see god.”

Eames chokes , “I — jesus , Arthur.”

“I’m a man of my word, you know.”

“I’m sure you are,” Eames says, rising to his feet, “And as un bearably tempting as that is, darling, I promise to provide drugs without holding you to the promise of a blowie.”

“If you insist,” Arthur leans back against the pillows, “You’ll regret it. I’m very good.”

“Right. Paracetamol good enough? Not sure I have anything stronger lying about.”

“It’ll do,” Arthur says, “Just need to sleep for a few hours. Then I’ll be out of your hair.”

Eames, oddly, isn’t quite sure how he feels about Arthur being out of his hair . Despite it all, he patters to the kitchen, scrounges around in a cabinet until he scrounges up a not-quite-expired bottle of painkillers. He refills Arthur’s water glass, pads back into the bedroom to find a very sleepy-looking Arthur waiting for him.

“Thanks,” Arthur says, dutifully swallowing the offered pills, “This is a hell of a lot better than trying to pull myself together in that fucking alley.”

“Kinda owed you, didn’t I? Being the one who shot at you and all.”

“Most people who shoot me don’t stop to help,” Arthur says, gesturing vaguely downwards, “Or did you not see the scars?”

“I’m a gentleman,” Eames says, even as his eyes follow Arthur’s motion, “I would never look at a half-naked invalid.”

Arthur scoffs. There are scars, Eames can see now, marking Arthur’s pale skin. He tries not to think too hard about the angriest one, a bullseye in the center of one kneecap. This latest injury might not scar at all, if Arthur’s lucky — there’ll be some nasty bruising in the morning, but hopefully nothing permanent. 

“I like you too, for the record,” Arthur says, his voice half-slurred. It can’t be the pain medication just yet, but Eames knows how quickly pain can go to a man’s head, “It’s infuriating.”

“I won’t hold it against you.”

Arthur smiles, softly, and Eames stares as his eyes drift shut. He looks oddly at ease, curled up in Eames’s bed. It’s rather off-putting.

Rather than linger too long, staring, Eames bustles about the flat. There’s absolutely not a crumb to eat aside from a sad can of tomato soup, and he makes a mental note to run to the shops later. He dusts a bit, cracks a window in the living room to let in some fresh air, and eventually brings a blanket to the sofa around nine. Despite Arthur’s very tempting offer, he won’t press his luck joining him in bed.

When he wakes, the sun has only just begin to peek through the windows. He sits up, stretches. 

The bedroom is empty, when he peeks his head in. He’s not entirely surprised, to be honest. If it were him, he wouldn’t have stuck around either. 

He is a bit surprised by the note he finds left in the middle of the pillow, scrawled on the back of a crumpled Tesco’s receipt.

I owe you 1 blowjob.

Eames chuckles, picking it up in his hand, then laughs, full-bellied and loud.

The little shit.

.

The first time they’re hired for a job together, Eames almost turns it down.

“I’m fresh off a gig in Jakarta, Lizbet,” he bitches, “I’m literally walking into my flat now . Besides, you know how I feel about Belgrade. The Serbians have it out for me.”

“It’ll be quick!” Lizbet promises, “In and out, I swear. We’ve already done most of the legwork, anyway. Arthur’s been scoping the scene for a week now, says it should be an easy one.”

Eames freezes mid-pacing, “You got Arthur?”

“Yeah. And fuck me, Eames, he’s just as good as they say. I went under with him the other day. Never seen a mind so militarized, I didn’t stand a chance. And I’m good .”

Eames hums, considering. He’s got a bit of a pattern, after jobs — his plan had been to go full comatose for at least a weekend, followed by ordering far too much takeout and binging the latest season of whatever trash reality tv he can find. He likes a bit of a lull, between gigs.

But he’d be remiss to lose out on seeing Arthur in action.

“How soon do you need me?”

Arthur gives no sign he recognizes Eames. He lets Lizbet introduce them, politely shakes Eames’s hand before offering to go over his notes on the mark. His notes are extensive , scrawled in messy half-cursive and taking up half of one of those little notebooks he carries around. He also gives Eames options , something annoyingly few in this line of work tend to do.

“I’m not a forger,” Arthur says, when Eames points it out, “I can tell you who he’s closest to, who he’d most likely open up for. But I’d imagine posing as his childhood sweetheart-turned-wife would be difficult.”

“Too much opportunity for error,” Eames agrees, “I’m excellent at what I do, but he’s known her, what, thirty-six years? ‘s a lot of history to pick up in a week.”

“Which is why I watched the others. Colleagues, friends. Neighbors.”

Eames hums, watching as Arthur flicks through his notes, “So who’d you pick, then?”

Arthur’s fingers pause on the notebook, “Who would I pick?”

Eames nods. Their eyes meet. He can tell Arthur’s evaluating , measuring Eames up with that mechanical little brain of his. He flips to a new page, hands the notebook over. There’s a printed photo clipped to the page.

“Marcus Shelley,” Arthur tells him, “College roommate.”

“Close?”

“Not anymore,” Arthur says, “They were, back then. He was best man at the wedding. But then he took a job out of the country, moved away. Seems like they kept in touch for a while, until they didn’t. No falling out. Just — time. “

Eames skims the notes. There’s scribblings on the man’s family, his job, his hobbies (tennis on Tuesdays, pub trivia Thursdays). An address, scrawled on the bottom.

“He’s moved back?”

“Last month,” Arthur tells him, “They’ve met up for coffee once. Dinner last week. He trusts him. But he hasn’t known him for a while.”

“But eager to rekindle the friendship, yeah?” Eames finishes reading, hands the notebook back over, “You’re right. Mind telling me where I can find him?”

The job is just as quick and easy as Lizbet promised. It’s almost a little sad, how many of his secrets the poor man is willing to spill for the promise of friendship and Eames has to remind himself that the man’s company is pulling funds from children’s charities to pad their own pockets. Can’t feel too sorry for the bastard.

They’ve got almost too much time, after. Arthur finds Eames squirreled away in the laundry room, the one place he’s fairly certain their lonely little dreamer won’t think to look.

“Lizbet’s combing the library,” Arthur tells him, hoisting himself up on the washing machine. His legs dangle, “She got into this just to satisfy her curiosity, didn’t she?”

“Nosy thing, Lizbet is,” Eames agrees, “Don’t give her any of your secrets, darling, she’s got a memory like a steel trap and will use it against you.”

“Speaking from personal experience?”

“Told her I have a mango allergy, once,” Eames confesses, “Now when she’s annoyed with me she throws slices at me.”

Arthur’s grin takes over half his face. His cheeks dimple, and his eyes crinkle, “That was a bad move, telling me. Now I have something to use against you, too.”

“Your turn, then. Tell me one of your secrets.”

Eames takes a step forward, bumping at Arthur’s knees. He can feel Arthur’s breath across his skin.

“Could you…” Arthur pauses, waggles his fingers towards Eames, “Could you be you , again? This is very disorienting.”

Eames blinks in confusion for a moment, then glances down at his hands — at least two decades older than they should be — and realizes he hasn’t dropped the forge yet. He closes his eyes, takes a breath.

“Wow,” Arthur murmurs, “Never seen that in action before.”

“A bit anticlimactic, I’m sure.”

“No,” Arthur shakes his head, “It was fascinating.”

The thing is, Eames knows Arthur means it. He is fascinated, focused on the inner workings of everything around him. It’s not just a fucking line, with Arthur. It’s the truth. Something about it all has Eames feeling tense, unbalanced.

“Think you owe me a secret, love.”

Arthur purses his lips, thinking, “I’m afraid of heights.”

“No you’re not.”

“No,” Arthur says, grinning, “I’m not.”

“A real secret. You know you can kill me with exotic fruit, give me something.”

“I hope it won’t actually kill you,” Arthur says, “That’d be a stupid thing to admit to people.”

“You have the power to give me a very unattractive rash by use of exotic fruit,” Eames corrects, “Now stop avoiding the question.”

The look Arthur centers him with is open, honest. Whatever he’s been doing before, with the calculating and the measuring, seems to have ended. Eames wonders what the conclusion was.

“Everyone thinks I left the military for some noble, moral reason,” Arthur tells him, voice low, “But I was really just sick of people telling me what to do.”

Eames presses further into his space, hands coming to rest atop Arthur’s spread thighs, “And what is it you want, darling?”

Arthur inhales. The muscles in his thighs flex under Eames’s palms. He leans forward, eyes impossibly dark.

“You’re so good at reading people,” he says, “How about you tell me?”

“Good at reading most people,” Eames corrects, eyes fixated on Arthur’s mouth, “Somehow you always make me feel I’ve gotten the chapters all jumbled.”

“I did tell you I’m aiming for unnerving .”

“I’d say you hit the mark, then.”

For a moment, neither of them move. Eames still can’t tear his gaze away from Arthur’s mouth, and he’s well aware Arthur is staring right back. He should do something, he thinks idly. They’ve only got a few minutes left down here, probably, and he knows they’ll all leave in a hurry once they’re woken up. He really should do something.

Arthur makes a noise of frustration deep in his throat, “Oh, for fuck’s sake — ”

Gun to his head, Eames wouldn’t be able to tell which one of them moved first. All he knows is that suddenly Arthur’s got his shirt bunched up in fists, that Eames has one hand clutching Arthur’s hair and the other pressed tight into his waist, fingers gripping so hard he’s sure he’d leave bruises if they were topside. It’s not a particularly good kiss — hard and biting and borderline violent , both too goddamn stubborn to relinquish control for even a moment.

Distantly, Eames hears the familiar melody of the kick; something old and French, because Arthur is clearly a pretentious fuck atop of everything else. They’ve moments left, and Eames only barely manages to get a hand on Arthur’s dick before he’s blinking awake.

The initial few seconds after a kick is always disorienting. But this is something else. Eames is hard in his trousers, breathless, and he can feel his heart beating too fast within his chest.

“We have five minutes,” Arthur says from across the room, pulling the tubing from his own vein and winding it up in neat circles, “Lizbet, you’ve got a train in thirty. Eames, flight at four.”

It’s infuriating, how capable and unfazed he seems. Eames, meanwhile, fumbles with his own line, hisses a bit when it pulls at his skin. Arthur takes it from him before he can even attempt to roll it up, stores it away in the case and clicks it shut. 

“Be careful,” Lizbet tells him, “Doesn’t seem he had any clue he had enemies, but still.”

“I’m always careful,” Arthur says, which is only maybe a lie, “Three days, then I’m off. He won’t even notice me.”

“I’ll send the wire from the train,” Lizbet promises, “You have my burner if anything happens.”

With that, she’s off, slinging a backpack over one shoulder and hurrying out the door. Eames falters for a moment, watching as Arthur unrolls their mark’s sleeve, sets him back to look as if he’s just passed out on his desk from fatigue. He looks surprised to see Eames still there, when he finally turns.

“Two minutes,” Arthur says, leaning down to grab the PASIV, “Unless you have a good explanation as to why you’re here, I’d get a move on.”

“Arthur,” Eames starts, then shuts his mouth.

Arthur takes another glance around the room, eyes assessing. He seems satisfied that they’ve left no trace, moves swiftly to the door.

To Eames.

“Ninety seconds,” he says again, and Eames wonders if he’s counting in his head, “Flight, Eames. Kinda shit, to be honest. Two layovers.”

“Arthur.”

For a moment, Arthur almost looks torn. His eyes shift, soften. He takes a step forward, and Eames holds his breath.

“Don’t get caught,” Arthur says, and sweeps out of the room.

Eames only barely has the presence of mind to slip away before the clock’s up.

.

“Joachim can go fuck himself.”

Arthur’s words might be threatening in most contexts, but the anger is slightly overshadowed by the fact that his head is currently inside a toilet. He only barely gets the words out before he’s heaving again, and Eames shuts his eyes and tries to ignore the sounds of vomiting. He focuses instead on how cool the bathroom tile feels against his skin, how the air conditioner they’d maxed out is alleviating the sheen of sweat across his skin.

“I’d promise to end his career,” Eames says, and his voice feels odd and echo-y inside his head, “But I’d wager you’ve already thought up a few dozen ways of doing that yourself.” 

“Dozen and one,” Arthur says, “Who uses an experimental fucking compound on a job?”

“Someone with a death wish?” Eames offers. 

“Wanna be my alibi?”

“I’d rather help , if you don’t mind,” Eames says, and then his stomach churns uncomfortably, “Scootch over, would you? There’s a dear.”

Arthur moves just enough to give Eames access to the toilet. He doesn’t even flinch at the sound of retching, tossing an arm over his eyes as he leans against the porcelain bathtub.

“Asshole didn’t even have the decency to stick around,” Arthur grumbles, “Piece of shit.”

“In his defense,” Eames pauses for a moment to retch again, “You did very much look like you were going to shoot him right then and there. I would’ve run, too.”

“No you wouldn’t,” Arthur says, “Because you wouldn’t have used an experimental fucking compound on a job.”

“Fair point, that,” Eames muses.

“Now move,” Arthur says, weakly shoving at Eames’s shoulder with one hand, “Gonna be sick.”

Eames shuffles away. He thinks he’s good, now — there’s really not anything left in body to come up, and he stretches across the floor instead. The cold tile really does feel fantastic. 

Arthur’s own stomach seems to settle not long after. Eames can hear the sound of a flush, the shuffle of movement as Arthur leans back against the wall. 

“Join me, darling,” Eames offers, stretching one arm vaguely in Arthur’s direction, “Floor helps. Floor’s good.”

For a moment, he thinks Arthur’s maybe passed out sitting up. But then he shuffles again, body landing heavily beside Eames. Their arms brush, and neither makes an effort to move away.

“This is disgusting,” Arthur says, “And humiliating.”

Eames hums, “Slightly better with company though, innit? Misery and all that.”

“That’s not how that phrase goes at all.”

“I’m sure you’ll correct me later,” Eames says, shifting just a bit closer, until he can nose at Arthur’s shoulder. He smells like sweat and sick. It really is disgusting.

“If I asked nicely would you kill me?” Arthur eventually asks, tilting his head to look over at Eames.

“Haven’t cashed in that I owe you yet, have I? Couldn’t possibly kill you with that still on the table.”

Arthur snorts, “No offense, but swallowing your cock sounds like literally the worst thing in the world right now.”

“I’ll try not to be too offended by that, darling. Not sure I’m capable of moving much myself, anyway. Though keep saying cock like that and I might change my mind.”

He can hear Arthur’s smirk, “ Cock .”

Somehow, miraculously, Eames’s dick does actually twitch, “Hm. Fascinating, that.”

Arthur laughs, but doesn’t bother teasing again. Eames is grateful; even if some parts of his body haven’t quite caught on, the rest of him has very resolutely decided to remain as motionless as possible for the foreseeable future. He feels Arthur settle a bit beside him. Their arms are still touching.

“Why do you call me that?” Arthur finally asks, after so long a pause Eames would’ve guessed him asleep.

“Call you what?”

“ Darling ,” Arthur says, like the word is foreign to him, “You always call me that.”

“Do I?” Eames considers, wonders if it’s something he started on purpose. It’s not exactly a go-to word for him, “Suppose I haven’t noticed.”

“Pretty sure you’ve said it more than my actual name.”

Eames lifts his chin, meets Arthur’s eyes, “Does it bother you?”

Arthur hesitates, like he’s struggling with the answer, “It did at first. Felt like you were being condescending.”

“I’d never dare condescend to you,” Eames tells him, “I value my life far too much for that.”

“Yeah,” Arthur agrees, “Guess that’s why it doesn’t bother me anymore.”

“Like I said, I like you. It’s irritating. I’m not traditionally one for friends.”

“Is that what we are?” Arthur asks, “Friends?”

“You have a better word for it?”

Arthur just stares at him for a moment, silent. Eames is torn — part of him wants to lean in, wants to kiss him. Another part of him actually remembers that they’ve both just spent the better part of an hour being violently ill, that such a move would be absolutely revolting. 

Arthur opens his mouth.

“Oh god ,” he moans, jolting upward once more.

Eames remains on the floor as Arthur’s head disappears into the toilet once more.

“I’ll just let you ruminate on that one, shall I?”

.

The next time Eames hears Arthur’s name floating around, it’s prefaced with a Cobb-and- .

Eames really fucking hates the Cobb-and- .

He doesn’t have a particular problem with Dominic Cobb himself. The man’s a damn good extractor, his building work second only to his own wife, and Eames knows Arthur wouldn’t bother pulling so many jobs with someone he didn’t respect.

What Eames does hate is how Arthur disappears behind the Cobb-and- , how he seems tacked on as an afterthought, as if he’s not responsible for more work than anyone else on the job. As if he’s not a fucking marvel himself.

“If I spoke to you like that I think you’d hit me.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, not bothering to look up at Eames, “If you spoke to me like that, you’d be doing it to get a rise out of me. Cobb’s just…Cobb.”

“He’s a prick, is what he is.”

“If you hate him so much, feel free to quit,” Arthur offers, “There are other forgers.”

“None as good as me.”

Arthur’s eyes finally shift away from the blueprints he’s been studying, “No. None as good as you. But they’d manage. We’d manage.”

“You asking me to quit, darling?”

“Did you hear me ask you to quit?” Arthur’s voice sounds like a challenge. He straightens, crosses his arms over his chest, “I’m asking you to take this seriously. You have a problem, then leave. I’m not gonna let you put us all at risk because you woke up in a shit mood.”

“My problem ,” Eames steps forward, until they’re chest-to-chest, “Is that you’re letting him treat you a little bitch . If he weren’t so tied up with his wife, I’d think you were fucking him.”

Arthur really is going to hit him, Eames thinks. He unfolds his arms, face contorted with rage.

“Oh!”

They both freeze. From the doorway, Mal stares, looking equal parts bewildered and curious. The PASIV is in her hands, a very clear reminder that they’re on a job .

Eames takes a step back. Arthur’s still red-faced, but he rolls his shoulders back, turns back to his research. Mal blinks at them both, head tilting slightly as she takes in the scene. Eames can’t quite imagine what she’s thinking. From her perspective, they’d either been about to rip each other apart or rip each other's clothes off.

To be perfectly honest, Eames isn’t sure which one he would’ve leaned towards.

He does his best to avoid Arthur, the rest of the job. It’s easy, since Arthur seems to be doing his best to avoid Eames . They still talk, of course, when they have to. Arthur reads off the parts of his research Eames needs for his role, and Eames recites his own plan like he’s reading a script.

Mal looks deeply uncomfortable.

Cobb doesn’t seem to notice.

They finish the job like good little boys, pack it up without faltering and head off their separate ways. Eames is on stay-behind duty this time, mostly because he’s more capable of staying incognito in Manchester than the others. The Cobbs have a flight to London and a train to Paris, and Arthur’s setting off for fuck-knows-where.

Eames is restless, back in his hotel. The plan is to lay low after, he knows. To stay tucked away safe and out of sight for at least the first night. But there’s an itch under his skin, and he needs something . He’s about to pull on a pair of trainers to venture into the night when there’s a sharp knock on his door that makes him freeze.

He waits a beat, and the knock repeats. 

Fuck .

He manages to open the drawer of the hotel nightstand silently, reaching for the Beretta tucked away. He’d very much like to not have to kill anyone in the posh hotel Arthur had set him up with. It’d be a shame to trade a minibar and the softest bed Eames has ever touched for a shite express stay.

Eames toes across the carpet, one hand firmly on his gun as he peers through the spyhole.

“Fucking hell ,” he swings the door open, furious, “Are you out of your mind? I was seconds away from shooting you.”

Arthur looks unbothered, “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“The fuck are you doing here?” Eames clicks the safety into place, dumps the gun on the closest flat surface, “ You’re the one with the strict no contact rules after a job, you know.”

“You’re an ass.”

Eames blinks, “Did you come over here just to tell me that?”

“Yes,” Arthur says, “Also that I hate you.”

“Right,” Eames nods, “I’m an arse, and you hate me. Anything else, or can we call it a night?”

Arthur glares at him. He looks furious, borderline murderous, and Eames thinks perhaps he should’ve kept his gun. But then Arthur makes a sound of frustration — at Eames or himself is anyone’s guess — and surges forward.

It fucking hurts . Arthur’s got him pressed back against a wall, deceptively strong. He doesn’t so much kiss as bite at Eames, one hand curled so tightly in the just-too-long hair at the base of Eames’s skull he might wind up coming away with a handful. 

Not to be outdone, Eames does his best to hurt back. He digs his own teeth into the soft skin at Arthur’s neck, cups Arthur’s arse so hard he could lift him, if Arthur hadn’t already gotten the leverage advantage here.

“You’re fucking infuriating ,” Arthur hisses when he breaks for air, “I want to kill you .”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Eames says, even as Arthur’s crowding into him, pushing him off the wall and towards the bed, “Getting some mixed signals here, darling.”

“Not your fucking darling ,” Arthur snarls, and shoves Eames, hard. He tumbles back onto the mattress, barely has enough time to get his bearings before Arthur’s climbing on top of him. There’s a frustrating amount of clothes involved, still, and the fabric of Eames’s trousers scratches against his very interested dick.

“Off,” Eames says insistently, tearing at Arthur’s shirt until two buttons rip free. The fabric hangs off one shoulder. It’s not enough, “ Off .”

With one hand, Arthur reaches back to grasp at his collar, smoothly pulling the ruined shirt off and tossing it aside. Eames takes the opportunity to run his hands over Arthur’s skin, very much enjoying every dimple and scar. His wandering fingers make it a little difficult for Arthur to make good work of his shirt, but Arthur doesn’t seem to mind much; he shoves Eames’s tee as far up as he can manage instead, until it’s bunched at his armpits. He lowers his head, licks over one pebbled nipple before biting, hard.

And Eames…

Oh fuck .

He wants to die .

He wants to actually, honest-to-god, die .

Above him, Arthur freezes. There’s a moment of shocked hesitation, and then he’s rising to his knees, blinking. Eames covers his face in his hands, wonders if he can somehow play this off as a freak Somnacin side effect.

“Did you — ” Arthur seems lost for words. A first, really, “Did you just…”

“If you’re not armed yourself, darling,” Eames chokes out, feeling like he’s about to catch fire, “Mine’s on the table. Please just shoot me now and get it over with.”

Arthur doesn’t move. 

“I’ll accept a pillow over the head as well,” Eames offers, “Stabbing isn’t really my preference, but I suppose if you’d like — ”

“You just came in your fucking pants ,” Arthur breathes out, somehow sounding both irritated and astonished, “I didn’t even touch you and you came in your fucking pants .”

“I’m well aware of what I did, thank you.”

“Are you — you’ve got to be fucking joking .”

“I’d appreciate the mercy of a quick death, however you’d like to do it,” Eames says, “And if you wouldn’t mind tracking down my mother, giving her the news. Not all the news, mind you. Make it a heroic death, for her.”

There’s another long silence, and Eames is going

to 

die.

The bed shakes, minutely. He glances up, parting his fingers just enough to peek up at Arthur.

Who’s laughing , the absolute bastard.

Head-tilted back, full-body shaking laughing .

“Fuck you,” Eames says, “You’ve got your revenge, yeah? I piss you off, you absolutely humiliate me…”

Arthur grins down at him, “You came in your pants.”

“I’m aware .”

“You came in your pants,” Arthur repeats, and then leans down once more, forearms bracketing Eames’s head, “Last time I made someone do that was after my junior prom.”

“I will do anything ,” Eames grits out, “For you to never mention this again.”

Arthur seems to contemplate that for a moment, “It’s probably for the best. I was really angry. Probably wouldn’t have been gentle.”

“In case you noticed,” Eames says, glancing down at his poor nipple, “Gentle isn’t exactly my preference.”

Arthur’s eyes darken, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips.

“Clearly not,” he says, “But I probably shouldn’t be that mean when I fuck you.”

Eames isn’t quite sure why his traitor of a cock hasn’t gotten the message about Arthur being an absolute fucking bastard , but it clearly hasn’t. He can feel it trying to spring to life again, and with the way Arthur’s still sitting over his goddamn hips, he knows Arthur can feel it too.

“I’m not fucking Cobb,” Arthur tells him, and Eames almost laughs himself.

“Not right now , at least,” he quips, then whines when Arthur rolls their hips together, “Alright, I get it. It was a dick thing to say. I just wanted to piss you off.”

.

“Well you did. You’re infuriating .”

“You’re not exactly a walk in the park either, darling,” Eames retorts, and, huh , that’s an interesting observation, “ Well . You like that, do you? Is that why you asked why I do it? Darling .”

Arthur’s breath hitches, and he grinds down. Eames’s hands go to Arthur’s hips, quite against his own will. 

Seems his cock isn’t the only traitorous part of him.

“Can you — ” Arthur breaks off, searching for the words, “How long — ”

“If you’re asking if I can handle being fucked right now, the answer is yes,” Eames says, and Arthur looks almost relieved , “Though you’re right, I’d quite like at least a half-arsed attempt at lube and the like. Been a while since I’ve done it that way, and all.”

He half-expects Arthut to roll him right over. He doesn’t expect to be kissed deeply and thoroughly, until his skin is heated and his trousers feel far too small.

“ Fuck , you’re tight,” Arthur says, when he’s just barely pressed past the first ring of muscle, “ Jesus , Eames.”

“Told you it’s been a minute,” Eames says, even as he’s rolling back, “Not your fucking prom date , darling. I can take it.”

The next snap of Arthur’s hips has him careening forward, floundering for a moment until he can brace himself against the headboard.

“What was that?” Arthur asks, innocently, “You can handle it?”

“Should’ve fucking shot you when I had the chance.”

Above him, Arthur laughs. Eames would say something else, has another comment prepared to piss him the fuck off , but then Arthur’s moving and fuck , he really does know how to drive a man to speechlessness.

Eames hasn’t come twice in such quick succession in years.

After, he can barely move, sinks fluid and lifeless into the mattress.

“‘s a no-smoking room,” he slurs, when he hears Arthur light up beside him, “Gonna tell on you unless you share.”

Arthur hands it over before Eames even finishes his sentence, “ Tell on me , really? This room is on my card.”

“And I do thank you for your generosity,” Eames says, exhaling a perfect circle, “Lovely room, really. Nice view. Nice shower. Bed can certainly take a beating.”

Arthur snorts, “I still can’t believe you accused me of fucking Cobb .”

“He’s a good-looking man,” Eames passes the cigarette back, “Objectively, I suppose. Can’t be all that bad if he got Mal to marry him.”

“He’s not my type.”

“Oh?” Eames raises an eyebrow, “What is your type, then?”

The look Arthur levels him with is almost hysterical. He blinks, eyes flicking down Eames’s still sweat-slick body, to the jizz now dry across his stomach and thighs, before meeting his gaze again.

“You’re really asking me that?”

“This could be a fluke,” Eames offers, “Or some fucked-up way of stopping yourself from actually killing me. Seems like an effective release of anger, really.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, settling back into the pillows, “You’re so annoying.”

“Yet here you are, relishing in my company,” Eames taunts, “When’s your flight out, anyway?”

“What time is it?”

Eames glances at his watch, “Quarter past eight.”

“Hm,” Arthur nods, taking another long pull from his cigarette before tapping it out on one of the very nice nightstands, “Two hours ago.”

Something in Eames’s stomach twists. It’s a feeling he doesn’t quite want to think about, one he’s not ready to name or dwell on just yet.

Arthur’s flight home had left two hours ago , and yet here he is, sprawled out naked on Eames’s bed. 

It’s…unnerving. 

“For the record,” Eames says, for no fucking reason whatsoever, “You’re my type too.”

Arthur turns his head. For a moment he looks serious, but then he’s cracking a smile, reaching out to thumb over Eames’s still very tender nipple.

“I know,” he says, “You’re pretty obvious about it.”

“It was a fluke ,” Eames insists, “I’m sensitive .”

“Poor thing,” Arthur says, sweeping a hand across Eames’s chest, “Want me to kiss it better?”

“If you think I’m capable of a third you’re absolutely mental . I don’t care how devastatingly handsome and sexually deviant you are, I am a grown man and I need to recover .”

Arthur looks delighted, “Devastatingly handsome, am I?”

“And sexually deviant. Now keep your goddamn hands to yourself, you devil.”

“Fine,” Arthur pulls away, and Eames pretends he doesn’t miss the touch, “Next flight out isn’t until morning, you know.”

“Mm-hm.”

“I don’t really have anywhere else to crash for the next twelve hours.”

“Shame, that.”

“And I’d really ,” Arthur rolls fully onto his side, voice dipping infuriatingly low, “ Really like to ride you before I leave.”

“Fucking — fuck , Arthur.”

Eames is actually going to die.

.

“We need a good Point,” Seo-yun says, tapping her pen against her knee, “Fatima’s still got that passport issue in the EU…Corbin’s been off his game lately…wait, Eames — you’re tight with Arthur, right?”

Eames has been paying attention. He likes to give off the impression he doesn’t give a shit, prefers to listen quietly until he’s gotten his thoughts fully sorted. It’s why the others don’t pay much mind to his delayed response, to the way Arthur’s name has brought his brain to a screeching halt.

You’re tight with Arthur, right ?

“Arthur?” Eames repeats, as if he’s not firmly familiar with the name, “Sure, we’ve worked together. Pretty high-demand, I think. Hard to get a hold of.”

He’s not, if you know where to look. If you know what key phrases to type into select forums on the dark web, the exact subtle references necessary to lead to a text message from an unidentified, untraceable number.

Job better be worth it, Arthur sends in the middle of the night, making Eames grumble in the darkness of his room, I’ve been bored .

It’s been a while, since they’d last worked a job together. There’d been the briefest of encounters in São Paulo, between then, Arthur flying out as Eames was flying in. It was stupid, and juvenile, and Eames had savored every moment he’d spent holed up in the bathroom of that first-class lounge, Arthur’s cock as far down his throat as he could manage. Arthur looks different, now. He’s changed his hair a bit, kept it shorter on the sides than on top. He’s taken to wearing ridiculously expensive suits these days, waistcoats and all. Eames would make fun of him, if he didn’t look so goddamn good in them.

Seo-yun seems to notice too. Eames likes the woman well enough, but he’s going to break something if he catches her gaze lingering on the vein in Arthur’s forearm that flexes beneath his rolled-up sleeves one more time.

“Eames,” Arthur says, elbowing at him, “You coming?”

Eames blinks, suddenly aware he’s been completely spaced out to the conversation around him, “Sorry, what was that?”

“Recon,” Arthur says, “Rossi just made a last-minute reservation at Binari. I managed to snag a table three over.”

“Right,” Eames nods, “Meeting there?”

“I’ll take a cab, you get the metro.”

“Why do you get to take a cab?”

Seo-yun snorts. Their chemist, Jocelyn, gives Eames a very pointed once-over before glancing at Arthur.

“I’ll have you know this outfit was expensive ,” Eames says, even as he pushes his chair back, “And I don’t appreciate the implications here.”

“Take long enough and it’ll make people think I got stood up,” Arthur points out, “That thought should entertain you for a bit.”

Eames does consider that, as he suffers in a sweltering metro car. He thinks about Arthur sitting alone at the table, likely pretending to sip at a glass of red wine. He gets a thrill at the thought of Arthur waiting for him , glancing up every time the door swings open.

He’s more than a little disappointed to find Arthur completely at ease, nibbling on a stuffed endive and barely raising an eyebrow when Eames slumps into the chair across from him.

“You’re taking the metro next time,” he mutters, low enough they won’t be overheard, “I’ll never get the smell out of this shirt.”

Arthur doesn’t acknowledge the complaint. He leans across the table instead, pours a generous glass of wine from the bottle sitting on the table.

“Sangiovese, right?”

Eames glares, “I hate it when you do that.”

“Noticing things is my job,” Arthur points out, “The second button on your jacket is loose. You should really fix that.”

Eames resolutely refuses to look down at the offending button. He does , however, take the wine glass. He loves sangiovese. 

“Who’s the woman?” he asks, about the dark-haired, too-young companion sitting at Rossi’s table, “Not his wife.”

“Still working that out,” Arthur says, only barely glancing up at the other table, “No touching, at least not yet. She looks a little young to be a colleague.”

“You looked young too,” Eames points out, swiping an endive, “She could be some sort of prodigy.”

“I haven’t ruled it out.”

Eames chews thoughtfully, watches Arthur watch their mark. He’s good at keeping it subtle, manages to maintain a mostly nonsensical conversation with Eames as he observes.

“I had a pet pig growing up,” Eames offers, just for something to say, “I named him Albert.”

“I never had a pet,” Arthur offers in response, “There was a stray cat in the neighborhood I used to feed sometimes. I called her Athena, for a bit. Until I learned she was a he.”

Eames grins, “Albert was a she, too. But five-year-old me was very insistent.”

“I bet you were a nightmare of a child,” Arthur says, actually meeting Eames’s eyes for a moment, “Only child?”

“Yeah. You weren’t.”

“Twin sister,” Arthur says, “Rachel. Lives in Peoria with her husband and three kids.”

“See her much?”

Arthur plucks up his wine glass, nimble fingers curving around the stem. He takes a sip — a long one.

“Not as such,” he says quietly, eyes darting to Rossi once more, “Not that she knows, at least.”

“The fuck that mean?”

“I went AWOL, Eames. With several million dollars worth of government property. I’m good at covering my trail, but even I can’t shake the U.S. government. Anyone who matters thinks I died years ago.”

Eames isn’t sure what to say, “So you faked your death.”

“Pretty damn well, too. Left a body for them to find and everything.”

“So your family thinks you’re dead.”

“It’s just Rachel,” Arthur says, “She had a funeral. Nobody came.”

“Your parents?”

“Dead.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

“ Jesus , Arthur, so you just…just vanished.”

“She’s fine. She’s a radiologist. Husband’s a cardiac surgeon. Her kids are annoyingly perfect. Big house. They get a dog.”

Eames doesn’t know what to say, “All that actually true?”

Arthur meets his eyes. He crosses his arms over the table, leans forward.

“I don’t know,” he says, “You tell me.”

Eames is good at reading people.

He’s very good at reading people.

Eames can’t get shit from Arthur.

“I don’t know,” he admits, “I’d like to think you wouldn’t lie to me just for fun.”

One side of Arthur’s mouth twitches upwards, “I think you know me better than you think you do.”

“The fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Arthur says nothing, but he does shift one hand forward, lets his fingers brush across Eames’s hand. He looks — god, like he’s flirting , now, batting his eyes and all.

“Come over here,” he says, and Eames frowns.

“What?”

“You need to observe too, right? Come over here. I already told the waiter you were my date, now get over here and act like you’re trying to seal the deal.”

Eames wants to make a joke, wants to mock Arthur relentlessly for the phrase seal the deal . But he just does as he’s asked, pushes his chair over to sit at Arthur’s side, instead of across from him. Arthur smiles winningly at him, actually leans into his shoulder.

To the outside observer, they really would look like a couple on a date.

Arthur keeps a hand looped over Eames’s arm, even as they split a plate of pasta between them. They both sip at their wine, bringing glasses to their lips often enough to not rouse suspicion without really drinking enough to lower any inhibitions. 

“I hate needles,” Eames murmurs, as he watches Arthur chew, “Even after all this time. Makes me queasy, putting myself under.”

“Why would you tell me that?”

Eames shrugs, “You told me about your sister. Felt fair to give you something, too.”

The expression on Arthur’s face is unreadable, “What do you think? Of them?”

“They’re not having an affair,” Eames says, very sure of the fact, “I’ve never seen a heterosexual man pay so little attention to a beautiful woman.”

“What’s your guess, then?”

Eames pulls his eyes away, careful not to stare too long. He looks at Arthur instead. There’s a tiny bit of sauce just under his lower lip, and Eames wipes it away with his thumb.

“Any children?” Eames asked. Arthur looks confused for a moment, “Rossi. He have any children?”

“No,” Arthur finally answers, “Not that age. They have a son. Twelve. She got pregnant again about four years back, but it didn’t — ”

He freezes, suddenly. Eames waits a beat. Two.

“Your hair’ll catch if you keep thinking so hard,” Eames points out, “Care to fill me in?”

“Where’s your phone?” Arthur asks, in lieu of an answer, “Hand it over.”

Eames reaches into his pocket, “Forgot your own?”

“Camera on my burner is shit,” Arthur says, taking the phone from Eames and navigating to the camera, “Lean in, would you? Smile.”

Arthur holds up the phone, leans into Eames like they’re capturing a selfie of their date. Instead, he flips the camera the other way, snaps a series of photos of Rossi and his mystery woman. 

“Zoom in on that,” he orders, passing the phone back and reaching into his own pocket, “On her, I mean.”

“Again, darling, would very much appreciate being in the loop,” Eames says, even as he squints at the photo. It’s not flawless, a little grainy once he’s zoomed as far as possible.

A moment later, Arthur sets his own phone down beside it on the table, open to the picture of a young woman.

“They look the same to you?”

Eames compares the two. They’re not identical, but they’re bloody close. There's a distinct bump on the bridge of the nose, a slight divot on the chin. They both have a slight widow’s peak, the same dark hair.

“Almost certainly related,” Eames agrees, “Who is she?”

Arthur slips the phone back into his pocket in one smooth motion, then reaches over to tap off the screen of Eames’s.

“The woman in the profile was Rossi’s ex-girlfriend,” Arthur says, “There was some…questionable overlap between her and the wife. I didn’t spend too much time looking into her, with how far back it was.”

“And how far back is that, exactly?”

“About nineteen years.”

Eames sinks back in his seat. He’s aware of Arthur’s eyes on him, even as he watches Rossi slide an envelope across the table. It’s thin, too flat to be holding any cash but just the right size for a very sizeable check.

“You can work with a secret love child, right?” Arthur murmurs, leaning in as if he’s whispering loving words, “That’ll work to throw him off his game.”

“I’d wager that’ll work,” Eames agrees, “Not sure dear old father in law will keep funding him if he finds out he’s hiding an illegitimate daughter.”

“That all we need? We good to take off?”

“Won’t that look suspicious? You know how Italians like to linger over their dinner.”

“Maybe,” Arthur agrees, then fucking nuzzles into Eames’s neck, “Unless people think we’re just desperate to get out of here.”

“You’re a goddamn menace ,” Eames grumbles, even as he takes the opportunity to get a hand on Arthur’s thigh, “You usually pull this cover? Feel up Rogers and Asenov, have you?”

“Just you,” Arthur says, “One time I did convince someone Cobb was my father.”

Eames only barely tamps back his guffaw, turns his face into Arthur’s throat to make as if he’s mouthing at his neck while he laughs.

“Bet he fucking hated that.”

“Kept repeating that he’s not that much older,” Arthur says, “That nobody actually believed it, that they were just humoring me. Mal told him he was full of shit. That I can actually pull off that young, if I try. You were right, you know. About how useful being underestimated can be.”

“Say that again, would you darling?” Eames does actually mouth at Arthur’s neck, now, and if he didn’t know better he’d swear Arthur shivers beneath him.

“Which part?” Arthur asks, like he doesn’t know, “Mal telling Cobb he’s gone gray? That I can talk people into thinking I’m un undergrad, if I dress for it?”

“You know which part,” Eames says, dragging his teeth over Arthur’s skin, “The part about me being right .”

“You were,” Arthur says, one hand sliding up Eames’s arm, hand fisting in the back of the shirt he’d been so mean about, earlier, “You’re right a lot, actually. It’s annoying.”

“Careful, darling, or I’ll start to believe you respect me.”

Arthur pulls away just enough to force Eames to look at him, “Of course I respect you. You don’t actually think…”

He trails off, suddenly, eyes flicking to something over Eames’s shoulder.

“Oh, he says, sounding just a tad embarrassed, “Il conto, per favore? Grazie.”

“Of course you know Italian,” Eames grumbles, pulling back.

“Just the basics,” Arthur says, counting out too many bills and slipping them to the waiter before he’s even glanced at the check, “Come on.”

He reaches for Eames’s hand, and Eames lets their fingers tangle together. Neither of them look at Rossi as they head out, the air cooler than it had been on Eames’s suffering trip over. He lets Arthur lead him down a narrow street, follows him into an even narrower alley. 

“Of course I respect you, Eames,” Arthur finally says, so far delayed it takes Eames by surprise. He’s not sure why Arthur’s fixated on this, why he even cares what Eames thinks he thinks of him.

“Doesn’t matter,” Eames says, shaking his hand loose, “Look, we — we have to be careful, alright?”

“Careful? They didn’t notice us.”

“Not them,” Eames says, “Seo-yun asked me to get in contact with you for this. Said she heard we were tight .”

“...okay,” Arthur says, “That’s not — we’ve worked together. People have preferences. Just because I prefer working with you to Morgenstern or Kim or Oduwe…”

“It’s not the first time. Asenov said something, a while back.”

Arthur absorbs that, “Mal said something too. I thought she was just being…okay. So.”

“If the wrong people think we give a shit about each other they’ll use it against us.”

“Yeah,” Arthur nods, “It’s why you don’t have friends, right?”

“Right.”

“So,” Arthur says, slumping against the brick wall of the alley, “What do we do?”

“I might have an idea. You’ll hate it. You’ll also kind of love it.”

Arthur looks over at him, questioning.

When Eames finishes explaining, he can’t quite tell which Arthur feels more strongly.

“I’m a good liar,” he finally says, “I’m not that great of an actor.”

Hard to believe, Eames thinks, with the way he’d just been batting his eyelashes in the restaurant.

“If you promise to preemptively forgive me, I promise to make it believable.”

Arthur looks bemused, “ I’m the one who needs to forgive you ? Did you hear everything you just said?”

“Come on, darling. Just trust me.”

By the time Seo-yun and Jocelyn show up to their rented office two days later, Eames and Arthur look ready to murder each other. Arthur’s red-faced, hair falling loose from his pomade.

“Just because you don’t give a shit about anything,” Arthur’s spitting, one finger jabbing into Eames’s chest, “How anyone takes you seriously is beyond me, you’re a fucking joke , Eames.”

“Rich, coming from you,” Eames laughs, rather than yell back. He knows it’ll get under Arthur’s skin, “You think people take you seriously just ‘cause you wrap yourself in those ridiculous suits? You think we all can’t tell you’re just a scared little kid, still running away? You think — ”

He knows the punch is coming, of course.

It’s just that he kinda hoped Arthur would pull it, a bit.

He doesn’t.

It’s not the first broken nose he’s suffered. Won’t be the last, given his line of work. But it hurts either way, and he doubles over, clutching at his face. He can hear Seo-yun and Jocelyn shout, but he can’t be bothered to look. Instead, he blinks through the pain, looks up at Arthur instead,

Arthur doesn’t look angry, anymore.

He looks — god , he looks hurt . Eames knew he’d get under his skin, of course. That had been the whole point. But fuck, maybe he’s gone too far.

“Fuck you,” Arthur says, “Just… fuck you.”

He spins on one heel, scoops up his notebook and shoves it Seo-yun’s way as he heads out the door.

“Arthur…”

“Good luck finishing up,” he calls out, “Be a miracle if he doesn’t fuck it up.”

The door slams shut behind him. Jocelyn looks mortified at having witnessed the whole thing and bustles away, suddenly very occupied with someone at her desk. Seo-yun glances down at Arthur’s notebook, then back at Eames.

“So,” she says, finally, “Don’t suppose I’ll have much luck working with him again.”

.

He gives it a few months before reaching out. He leaves the usual breadcrumbs on the usual forums, waits with phone in hand for the inevitable text.

It doesn’t come.

.

Arthur almost dies in Bogota.

Eames hears about it weeks later, long after Arthur’s slipped out of the hospital and vanished entirely. He keeps his features schooled as he’s told the story, does his best to ask questions without seeming like he actually cares .

“Took a fucking machete to the gut,” the man across the table says, like he’s recounting an action movie, “And only let the doctors keep him three days. He’s an annoyingly pretentious motherfucker, but goddamn if he’s not impressive.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Eames says, tapping his cards against the table, “A machete, really?”

“Swear. Someone pulled pictures from a security cam nearby, wanna see?”

The man slides his phone across the table before Eames can respond, and one glance tells him it’s very much not an exaggeration, that someone had actually …

“No thanks,” Eames shoves the phone back, “Not much for gore if I’m not getting paid for it.”

That night, he tries again. He waits, again.

Nothing.

A week later, the man who’d nearly killed Arthur is found floating in the shallow waters of Río Arzobispo. He’s nearly unrecognizable, ripped to shreds and dumped unceremoniously off a footbridge.

That night, Eames’s phone lights up.

I can handle myself, the message reads, Fuck off .

Well, he thinks, it’s better than absolute radio silence.

He sets his phone back down and rolls over, burying his face in his pillow.

Five minutes later, he jolts up, grabbing it again.

The message hadn’t come from one of Arthur’s encrypted burner numbers. Eames hums, and saves the new number in his contacts under a vague, undecipherable name.

He won’t read into that.

Really , he won’t.

.

He takes a job with the Cobbs. Not because it’s particularly interesting, or because he particularly wants to.

And not because of Arthur.

He just likes money, is all.

He tries not to ask, when it’s just him and Cobb and Mal and the chemist, whose name Eames can’t remember. He knows Arthur is still pulling jobs with them, and there’s nobody else running Point.

It’s eating at him, that he can’t ask. Cobb’s going over the mark, detailing the plan, and Eames wants to ask .

It’s Mal who finally says something. Like she takes pity on him.

“Arthur suggested the sister, for the forge,” she says, “You can do women, can’t you?”

“Like Arthur wouldn’t suggest it if I couldn’t. He joining us?”

Mal grins, in an annoying, French way, “He felt his presence unnecessary, for this one. He’s in Paris, working another job. He’s more…consulting, for us.”

“Pulling double duty,” Eames says, “And here I thought he couldn’t get more infuriating.”

“Yes,” Mal looks at him, “Is infuriating the right word?”

“I’m not doing this.”

“Doing what,” Mal looks so innocent . She’d be a half-decent forger herself, if she tried, “English isn’t my first language, you know. I’m just asking.”

“Yes, infuriating is exactly the word I’d use.”

Mal grins. One elegant, manicured fingertip reaches for him, taps him light on the nose, “Arthur asked if it was crooked, still. He’ll be disappointed to hear the answer.”

“If it helps, tell him he burst a blood vessel in my eye. Walked around looking like a goddamn demon for a week.”

Four hours later, his phone dings.

It does help, actually .

Eames stares at the message for too long.

I didn’t mean it , he finally texts back, I just needed you to think I did.

He doesn’t get a response. He stares at his phone for a while, finally sighs and tosses it aside. Arthur may not be physically present for the job, but he’s sent over a thick file of notes, and Eames reads every word, marks a couple points he finds particularly useful. Their mark’s sister is an early riser, at the gym by five in the morning, and Eames plans on beating her there. He showers early, pulls the blackout curtains tight and slips under the covers. He reaches over to plug his phone into charge when a notification catches his eye.

I know .

.

The news of Mal’s death spreads like wildfire. Not just in the underground, but publicly. Eames hears it from a contact just minutes before it hits the actual news, and he’s a little surprised by how hard it hits him. He hadn’t met her more than a small handful of times, but he’d liked her.

Moments later, he thinks of Arthur. 

Last he’d heard, Arthur had hopped on a job in Minsk. He’s just outside of Krakow himself, and he says as much, encoded in a way only Arthur would decipher.

Hopefully.

20 Pobediteley pops up on his phone almost immediately. Room 623.

There’s not one direct flight to Minsk. Eames winds up, instead, on a rather complicated series of trains and buses, a route the internet promises him is the fastest possible option.

It’s still way too fucking long.

He shoots off a text when he’s close. 

It goes unanswered.

Still, the door’s swinging open before Eames can even finish his knock, and Arthur…

“ Arthur .”

The man’s an absolute fucking mess . He looks like he hasn’t eaten in days, hasn’t slept in weeks. There’s deep circles lining his eyes, and when Eames reaches for him he all but collapses into his chest.

“Arthur,” he says, helplessly, as the man dissolves into sobs. He has no idea what to do with this — he’s not exactly the best at comforting under normal circumstances, and nothing about Arthur is normal .

“Come on, darling,” he murmurs, reaching blindly behind him to properly lock the door, “I’ve got you.”

They stumble across the room, Eames half-dragging Arthur along, until they come across the nearest proper surface: a low leather sofa, which Eames pulls Arthur down onto.

“I’m sorry,” Arthur gasps, mid-sob, “Fuck, I don’t know — ”

“Don’t,” Eames says firmly, “Don’t apologize , Arthur.”

He tightens his grip on Arthur. One arm around his shoulders, pulling him close, the other on his waist. He tries to be soothing, rubs slow circles into Arthur’s spine. It feels ridiculous, somehow, and he half-expects Arthur to shove him off.

He doesn’t.

He just cries , breaking down in a way Eames has never imagined seeing him. Eames feels rather useless, just sitting and holding, and can think of nothing better to contribute than do what he does best: prattle on.

“Never had someone ask so many questions about forging as Mal,” he says, as Arthur shudders against him, “Thought it was a test, at first. But then she had me go under with her, poked and prodded and asked how quickly I could do it, if I could change the color of my trousers or shoes or belt. She looked like a kid on Christmas. Fascinated . I don’t think I’ve met anyone who loved dreaming just for the dreaming itself the way Mal did.”

Arthur’s sobs seem to subside a bit, but he makes no move to push away.

“She made me forge her,” he continues, “We stood in front of a mirror until she was satisfied. She made me practice how she walked, talked. Said I made her too perfect, at first. That I needed to add a wrinkle, bags under the eyes. When we were done she tried to make Cobb pick which one was right.”

“Could he?”

“Nah,” Eames smiles, remembering, “Took one look at us and shot himself out.”

The noise Arthur makes is almost — almost — a laugh. He shifts away just slightly, rubs the tears from his skin with both hands.

“She liked testing people,” he says, “Not to see if they were actually good, but for their potential. She’d pull me under with her for hours , re-create a place we both knew and change one tiny thing just to see how long it would take me to find it. God, I spent ages ordering every pastry at my favorite café once, trying to figure out which one she’d changed. I was so angry when I realized it was the lightbulbs .”

Eames laughs. He can’t help it.

He laughs, and then he can’t stop laughing. Arthur gives him an incredulous look, and somehow that makes him laugh even harder, burying his face in Arthur’s shoulder.

“It wasn’t that funny,” Arthur says.

“Sorry, darling,” Eames manages, just barely, “Just — lightbulbs .”

He falls to bits once more, doubling in half. He can hear Arthur make a soft noise of amusement above him.

“She only got me once,” he adds, “But in my defense, who looks that closely at the screws in outlet covers?”

Eames howls .

A beat later, Arthur joins him.

They would appear absolute lunatics to any observer. Arthur’s cheeks are still tear-stained, his eyes red and wet. Eames still has an arm around him, and they’re curled into each other as they laugh. Just when the giggles start to subside, one of them will speak up, utter an amused, “ lightbulbs” , and off they are again. 

Slowly, the necessity of breathing becomes a bit more important. Arthur leans back against one arm of the sofa, and Eames collapses over the back. They’re silent for some time. Arthur stares at the ceiling. Eames stares at Arthur.

“They’re saying it was Cobb,” Eames finally offers, and Arthur makes a sound of disgust.

“It wasn’t.”

“I assumed. But that’s what they’re saying.”

Arthur inhales. It’s shaky, “They went too far under. Experimented too much. She wasn’t…Mal wasn’t right , after. I don’t think Cobb could fully accept how bad it was.”

“Saw it back in the beginning,” Eames says, “Back when they’d keep us under too long. Lieutenant went mad, tried to kill us all one day. Took four of us to bring him down.”

“They have kids.”

“I heard a rumor about that, yeah.”

“Two. They’re cute.”

“Didn’t peg you as one for kids.”

“I’m not,” Arthur says, “I just — it doesn’t even feel real. I worked with them not too long ago. I feel like I should’ve…”

“No,” Eames cuts him off, “Don’t you dare do that, darling. We all know the risks. Push too far, stay under too long…it mucks up your mind. I got all muddled, just barely, just once. Took four months off entirely. Sat on a beach getting alarmingly drunk for as long as I could.”

“I wondered about that,” Arthur says, “Couldn’t find any word of a job in Turks and Caicos. I was a little worried I had missed you leaving, that I was off my game.”

“You track me?” Eames asks, though he finds the news doesn’t surprise him in the slightest.

“Don’t be flattered,” Arthur says, kicking lightly at Eames’s shin, “I track a lot of people. It’s useful, knowing who’s working where. With who.”

“Whom,” Eames corrects, and grabs a hold of Arthur’s ankle before he can kick again.

“ Whom . I have a spreadsheet.”

Eames grins, “Wouldn’t expect anything else. Do you rank us?”

“Of course I do.”

“Where do I stand?”

“Not telling,” Arthur says, though there’s a soft upturn to his mouth, “Don’t want you thinking I think highly of you, or anything.”

“Of course not,” Eames says, thumb tracing Arthur’s ankle, “Couldn’t have that.”

Arthur falls silent. He’s laying back, relaxed. His eyes track the movement of Eames’s hand on his skin.

“Why’d you give me your real number?”

Arthur hesitates, “I…don’t know.”

There’s something beneath it, an undercurrent of that too-deep thing neither of them have put words to. 

“Well,” Eames finally says, “I promise to continue to show a remarkable level of restraint. We’ll say two naughty pictures a week, shall we?”

“Idiot,” Arthur says, though his voice is strangely fond. He pushes away from his side of the sofa, knees his way across and plops himself over Eames’s lap. 

“You know,” Eames says, even as his hands slide up Arthur’s thighs to settle on his hips, “If I were a good man, I’d point out that you are very emotionally vulnerable right now, and taking advantage of such a state would be wrong.”

“Yeah,” Arthur agrees, “So it’s a good thing neither of us are good men, isn’t it?”

“That it is.”

They almost get off right there, rutting fully clothed on the too-small leather sofa. But Eames shifts wrong, and Arthur yelps as he tumbles to the carpet, and there’s a perfectly nice bed just steps away. He heaves Arthur up, and Arthur tugs off his own shirt, and by the time they tumble onto the mattress they’re both closer to naked than not.

Arthur’s new scar derails him for a moment. It still looks horribly painful, even months healed, and Eames’s fingers catch on the raised skin.

“I hope you didn’t go after him yourself,”  Arthur says, catching Eames staring, “You’re still on the cartel’s hit list, you know.”

“I called in a favor,” Eames says, leaning down to press his lips to the scar, “Paid double if he’d drag it out. Did it hurt?”

“Worst I’ve had topside.”

“Did you really walk out of the hospital three days later?”

“Walk is a generous word for what I did. It was more of a hobble.”

“You’re endlessly remarkable, darling,” Eames presses one more kiss to Arthur’s side before moving on to other, more pleasurable parts. Arthur isn’t as demanding as he often is, doesn’t push back or fight for control, and Eames finds he rather likes being left to have his wicked way with him, to explore what makes Arthur’s breath hitch, his thighs shake.

They’re both exhausted afterwards, the travel/crying/orgasm combination too much for either of them to do much more than curl into each other. It might almost be called spooning, if either of them did that sort of thing. Eames finds himself distracted by Arthur’s newest scar once more, fingers brushing down Arthur’s side.

“Thank you,” Arthur breathes, so soft Eames nearly doesn’t hear, “For coming.”

“Anything,” Eames says, before he can stop himself, “Anytime.”

It frightens him how true those words are. There hadn’t been a moment of hesitation when Arthur sent the address. Not a twinge of annoyance at the expectation that he’d meet him. Not a single doubt in his mind that he’d drop everything to run to Arthur’s side.

He’s fond of others in their business, of course. Mal, for one. A handful of chemists. Tomás, an architect with a particular flair for recreating scenes from films. There are people he likes working with more than others, people he’s more inclined to trade favors with.

Arthur’s different.

Arthur — well, he’d kill for Arthur, wouldn’t he? Hasn’t he?

Worse, he’d die for Arthur.

It’s an awful, gutting thought. Arthur makes him vulnerable. Arthur makes him weak.

And unless he’s interpreting things very, very wrong, he thinks Arthur might feel some such way about him . The idea that he might some day somehow, inadvertently, put Arthur at risk makes him ill. The thought that either of them could be used against the other, even once…

Arthur has stilled in his arms. His breathing is smooth, even. He doesn’t stir when Eames pulls away. He remains asleep as Eames pulls on his trousers, as he buttons his shirt.

He can’t help himself from kneeling at Arthur’s side just one more time, from letting himself brush his fingers down Arthur’s cheek, from memorizing the angle of his jaw. He leans in, pressing the lightest of kisses to Arthur’s temple.

“Goodbye, darling,” he whispers into Arthur’s hair, and sweeps out of the room as silently as he can manage. 

.

It’s a little surprising to hear that Cobb is still taking jobs, albeit the seedy, questionable ones. There’s been a bit of a turn on him within their little community. Half of them genuinely believe he killed Mal. The other half believe he’s gone mad himself, that each job is a new attempt at a rather dramatic suicide mission. 

It’s more surprising to hear that Arthur’s still taking jobs with him. After all his efforts, all his years of proving himself, risking his reputation for Dominic Cobb doesn’t quite add up. Perhaps it’s some sense of misplaced loyalty, or a lingering fondness for Mal.

Perhaps Arthur’s on a suicide mission of his own.

Zlatko needs a forger , Arthur texts, months after their night in Minsk, Easy job, but good money. You’re still near Laos, right?

He is, of course. 

I’ll give him a call, Eames texts, Don’t take that job with Lex. Her chemist is shit. Took me months to kick the night terrors.

The job in Laos is easy, and Eames’s bank accounts grow exponentially after it. Through the grapevine, he hears Arthur turned Lex down, also hears Lex had such a strong reaction to the drugs she’d wound up wandering the streets of Jakarta screaming nonsense in a language no one could quite agree on.

I hear you worked out that customs issue in Turkey , Eames sends, some time later, If you’re not otherwise engaged after this job, there’s an architect in Tbilisi you might find interesting. 

Passed on your contact, he gets, Shit money, but you’ll love this one .

He’s right, Eames does, and sends a message letting Arthur know.

Despite his association with Cobb, Arthur’s own reputation remains remarkably intact. It’s amusing to hear how others see him, the fear he sparks just by knowing things.

And if Eames assists with some tasteful embellishments, well, it can’t hurt, can it?

Cage fight with a lion? Arthur texts, and Eames cackles, I’m more impressive than even I could’ve guessed . 

They don’t actually talk . Not really. It’s just friendly professionalism, sharing of contacts and exchanging of notes. The texts are few and far between, never more than two or three at a time.

Which is why it’s very surprising to see Arthur’s name flash across the screen as Eames hurriedly disembarks a flight in Oslo.

“I do hope this isn’t an emergency, darling,” he says in lieu of a greeting, “I’m quite in the middle of my own, you see.”

“I know,” Arthur says, in the serious, matter-of-fact tone he always uses on jobs, “You’re on a list in the EEA, didn’t you know? I’m working on scrubbing it, but they’ll flag you at immigration.”

Eames glances over his shoulder at the two men who have tailed him from Laos, “Don’t suppose you have any suggestions?”

“I wouldn’t be calling if I didn’t,” Arthur says, and Eames can hear the sound of frantic typing, of Arthur pulling away from his phone to speak to someone else, “Okay. Okay, stand by.”

“Not much of a choice,” Eames says, as the line for immigration looms ahead, “Am I hopping on another flight or not?”

“No,” Arthur says, after a long pause, “No, get in line.”

“I’m putting quite a lot of trust in you right now.”

“Get in line.”

“I’m in line,” Eames tells him, “Just thought you ought to know how displeased I’ll be if I’m arrested on the other end.”

“Can’t have that. Do you still have that passport you used in Cairo? Jason Brown?”

“Yes,” Eames said, “Not what I used getting on , though.”

“I know,” Arthur says, followed by more typing, “But it’s clean. You near enough to see the booths? Window nine.”

Eames glances up, “Empty.”

“I know. Give it a sec.”

Eames waits a beat. Two.

“Arthur, I swear…” he starts, then falls silent as a broad, uniformed officer swings open the door of booth nine. He rolls his shoulders, begins to sort through paperwork.

“It has to be that one,” Arthur says, “I can’t make any promises for the others.”

“Darling, I could kiss you,” Eames says, then immediately regrets it.

“Just let me know you’re through, alright? And don’t take another job with Jan. He clearly doesn’t do his due diligence with exit strategy.”

“Understood. Cheers.”

He eyes the man at booth nine as the line moves. Counts, to work out just how far off he’ll be. Pretends to tie his shoe for a moment, to let others pass. Shuffles through his bag for his documents, until nine opens up.

“Morning,” he offers brightly, sliding the passport for Jason Brown across the counter. The officer barely looks at him. He holds the passport on the scanner, and Eames watches as the computer processes, as his own face flashes across the screen. The officer hands his passport back.

“Next!”

Eames hadn’t even realized how tense he was until his next exhale. He taps the passport on the desk as he takes it, grins widely and strolls out with his bag slung over his shoulder. He doesn’t pull his phone back out until he’s safely in a taxi.

Bless , he sends, I’m far too spoiled for prison .

Your tail got pulled for secondary , Arthur sends, You’re welcome.

Eames stares at his phone for a long while. He should say something else, maybe. Should give a proper thank you, or even make a crack about how Arthur’s clearly so carefully monitoring his whereabouts. Instead, he shuts his phone off, tucking it away.

“Central Station, if you please,” he says to the cabbie, who nods and shifts lanes.

He’ll make it up to Arthur, some time.

.

Some time winds up coming remarkably quick, when Arthur gets pulled on as a last-minute replacement for a point none too thrilled about being replaced.

Any chance you know someone in Toronto? Arthur sends, There’s a chance I’m currently without identification or funds at the moment.

That certainly sounds like a pickle , Eames replies, before texting a street address, There’s a lockbox. 4257.

Thx , Arthur sends, and Eames worries just a tad about his current state with that .

An hour or so later, he gets an alert on his phone that someone’s entered one of his safehouses. He lingers over the notification for a moment, hesitant.

Screw it, he decides, it’s his house.

Arthur doesn’t seem too badly injured, from what he gathers from the camera feed. He’s favoring his right leg, but his left knee had never quite recovered, so it’s not a strong indication of something more serious. Mostly, he looks tired . 

There’s a computer in the bedroom , Eames sends, Scotch in the kitchen. First aid kit in the bathroom, if you need it.

He watches on the camera feed as Arthur reads the message, as his fingers tap across the keyboard.

I can’t believe you gave up your own safehouse. I’d call you an idiot if I didn’t really need this .

Eames smiles, You’ll call me an idiot regardless. Let me know when you’re back up, would you? I might have something for you, if you can stomach my presence.

Arthur doesn’t reply, but he does stare down at the message for a long, long time. The angle of the camera isn’t great, the feed not modern enough to give him more than a fuzzy picture. But he’d swear he sees Arthur smile.

.

By the time Eames shows up for the job, Arthur’s weeks-deep in research. He glances up when Eames walks into the hotel suite they’ve elected to work out of, gives Eames the briefest of nods before returning to his notes. Eames can’t fault him — he’s playing point and architect for this one, and Eames knows the standards Arthur holds himself too.

“It’s a bit risky,” their chemist tells him, and Eames tears his eyes away from Arthur’s desk, “She’s a rampant alcoholic, which makes the grab easy. But we’ve been tinkering, and the combination of that much liquor and the Somnacin is a bitch . Makes the dream unstable and fuzzy.”

“Is it safe?”

“For us, sure,” she says, “The mark is gonna have the hangover from hell. But holding the structure is tricky. Arthur wants you both to practice.”

“Practice?”

The chemist grins, then holds up a bottle of cheap tequila, “I get to get really, really drunk. Welcome to my twisted mind.”

Under, Eames stares. The world Arthur has constructed is perfectly fine, a semblance of a generic suburb not dissimilar from the one their mark grew up in. What’s odd is the hazy, opalescent sheen the whole world takes on, and how the sun is oscillating .

Arthur steps up beside him, hands shoved deep in his pockets, “We tried it with vodka a few days ago. She made all the colors invert. After I spent all that time working on the brick…”

“Right,” Eames nods, “So the alcohol fucks with everything, and we have to fight it. Sounds fun.”

He shifts into the forge. He hasn’t had enough time to observe their mark’s adult daughter yet, so he picks a different one.

Arthur blinks, “Wow. I hate it.”

Eames, now perfectly identical to Arthur, grins, “You’re right, two would be confusing, wouldn’t it?”

He closes his eyes, concentrates for a moment. Remembers, and makes a few corrections.

When he opens his eyes again, Arthur’s silent. He just stares , takes in the much younger version of himself standing before him.

“Well,” he says, finally, “No wonder you knew I was military. I really thought my hair looked okay back then.”

“All stiff-like, too,” Eames says, and adopts the formal, tense posture Arthur had back then. He’d be lying if he said he hasn’t played around with Arthur on some of his solo jaunts under, and he’s fairly confident in his ability to pull it off, “Shall we?”

They meander through the streets, prodding at each other to test their limits. Arthur may not be creative, but the worlds he builds are remarkably stable. They pass by a park, and Eames snickers at the adult projections shrieking like children as they swing from the monkeybars. Among them, their chemist — drunk and elated, twirling in an aimless circle.

“At least she’s having fun,” Eames says, then stops in his tracks at the next house.

“The point is to test what we can hold, right?” Arthur asks, moving up the walkway, “I trust you’re familiar enough to point out where I’ve gone wrong?”

“The door’s too yellow,” Eames says, following Arthur up to the near-perfect recreation of his safehouse, “And my tomato plant — I can’t believe you killed Fred.”

Arthur scoffs, “ Fred was long dead by the time I got to him.”

They step inside. It’s perfect, because of course it is. Eames gives the place a quick scan, notes with a slight twinge of shame that Arthur’s even got his security camera in the right place. He moves into the kitchen, poking around a bit. Arthur’s got everything, down to the mismatched cutlery. 

“Explain to me, darling,” Eames says, plucking a book off a shelf and rifling to see if — yes, Arthur’s even added the pressed leaf Eames had used as a bookmark, “How you can do this in such detail, and still so utterly lack creativity?”

“I’ve tried,” Arthur says. He focuses on one wall, and for a moment it flickers almost blue before settling back to soft beige, “It’s like…like if I know it’s wrong, my mind just fixes it. I can’t explain it. Mal always thought it was strange. She said I could’ve been a brilliant architect, if all my builds didn’t look like a lego set I keep rearranging.”

“Lego?”

Arthur nods, “I can mix pieces. I can — ”

He turns back to the wall, nodding at the closed door that leads to the bedroom. Eames turns the handle, and steps right into Arthur’s hotel room in Minsk.

A perfect recreation, again. The leather sofa, the mussed sheets on the bed. There’s a pile of clothes on the floor that Eames recognizes as the ones Arthur had been wearing that night, when he’d cried over Mal. When Eames had…

“Legos,” Arthur says behind him, “I can take rooms and buildings and pieces from different memories and stick them together. The neighborhood we were just in? It’s where I grew up.”

Eames isn’t sure what to say, finally settles on, “I’m sorry. For just leaving you there. I should’ve waited for you to wake up, I should’ve explained.”

“You didn’t have to,” Arthur says, “I understood.”

“Arthur.”

“You dropped the forge,” he says, and Eames looks down to find he’s very much back to himself again, “Try again.”

.

Could you recreate from films, do you think? Eames texts one day, Like Tomás does?

It’s the textures, Arthur sends back, a day later, My fabrics always wind up wrong .

.

Can you mimic voices in real life? Or it different in a dream?

Eames grins, at that, Remind me never to fake an accent in front of you, darling, I fear you’ll never take me seriously again .

.

Offer from Bankson. Is the Korean government still none too fond of me?

Japanese, too. You’re clear for China, if you can swing that.

.

Cobb is losing it, comes through in the middle of the night, Mal keeps showing up when he builds. She’s found some very creative ways of killing me.

Eames sits up, frowning down at his phone.

If he’s that far gone you shouldn’t work with him. Feeling sorry for him isn’t worth your life.

He’ll get himself killed without me.

Better him than you.

He has kids, Eames.

And you have , Eames starts typing, then stops. What is he going to say? You have me?

He deletes the words.

Be careful , he sends instead.

Arthur doesn’t reply.

Eames didn’t really expect him to.

.

He knows Cobb is coming long before he pops up in Mombasa. 

He thinks we can pull off inception , Arthur had sent, He’s going to ask you to join.

Then, moments later: You should say no .

He doesn’t.

He considers it. He really does. Cobb shows up, and Eames can tell he’s off his game by how quickly he spots Cobb’s tail. But then Cobb mentions Arthur, and Eames…

…well, he’s always known that self-preservation isn’t exactly his strong suit.

Eames doesn’t miss the way Arthur seems almost disappointed by his arrival. He doesn’t say anything, at first. He’s preoccupied with a new architect, a tiny slip of a thing with a name that’s a little too on-the-nose, even if it is fake (at least, he hopes it’s fake). At first, Eames can’t understand why either of them thought it a wise choice to bring in a baby architect for a job like this. But then he goes under with Ariadne, and he gets it.

She’s just like Arthur was: young, though perhaps not as young as she looks, and brilliant, and stubborn, and desperate to prove her worth. Arthur’s walked her through the basics already, has taught her his paradoxes and traps.

He’s never seen someone catch on so quickly.

“She’s good,” Eames mutters, sidling up to Arthur and acting very interested in a page of his notes, “You’ve taught her well.”

“She is,” Arthur agrees, “Hopefully I taught her well enough. Why’d you come? Cobb asked if I knew how to get a hold of you, and I said no. I told you not to do this.”

“Actually, darling, you told me I should say no. You think someone else could do this as well as me?”

“No. But I also think this is a terrible plan.”

“Well,” Eames shrugs, setting the notes back down, “I happen to be a fan of terrible plans.”

He’s used to seeing Arthur tense on jobs, but this is something new entirely. Arthur’s not just wound tight. It’s like he’s balancing one-legged on a knife’s tip, just one movement away from snapping entirely. It makes him snippy, and meaner than usual, and Eames doesn’t have enough self-restraint to hold back his own snappy comebacks. 

The only time Arthur shows any sign of relaxing is when he’s teaching Ariadne. It’s impossible not to be kind to Ariadne, who keeps managing to keep up with the rest of them, who asks probing questions and files the answers away, who manages to be both precise and creative at the same time.

(Eames is fairly certain that she has the beginnings of a crush on Arthur, but he can’t blame her. Besides, he’s almost entirely certain that Arthur has no taste for women.)

Eames spends most of his time observing Browning.

Arthur and Ariadne spend most of their time dreaming. Cobb has been incredibly specific about the build, he knows, and Ariadne’s come grumbling up more than once about the tiny details Arthur points out.

“Apparently,” she tells Eames one day, as she prods at a piece of orange chicken with her chopsticks, “I only stocked the bar of the hotel lobby with white wine glasses , instead of red too.”

“Fatal error, that,” Eames says, nodding, “Arthur does prefer a good red.”

Arthur must have kept his usually terrifying projections in control, because Ariadne is weeks into dreaming by the time she asks what a kick is. Eames has only been half-paying attention. He’s a little more preoccupied frowning at Arthur’s hair — it’s too long, and he knows it’s not intentional, because Arthur’s got it so tightly gelled back it looks absurd. He’s not even really centered in the conversation, has turned his chair entirely in Arthur's direction.

“This, Ariadne,” he says, “would be a kick.”

Arthur’s flail is delightful . It’s his own damn fault, for leaning so far back in his chair. If he didn’t have such quick reflexes, he’d likely fall backwards entirely. Instead, he rights himself, leans forward on his knees before turning to glare at Eames.

Eames just grins.

They flip a coin to see who has to test the kick with Yusuf’s new compound.

Eames feels a little bad about cheating.

“If you’re just going to watch ,” Arthur grumbles, rubbing at his hip, “We could switch off. It doesn’t always have to be me.”

“That would tamper results,” Eames says, innocently, “The subject needs to remain the same, isn’t that right, Yusuf?”

Across the table, Yusuf looks thrown, “Um…yes, sure.”

Sometime near the end, a week or so before the grab, Eames comes back to the warehouse late in the afternoon. Cobb’s disappeared for the day, doing who knows what. Saito’s vanished too, though Eames would never dare question that. Arthur and Ariadne are slouched out in lawn chairs, hooked in. Yusuf glances up from his desk.

“How long?” Eames asks, even as he’s unraveling a new line of his own.

“Just over five minutes left,” Yusuf says, “Apparently Ariadne’s having trouble with her projections. Says they all walk wrong.”

Eames shrugs, sliding the needle into his wrist.

They’re in the hotel. It’s what Ariadne’s had the hardest time with, he knows. He thinks it’s a lack of familiarity with annoyingly posh buildings, personally. There’s a certain sterile factor beneath the gaudiness, one that’s hard to imagine if you’re not accustomed and easy to notice if you are. He’s quite impressed with her improvement, though. He’d bet his cut of this job she’s never stepped foot in the Four Seasons Bangkok, but the lobby is eerily reminiscent, the halls not unalike his favorite haunt in London.

He does see the problem with her projections, as he observes, but only if he’s really looking — they’re a bit stiff, as if they’re overly focused on moving their arms in cadence with their legs. If they had more time, he could help fix it. If she chooses to stay in this line of business, which Eames is fairly certain she will, maybe he’ll bring it up.

For now, he wanders the hotel. He’s got about an hour down here to check things out, and he’s a bit curious as to where the other two have gone. He eventually finds them sitting at the bar, Ariadne with what appears to be a dirty martini and Arthur with a whiskey, neat. They haven’t spotted him, and Eames slips into a nondescript skin, a skinny man a bit older than he is with wholly average features. He slips behind the bar, grabbing a towel and wiping mindlessly over the countertop.

“I’m not a kid,” Ariadne’s saying when he moves close enough to hear, and Eames could laugh at how very like Arthur she sounds, “You don’t need to look out for me.”

“I know you’re not,” Arthur tells her, patient and without a hint of condescension in his voice, “But Cobb very severely undersold how dangerous this can be. We’ll get you out of this just fine. But if you really want to keep at it, you should know all the risks before you make that choice.”

“What, you have people trying to like, kill you?”

Ariadne looks amused by her question, brings her glass to her lips for a sip. When Arthur doesn’t answer right away, she blinks.

“Oh,” she says, “I thought this was all like, covert? I mean, if it happens in a dream they can’t really prove anything right?”

“It’s the people who hire us you mostly need to worry about. Some don’t really like knowing there’s people walking around able to blackmail them. A lot of others in this line of work will do anything for money, even if it means selling you out.”

Ariadne sets her glass down, “That’s what happened to you and Cobb on your last job? The architect sold you out?”

“Nash,” Arthur says, “Knew he was a weasel before that, but Cobb thought he’d be too much of a coward to do anything about it. Saito gave us the chance to kill him. Kinda wish I’d taken it.”

Ariadne’s eyes go wide, “Have you? Killed people?”

Arthur says nothing. He grips his own glass, downs the whiskey in one go. Eames grabs a bottle from behind the bar, casually tilting the contents into Arthur’s empty glass. Arthur’s eyes flick up to  him, briefly, before turning back to Ariadne. She looks just a little bit frightened now, like she’s starting to understand the world she’s wandered into.

“Have the others?”

“Cobb can barely handle a gun topside,” Arthur says, and it takes a phenomenal amount of self-control for Eames not to snort, “Eames…Eames doesn’t like getting his hands dirty. He’s shot people topside. Me included. But he’s never killed anyone himself. He prefers to pay others for that.”

“He’s…hired hitmen?”

“At least once,” Arthur tells her, “But the bastard deserved it.”

“What did he do?”

“Tried to kill me.”

Ariadne looks horrified. She turns away from Arthur a bit, stares down at her martini before polishing it off. She winces at the taste, and Eames wonders why she’d let the liquor actually taste like liquor.

“Can I ask a personal question?” Ariadne asks, after several long moments of silence.

“You can try,” Arthur says, swirling the whiskey in his glass, “No promises on an answer.”

Ariadne takes a breath, “Does Eames know you’re in love with him?”

Eames freezes.

Arthur freezes.

Ariadne, despite being the one to actually ask the question, freezes.

For a moment, Eames half-anticipates Arthur pulling out a gun, shooting himself out before Ariadne even realizes what’s happening. Instead, he clears his throat.

“Eames,” Arthur says, slowly, “Is a brilliant man. He is irritatingly good at reading people. It’s nearly impossible to hide things from him, especially if it’s something he wants to know.”

Ariadne shifts, “That didn’t really answer the question.”

“I told you I might not.”

“...do you — ”

“You should go check on the rooms again,” Arthur says, “They were too comfortable last time. Hotel rooms always have something off. Scratchy sheets, a mattress that squeaks. Too cold, usually.”

Ariadne slides off her stool immediately. She hesitates a moment at Arthur’s side, “I — ”

“Should really apologize less, if you’d like to continue a life of crime,” Arthur says. To his credit, he doesn’t sound angry, or even upset, “We are notoriously adverse to apologizing.”

“Right,” Ariadne says, looking uncomfortable, “Then I’m — not sorry. I’m going to go mess up some pillows.”

She skitters off, heels clicking on the marble floors. 

Arthur stares into his glass, almost as if he’s mesmerized by the liquid. He holds it up to the light, swirls it again.

“You know,” he says, idly, “Ariadne isn’t much of a drinker herself. Any time I order a whiskey from one of her projections, I get a Jack Daniels.”

He raises the glass, throat bobbing as he downs it.

Eames glances down at the bottle he’d used and feels like an absolute idiot . Hibiki is Arthur’s favorite, one he’d developed a taste for a decade ago on a job in Nagoya. 

There’s no way Ariadne would’ve known.

Arthur’s glass clinks against the counter. He looks across the bar, eyes carefully blank.

“You can drop it,” he says, when Eames says nothing.

Eames exhales, letting the forge slip away, “I was just curious what you two were working on. I wasn’t trying to pry.”

“I know,” Arthur says, “She’s good, right?”

“Remarkable,” Eames says, “Arthur…”

“Projections could use some work, of course. But it’ll be Fischer’s for the real thing, his mind won’t notice anything off. You could help her with that later?”

“Of course. But, Arthur…”

“She’ll keep with it,” Arthur says, “She’ll be nervous. Might take some time to try to talk herself out of it. But she’s too hungry for it. I can tell.”

“Arthur…”

“You should kick out before us,” Arthur says, “Unless you want Ariadne to know you slipped into her mind without her knowing.”

“Darling .”

Eames leans across the narrow bar, desperate for Arthur to just shut up . He reaches for him, gets a grip on one of Arthur’s wrists before he has the chance to move away. Arthur looks down at where they’re linked. He slowly, slowly rotates his wrist, until Eames can slip their palms together.

“It’s not like you didn’t already know,” Arthur says quietly, “I didn’t realize it was so obvious. Bright side is that Ariadne doesn’t actually know anyone to tell.”

“I didn’t know,” Eames says, “Not for sure.”

He isn’t actually sure if it’s the truth.

“Darling,” he says, squeezing Arthur’s hand, “I — ”

I love you?

I can’t risk you?

I’m sorry ?

Eames isn’t sure which one he’d meant to say. He doesn’t get a chance, before Arthur’s standing, using their linked hands to pull himself closer, kissing Eames in a way he hasn’t in so, so long.

There’s a click, and the press of something cold against Eames’s temple.

He wakes so violently Yusuf looks concerned.

“The projections get violent?” he asks, frowning over at the other two, “Should we wake them?”

“No,” Eames shakes his head, pulls the cannula from his arm and wraps it up, “They’re fine. Be a lamb, don’t tell them I was here, yeah? Ariadne might not appreciate me poking about.”

“Sure,” Yusuf agrees, “Are you okay? You’re a little pale.”

“Fine,” Eames says, “See you tomorrow, yeah?”

Eames has never left a room faster.

.

The night before they do the damn thing, Eames is feeling especially restless. He’s always a little fidgety before, but this sort of fidgety is the kind he knows will keep him from actual sleep.

Maybe it’s because it’s the biggest job he’s pulled.

Maybe it’s because Arthur’s barely looked his way in days. 

Whatever it is, it’s sure as shit not going to go away on its own.

He doesn’t bother changing. The hotel they’re all staying at is nice enough for Arthur’s standards, but not so uppity he’ll be kicked out of the bar for plopping down in sweatpants. He throws a jacket on, just to look half-decent, and makes his way downstairs.

The hotel bar is mostly empty, save for an elderly couple in the back corner, a pair of business associates sitting nearest the door, and…

“Oh no,” Ariadne says, when he sits beside her, “You’re not going to rat me out for not getting sleep, are you? I’m not even drinking, look, it’s lemonade.”

Eames finds that impossibly endearing, “Who, my dear, would I be ratting you out to?”

“Arthur?” Ariadne offers, with a slight shrug, “He told me to take it easy. He kinda gives off overzealous R.A. energy.”

“What now?”

“R.A.? They’re like…babysitters in college. Insist you’re an adult and can make your own choices but then hold you to curfews and lecture you for bringing beer to your dorm room?”

“Got yelled at for beer a lot, did we?” 

“My roommate did. I was painfully boring. The only time I ever broke curfew was because I felll asleep in the library studying.”

Eames snorts, “No shame in that. And no wonder Arthur’s so fond of you, if that’s the dedication you’re showing to his lessons.”

“Yeah, no he’s great,” Ariadne says, “Think I might’ve pissed him off the other day though.”

She trails off, looking a bit panicked at broaching the topic. Eames takes pity on her, refuses to ask the question he already knows.

“Trust me, Ariadne, if Arthur was angry at you, he’d make it very clear,” Eames says, “Last time I got him well and truly pissed he broke my nose. There’s still a scar right here if you look for it, see?”

He points, and Ariadne squints at him.

“Did you deserve it?”

“Oh, yeah,” Eames says, “Stopping at just my nose was a mercy, really.”

Ariadne hums, “He said you had someone killed once, for trying to kill him.”

“If you’re asking if I’ll do the same for you,” Eames says, “I’d like to point out that that sort of thing is very expensive, and I prefer to spend my earnings on more pleasurable pursuits.”

“Got it,” Ariadne says, nodding, “I would very much prefer to never have someone trying to kill me at all, actually.”

“Good girl.”

“So is that what he’s like? Total nerd who falls asleep over his research?”

Eames raises an eyebrow, “Are you asking if Arthur’s, what was it you said, painfully boring ?”

“Arthur?” A new voice chimes in, and the pair look up as Yusuf takes the chair beside Ariadne, “Wasn’t he nearly beheaded with an axe a few years back? Wouldn’t call that boring.”

“It was a machete,” Eames corrects, “and they got him in the side.”

“I heard it was a near-beheading.”

“ I started that rumor,” Eames says, “As well as the cage-fight with a lion. I may have convinced someone he extracted from the Queen? That one’s a little hazy, I was proper plastered at the time.”

“Oh,” Yusuf blinks, “Well did he really steal a PASIV prototype from the U.S. government?”

“Now that one’s true,” Eames says, “Shot himself out of a military exercise early and ran off before the others could shake the drugs. Fairly sure his age still ended in teen at the time.”

“Jesus,” Ariadne breathes, “Okay, so I am definitely the most boring person on the team.”

“Nah,” says a fourth voice, and all three of them jump a bit as Arthur drops a bottle of wine and four glasses onto the table, “That title goes to Cobb.”

Arthur eyes Eames until he scoots over, then drags a chair over beside him. Yusuf looks a little worried, like Arthur might come after him with a machete. Ariadne looks the same for a moment before pointing at him, accusatory.

“ You ,” she says, “Told me to take it easy tonight. And now you’re bringing us wine. You’re a bad influence.”

“Ariadne, if you manage to get drunk off a single glass of wine, we have much bigger problems.”

“Before you sit, darling, Yusuf doesn’t quite believe me about the machete business. Seems my exaggerations about that whole thing were a bit too believable.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, but reaches for the edge of his navy sweater. Ariadne and Yusuf lean forward, gaping as he reveals the still-horrid scar marring his skin.

“Oh god,” Ariadne says, as Arthur finally takes his seat, “I still want to cry when I stub my toe.”

“Couldn’t tell you if I cried, actually,” Arthur tells her, “I was a little distracted by the blinding pain.”

“Yet he still escaped hospital three days later,” Eames says, as he carefully pours four even glasses of wine, “Like an absolute madman.”

“Three days?” Yusuf asks, looking horrified, “You only let them keep you for three days ?”

Arthur shrugs, “They fixed the internal bleeding, by that point. Figured the longer I stayed the greater the chances they’d send someone to finish the job.”

Yusuf blinks, “I’d like to study you, I think.”

Arthur just laughs. He takes the glass Eames hands his way, and their fingers brush for the briefest of moments. Eames all but rips his hand away, passing the other two glasses across the table.

“So how long have you all been doing this?” Ariadne asks, “The dream…stuff.”

“I’m fairly new,” Yusuf offers, “Really only got into Somnicin production, oh, three years ago?”

“But his life of crime started long before,” Eames says dramatically, “Stealing hearts up and down the African continent.”

Yusuf grumbles, turning to Ariadne, “That’s a joke, see. Because Eames thinks I’m awful at flirting.”

“Last time you tried you threw up on the poor woman.”

“I was drunk ,” Yusuf says, “It was your fault.” 

Eames just turns to Ariadne, serious, “It was tragic. Gorgeous creature. Such a nice dress. Designer, probably.”

“Like you’d know designer,” Arthur scoffs.

Eames raises an eyebrow. He reaches over, plucks at one of Arthur’s knit sleeves, “Armani, yeah?”

Arthur eyes him, “Lucky guess.”

Ariadne giggles.

“This priss and I have been around a bit longer,” Eames tells her, pulling away from Arthur, “it’s been — what, a decade or so?”

“Almost twelve years since they pulled me,” Arthur says, “It wasn’t anything like this, back then. Military training purposes mostly. They used it to accelerate how quickly we could learn, you know? Cram in a bunch of information over days and weeks down under, then wake up a couple hours later topside. Or testing our limits. Seeing what kind of torture we could handle before we talked. Or died.”

Eames nods alongside him, “Same on our end. We’d spend ages down there, and they’d act like it wasn’t meant to affect us topside. I may not have the kinds of scars Arthur here’s got, but I can still tell you what a man smells like after he’s been electrocuted for two days straight.”

“Oh,” Ariadne says, looking rather pale, “I don’t think this is very much fun anymore.”

“Shit,” Eames says, “Didn’t mean to bring down the mood.”

“It got a hell of a lot better after,” Arthur tells her, “It’s why I left. Much prefer being able to choose jobs. Eames, tell her about that one — where your architect recreated Pride & Prejudice scene by scene?”

Ariadne brightens, “Colin Firth or Keira Knightley?” 

“Colin Firth, of course,” Eames says, “Who is a delight to forge, by the way.”

“You’re kidding .”

Eames grins and launches into the tale, exaggerating just slightly. They sidle Arthut into telling one of his best, get Yusuf to fess up about the time he’d mucked up a formula and sent a whole host of people into a technicolor nightmare. 

“A musical ?”  Ariadne asks, some time later, “You really dreamt up a musical ?”

Arthur grimaces, “I had to wear a top hat. And tap dance.”

“I’d kill my own mother to have seen it,” Eames laments, “Jocelyn said it was phenomenal . Seems dear Arthur here is a half-decent singer. We’ll have to talk him into proving it some day.”

“There isn’t enough wine in the world.”

“I don’t get it,” Ariadne says, “How can you build musical dreams one day and then nearly get killed by a gang another?”

“Pitfalls of being the best in the business, innit?” Eames answers before Arthur can, “He’s very much in demand, which comes with making quite a few enemies.”

“What about you?”

“I prefer to fly a little further beneath the radar,” Eames says, “Prove myself just good enough so people think about me for jobs. Not too good they think of me as a threat.”

“Hm,” Arthur muses, sipping up the last dregs of wine from his glass, “I fear I may have terribly misunderstood when you told me to let people underestimate me.”

“Frankly, darling, I’m just honored you even considered taking my advice.”

Arthur turns sidelong to him, smirking. It’s the first time they’ve made actual eye contact since the dream, and Eames feels rather stuck under the weight of his gaze.

Across the table, Yusuf clears his throat, “Well. Wine’s gone. Guess we best call it a night, hm?”

“Did everyone else set six alarms?” Ariadne asks, “That’s just a me thing, isn’t it?”

“Just two for me,” Yusuf says.

“No worries either way,” Eames says, “If Arthur doesn’t sense you’re awake in time he’ll climb through your vents and dumb a bucket of ice water over your head.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, “To be clear, I never climbed through his vents. I used a key. And the ice was for my own amusement.”

“Maybe I’ll add a third,” Yusuf muses, “Ariadne, you’re on the seventh floor, right? I’ll walk you.”

“Thanks. And thanks for the wine, Arthur!”

They head off to the elevators together, Arthur and Eames both watching. Ariadne glances back, just once, looking rather embarrassed when she realizes she’s been caught. She spins forward abruptly, knocking into Yusuf’s elbow as she does so.

“Tell me the truth,” Eames says, once the sliding doors close behind them, “How tits-up could this go?”

Arthur takes a deep breath, “No matter how badly this goes in-dream, there’s nothing Fischer could do to us on the plane. The whole flight crew is paid off, thanks to Saito. He could try to report us on the ground, but we’ll get you and Yusuf and Ariadne out before that becomes a problem. I’ve triple-checked your IDs, nothing’ll come up.”

“Me and Yusuf and Ariadne.”

“Cobb’s the riskiest,” Arthur says, “I could’ve gotten him back to the States myself, if he weren’t so set on this being the end. He needed his real name clear to get back to the kids. It’s up to Saito to make that call, after. If he goes back on his word, Cobb’ll be arrested the moment we land.”

“Not to sound like a prick, darling, but I don’t really give two shits about Dominic Cobb. What about you?”

“I’ll be fine, Eames, don’t worry about me.”

“I always worry about you, Arthur.”

Arthur turns, “ If we pull this off, and if Cobb makes it through security okay…Chicago, for a bit. To lay low.”

“Chicago, hm? Isn’t that where you’ve sent Ariadne?”

“She’s new ,” Arthur says, “I just want to be sure she makes it okay. Besides, Chicago’s…it’s only a couple hours from Peoria.”

“...that’s where your sister…”

“Rachel, yeah.”

“Well,” Eames says, “That’s — big, hm?”

“Provided I actually work up the nerve to let her see me this time.”

“ Nerve isn’t really something you lack.”

“People think I’m scary,” Arthur says, “They haven’t seen her .”

Eames laughs, “I’ll have to take your word for it. So Chicago, Peoria. Then what?”

“A break, for a while,” Arthur says, then, at the incredulous look he gets in response, “Not permanently , don’t look at me like that. I’ve just — it’s been a row of shit jobs with Cobb. I want to remember why I used to like this. Figure out where I’m going next.”

“Admirable. I was thinking Toronto, myself, for a bit.”

“Not a bad plan,” Arthur muses, “Gets you out of the country while all this blows over. Plus you somehow haven’t pissed off the Canadians yet.”

“Arthur,” Eames says, and his hands find the man’s knee beneath the table. Arthur inhales, sharp, but doesn’t flinch away, “I know I might’ve mucked this all up already…”

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Arthur says, and then does pull it away. Eames flexes his empty fingers. Arthur stands up.

“Do me a favor?” he says, tucking the chair back beneath the table, “If Mal pops up tomorrow, shoot her on sight? She’s made a real fun habit of aiming for my kneecap.”

“Sounds like something you should take up with Cobb.”

“Oh, I fully intend on having a conversation about that,” Arthur says, “ After . Goodnight, Mr. Eames.”

Ariadne had glanced back, when the other two left. Eames hopes Arthur does the same.

He doesn’t.

Eames tries and fails not to take it personally.

.

The job goes…

…well, it goes.

Arthur very nearly loses his shit, when Fischer’s projections turn out to be militarized. Eames very nearly punches Cobb, when he puts the blame on Arthur, vows to actually punch him, when he admits this mission is just a tad more dangerous than they’ve all been briefed.

It’s not self-control that keeps him from doing it under.

It’s just that it will feel more satisfying, punching him for real.

There’s no time for talking, or arguing. No time for Eames to tell Arthur to stop beating himself up, no time for him to consider that there’s a non-zero chance he’ll have uttered his last words to Arthur during the whole fiasco.

“Security’s going to run you down hard,” he says.

Please be careful , he means.

“And I will lead them on a merry chase,” Arthur says.

You too , Eames hears.

“Just be back before the kick,” he says.

I love you, he means, I should have said it sooner .

“Go to sleep, Mr. Eames.”

Eames couldn’t say what that means.

But he does remember a conversation, years ago. Where he’d admitted his aversion to needles, no matter how many times he’d done it.

As he drifts off, he thinks about how Arthur had slipped the needle under his skin without him even noticing.

And how he hadn’t done it for anyone else.

He thinks he may be mulling over what that means for a long, long time.

The job goes , and he wakes up. They all do.

They avoid each other in the airport. There’s a bit more staring than usual, and Eames half-expects them all to get an angry, encoded email from Arthur about being on their guard; that is, until he catches Arthur doing the same, offering Cobb the subtlest of nods as he waits for his suitcase.

And, well…if even Arthur is willing to let slip, a bit, he can hardly take it out on Eames. Not when he sidles up to the luggage carousel behind him, lets his fingers brush against the back of Arthur’s hand as he reaches forward to grab his bag.

“Pardon,” he mutters, and then sweeps away.

.

Eames isn’t usually one to follow up on jobs. He’s never quite given a damn about how things go once his cut has been wired. Never cared if their efforts had actually worked , or where any of the others had wound up.

Yusuf spends three days on a beach in California before making his way back to Mombasa. Creature of habit, that one is.

Ariadne makes it to her parents’ house in Chicago. She sends him a Snapchat , an app he absolutely has not downloaded himself, and he’s pretty sure he only has himself to blame for her newly-developed sneakiness.

Cobb makes it home to his kids. Arthur sends his usual debrief email, reminding them what to burn or shred or forget, professional as always. But he adds an attachment: a picture from Cobb, of the children playing with a small spinning top. 

And Arthur…

Eames hopes he made it to Peoria. He doesn’t text, but the debrief at least proves he hadn’t gotten mowed down on his way out of the airport. Eames finds himself checking his phone too often, as if Arthur might suddenly appear. 

He doesn’t.

Until he does.

A man can’t live on take-out forever — at least, not when he’s already been lectured by two physicians and an experimental chemist about his sodium intake. Eames eventually makes his way to a grocery around the corner, picks up some essentials and carts them home in the reusable tote bags the cashier had shamed him into purchasing. He’s slightly miscalculated, he realizes halfway up the walk. His hands are full, and his keys are in his pocket, and he’s going to wind up knocking a bag of groceries over trying to fumble between it all.

“Need some help?”

The bags nearly go anyway. Eames straightens, lifts his chin.

Arthur smiles. He’s taking a seat on the top step, leaning forward with his forearms across his knees. He’s finally trimmed his hair, but he’s left it loose. It curls over his forehead. He’s in a tee-shirt . And jeans . 

“Surprised you didn’t let yourself in,” Eames says, aiming for casual, “Didn’t feel like breaking a nail picking the lock?”

“Didn’t feel like risking you shooting me,” Arthur says, then, upon giving Eames a quick scan, “Although I guess I would’ve survived. Just a pocketknife, really?”

“You know me darling, bit of a risk-taker. Why are you here?”

Arthur reaches into his pocket, pulls out a folded slip of paper.

“I found this in my coat pocket, after the airport. After some asshole bumped into me at bag claim.”

Eames doesn’t need to look to know what it is.

I owe u 1 blowjob , it says, in Arthur’s messy cursive, on the back of a faded, crumpled Tesco’s receipt.

“Have you not cashed this in already?” Arthur asks, “I feel like I must’ve done it at some point over the years.”

“Well I never asked for it explicitly,” Eames counters, “‘s like a genie, isn’t it? Have to say I wish . Hand over the coupon and all. A proper transaction.”

“I can’t believe you kept this. It’s been, what, ten years?”

“I’d be a fool to turn down a free blowie, wouldn’t I?”

“Just to be clear,” Arthur says, “If I come in…”

“It’s for a lot more than just that, darling. If you come in I might never let you leave. Terrible idea. You should say no. But I’m terribly selfish, really, and I can’t quite be arsed to care about the danger anymore.”

Arthur nods. He palms the note, pushes off the steps to stand up. He hops down, and Eames holds his breath as Arthur moves into his space. They don’t break eye contact, even as Arthur’s hand slips into Eames’s pocket, tugging his keys free.

“Well then,” he says, “Hope you bought enough food.”

Later, Eames will apologize for that night in Minsk.

Later, Arthur will tell Eames about how he’d finally convinced himself to approach his sister. How she’d slapped him across the face, hard, and then pulled him into an even harder hug. 

Later, they’ll swap stories. Eames will tally off the security he’d taken down on the mountain, and Arthur will brag about his zero-gravity improvised kick.

Later, Eames will get another Snapchat from Ariadne, will reply with a picture of his own: Arthur, in sweatpants, flipping pancakes in Eames’s kitchen.

Later, Arthur will make good on his decades-old promise, and Eames will brand the image of Arthur’s mouth on him into his mind forever.

Now, Eames just smiles. He hoists the groceries, and follows Arthur up the stairs.