a man had a dream about a woman and then he met her (1/2)
Title: a man had a dream about a woman and then he met her
Rating: NC-17
"Much as it pains me," Arthur says to Eames, "I have to ask a favor." He is regarding the other man across a table in a crowded bar, arms crossed over his chest and glass of scotch half gone. Eames cocks his head, a smile tugging at his plush lips.
"A personal favor?"
"Don't push your luck," Arthur answers, and unfolds his arms to pick up his glass again. "No, work-related."
"Where's the fun in that?" Eames grouses, but makes a 'go on' gesture. Arthur is quiet for a moment.
"I need to learn to forge," he finally says, and Eames raises an eyebrow.
"Not to sound immodest, but you've already got the best forger in the business, pet."
"When you're free, sure. But you aren't always free, Eames, and besides, I always feel better about having back-up options."
Eames regards Arthur for a long moment. The reasons are valid, and Arthur is conscientious to a fault- well, no, not a fault, because it keeps his teams safe and makes him the best point man in the business to work with. Which is why, all things considered, it's intriguing that he's asking this now, when he's had ample opportunities in the past. It can't possibly be the first time he's thought of it. That, along with his reticence, leads Eames to the inevitable conclusion that there's something else at work here, something more interesting and more personal than mere professional excellence.
Arthur has always been an unsolvable puzzle, but Eames knows an opportunity to pick up another piece of it when he sees one. He gives Arthur his most beguiling smile.
"I don't work cheap."
"I'm aware. And you, Mr. Eames, are aware that I can afford you."
Eames chuckles. "All the same, I think for you I can drop my fee a little, darling. As a personal favor."
"Mm, and here was me prepared to pay you extra. As a personal favor."
"Well, in that case," Eames says, and Arthur smirks at him over the rim of his glass as Eames tries to backpedal, "maybe we should settle at the usual price and have done with it."
"That's fair," Arthur agrees easily, and extends a hand for Eames to shake. Eames holds on just a little longer than he needs to, but not quite long enough to get Arthur to break his wrist. Eames can see him consider it, though, before he remembers that he needs Eames to not be angry with him and settles for a narrowing of dark eyes as Eames draws his hand back with a smile.
"So, how does Tuesday sound?"
"Forging isn't just about changing how you look, that's the thing most people don't realize," Eames is explaining, sitting slouched in his chair. "The focus to keep another appearance comes with practice, and you're so bloody single-minded that you shouldn't have too much trouble with that. But to be believable you have to know your subject inside and out. How they talk, how they walk, how they move, their little nervous ticks, how they think, what they feel, where they've come from, what they want."
"I know a good forgery is difficult," Arthur murmurs, though he doesn't look up from the notes he's scribbling down in his Moleskine. "I certainly appreciate the expertise required of you, Eames."
"Well, it'll be expertise required of you if you're going to moonlight as a forger," Eames reminds him. "In the interest of time, I think we should start you on someone you know pretty well already. Think you're up to impersonating Cobb?"
"It's as good a place to begin as any," Arthur says with a shrug, sliding the lead of the PASIV into his arm. "I'll give us an hour to start with."
Arthur's practice dreamscape is nondescript, the usual sleek financial-district look he always defaults to when the architecture isn't important. Eames rolls his eyes- no imagination- but doesn't bother to needle him about it today, just follows Arthur's lead into a high-rise hotel and down the hall to the bathroom. Eames leans against one of the sinks, watching as Arthur stares at himself in the mirror.
"So how do I actually do this?" Arthur asks. "I know how Cobb looks, do I just... imagine myself as him?"
"Not exactly. It's more... you have to become him."
"God, why would I want to do that?" Arthur says without thinking about it, and Eames lets out a bark of laughter. Arthur's cheeks go a little pink, but he smiles sheepishly. "Um. Don't tell him I said that."
"Your secret's safe with me, Arthur. But go on, try it."
Arthur lets out a breath and shuts his eyes, and Eames watches his features flicker and shift as he struggles for Cobb's body, face rounding, hair lightening. To his credit, Arthur's posture changes, going solid and heavy and losing some of Arthur's own tension, replacing it with the weighted-down cast that Cobb's shoulders always seem to bear. When he opens his eyes, they have gone blue and narrow, but his build remains resolutely slender, his face stubbornly clean-shaven. Cobb's posture looks wrong on Arthur's skinny frame.
"You need some more bulk," Eames instructs him. "Cobb's stockier than you, so you have to fill out."
"I..." Arthur frowns again but with Cobb's squinting scowl. For a moment it looks like he might get it right, his shoulders starting to broaden, but then the illusion is abruptly gone. It's just Arthur, standing in front of the mirror looking frustrated. "I can't get the muscle on."
"Sure you can," Eames assures him, "you changed your face, you can change your body. And you had his stance and expressions, which is the hard part."
"Not when you've seen that posture for years on end."
Eames grins at him. "The importance of research, darling. We do have some common ground."
Arthur rolls his eyes, then turns them blue.
By the time they wake, Arthur still hasn't managed to adopt Cobb's heavier build, and he opens his eyes with a look of frustration.
"You'll get it," Eames promises, sliding the IV from his wrist and getting to his feet. "I'll see you tomorrow, Arthur."
"Let's try something different this time," Eames suggests. "I'm getting sick of seeing Cobb's squint whenever you try to focus."
"I can't be held responsible for facial expressions that aren't even mine," Arthur mutters distractedly. He's experimenting with his hair in the mirror, and Eames watches it shading to a deep auburn and taking on a soft wave. The forgery holds when Arthur turns back to Eames- it's not a color that looks particularly good on him, but it's very well executed. "Who did you have in mind?"
"Try me," Eames suggests. Arthur arches a brow and falls into Eames' posture first, loosening his stance, adopting that swagger, and it looks strange on Arthur, who is built small and narrow and is always so deliberate, so poised in everything he does. The moment breaks when Arthur's body slowly starts to fill out, gradual but definite, not stuck in his own shape like he had been with Cobb. It's at the face that Arthur gets hung up, bone structure not going heavy enough and jaw remaining close-shaven, though Eames' eyes and lips seem to come to Arthur easily. Interesting.
It takes a solid half an hour for Arthur to settle completely into Eames' shape, and it's uncanny, looking at himself reflected in Arthur like this.
"What do you think, darling?" Arthur asks, the words coming out in Eames' own British drawl, caressing the syllables when he speaks. The words sound like a silky come-on instead of a professional question, and Eames spares a moment to wonder how much of that is really Eames and how much is just Arthur's perception. Eames grins at him, and then slips into Arthur's skin.
"It'll do," he says in Arthur's own dismissive tones, and Arthur throws Eames' gravelly chuckle back at him.
"Your condescension is, as always, much appreciated," Arthur parrots, teasing, and abruptly Eames wants, desperately, to see that wicked glint of amusement in Arthur's own eyes instead of borrowed ones. He is started by the sudden strength of it.
Arthur still can't hold his forgery very long, and soon he is back to his own body, back to his usual grave expression- but it's a start. They practice daily, until Arthur can slide into Eames' shape relatively quickly and hold on to it for more than fifteen minutes at a stretch before Eames suggests they try something different.
"Pick a woman, any woman," he says grandly, kicking back in his chair. He expects Arthur to have trouble with this, finding the proportions and weight and feel of the opposite sex. Eames had, at first.
Instead, Arthur's body changes in all the right ways, taking on lushly curving hips and perfect breasts, a trim waist and a slender neck. His hair lengthens, curls, and then Mal's face is looking at Eames, but Mal as she had been when he first met her, beautiful and young and kind. Mal with her liquid, haunting eyes, Mal with her soft smiles and sundresses, Mal the mother and the mentor and the friend. Mal who Arthur had, once upon a time, trusted with his life.
"Eames," Arthur says, jarring him from his thoughts. The voice is gentle and rich with her accent, and the memories of her Eames had let himself forget come back in a rush. Mal had trusted him when no one else had, but it has been so long since she was any more than a violent shade in the depths of Cobb's mind. He swallows, pushes back the sudden pang of loss the sight of her sends through him and focuses on Arthur, Arthur. She is Arthur.
"I see someone's in touch with their feminine side," Eames remarks, teasing as a distraction. Arthur doesn't react defensively, though, much to Eames' surprise- no denial, no shooting Eames in the head. Just a shrug of Mal's shoulders, and then a moment later it is Ariadne standing in front of him, her curious eyes and tiny frame and a bright scarf around her neck.
"What's your point?" Arthur asks. His voice- Ariadne's voice- is calm.
"No point. Just took me longer to be able to do that when I was starting out."
Ariadne's lips quirk into one of Arthur's restrained little smiles. "It's not that hard. Or maybe I'm just better at it than you were."
The kick comes before Eames can retort.
"Creating a new person is quite different from becoming someone who already exists," Eames explains. He and Arthur are sitting together at Arthur's desk, a blank sheet of paper and a box of colored pencils spread out in front of them. "You have to decide everything about them, every detail, every little tick that will make the forgery seem real. You have to have-" he grins- "imagination."
Eames picks up a pencil, twirling it between his fingers as he continues, "I usually start by sketching them out. Helps me pin down their features, get a feel for what I'll be doing in the dream. Let's say, for the hell of it, that I need a Japanese loli girl for a job." Eames starts sketching, quick lines forming the outline of a slender young woman, petite, with a demure stance. To that Eames begins adding the clothing: the dress is chocolate brown, long sleeves puffed at the shoulder and a full skirt edged in ruffles. The dress buttons up all the way up the throat, and after a moment's consideration Eames adds a bow at the neck, and then sketches in stockings and shoes. Arthur watches all this in interest- he remembers seeing clothes like this last time he was in Osaka- but it is when Eames begins drawing his forgery's face that Arthur's attention sharpens, and it is there that Eames lingers longest, perfecting the shape of her face, her almond eyes, her small mouth, her mass of curled black hair.
"The body is important," Eames murmurs, "but the face is crucial." He darkens, fractionally, the line of her lashes, then pauses. "I probably should have asked before we started this if you can draw."
"Well enough," Arthur answers, picking up his own pencil. "All right. Let's say I need a businesswoman."
She is practically jumping out of his pencil, Eames observes, watching Arthur's hand fly across the paper like this woman has been waiting, just waiting to be realized. Decent height and trim as Arthur himself but with roundness to her hips and just enough of a chest to be womanly, not enough to be particularly distracting. Arthur, being Arthur, puts her in a suit- gray pencil skirt and jacket over a dark blouse. She looks, Eames thinks as he watches Arthur start on her face, a good deal like Arthur himself might if he were a woman. Her face is rounder, jaw a bit less sharp, but she has the same serious expression, the same fathomless dark eyes. Her hair falls in loose waves around her face, though, not slicked back like Arthur wears his, and Eames decides against making an issue of any similarities. A radical change isn't really the place to start, anyway.
"She'll work," he declares. "Focus on her while I set up the PASIV. Every last detail, everything about her, remember it."
Arthur nods like he's not really listening, and Eames sighs and goes to flip open the silver briefcase by the lawn chairs and set the timer. A minute later, Arthur comes over and settles in his usual spot, and Eames hands him a lead and takes one for himself.
"See you on the other side," Arthur says, and they go to sleep.
In the dream, in person, Arthur's new forgery is really fucking beautiful. It takes Eames a while to track her down- he finds her sitting on a park bench, watching ducks in a pond. She has good posture, but not so tense as Arthur always is, and in profile Eames becomes absurdly fixated for a brief flash of a moment on her adorable little nose.
"Well I'd do business with you," Eames says, sitting down next to Arthur, who makes an amused little sound in the back of his throat.
"And where is your disguise, Mr. Eames?"
"I don't really need the practice," he says with a shrug, but turns into her anyway. Arthur's eyes still crinkle at the corners when he smiles.
"She's cute."
"I might use her again sometime," Eames muses, but in a soft, girly voice with a pronounced Japanese accent. "Do you think Saito-san would like me?"
Arthur snickers. "Saito would probably kill you."
"Only if he found out," Eames protests, but he's laughing- giggling, really, a bubbling feminine sound for this forgery.
They stay under for two hours of dreaming, and Arthur's new face doesn't so much as flicker once.
"I think you've got what you need from me. You know what you're doing now, and practice on your own will take care of the rest."
Arthur actually smiles, genuinely smiles at Eames, wide enough that his cheeks dimple. "Thanks for teaching me. I... well. I couldn't have done it without your help."
Eames makes a dismissive noise. "You could have. It just would have been much harder, taken much longer, and been much less fun."
"Mm," Arthur hums noncommittally. "I'll have your payment tomorrow, if you can swing by the warehouse to get it. Do you have anything else lined up?"
"Not at the moment," Eames answers with a shrug, "but I've got plenty to live off of for a while, even with the amount I burn though." He grins, self-deprecating, and Arthur looks wry.
"If you're up for postponing your life of leisure a bit longer, I may have a job prospect," he says casually, "and I could do with someone to watch my back. Ariadne's designing the maze, but she's not going down there with me."
"Protecting her?"
Arthur shakes his head, lips twitching up at the corners. "She has exams."
"Better her than me," Eames says. "I could probably spare some time to help you out. Where will it be?"
"Brussels, it looks like."
Eames makes a face. "Brussels? Really? I hope it pays well, Belgium is the most bloody boring country I've ever been to."
"It pays very well indeed. Besides, stealing secrets from diplomats sounds like your kind of job."
"You know me so well, darling. Sounds like fun."
"I'll get you the details with the pay for those lessons, then."
"Perfect. See you tomorrow."
Arthur is alone in the warehouse and hooked up to the PASIV when Eames lets himself in. He always looks peaceful in sleep, Eames muses, calm and at ease the way he never seems to be when awake. It's a good look for him; Arthur is usually much too tense.
He could give Arthur a kick to wake him, of course, or even just wait for the time to run out, but where's the fun in that? Instead, Eames settles down in the chair next to Arthur, pulls out a second lead, and sinks into sleep.
It's not a particularly exciting dream, but it's a pleasant one; Eames finds himself in the middle of a lush, green garden, the air a riot of sweet floral scents. It is warm, the sun bright in an impossibly blue sky, and Eames can hear birdsong.
In the center of it all is Arthur's female forgery, lying stretched out on the grass in a white cotton sundress and staring up at the sky. Arthur looks absolutely, perfectly at peace.
Arthur looks beautiful. It hits Eames like a kick, this goddess in the grass, and before he even thinks to remember that he shouldn't be here in Arthur's dream to begin with he is kneeling beside him, running his fingers through her hair.
"Eames," Arthur says on a startled breath, pushing up on his elbow, and Eames can only stare in naked, helpless want. He knows she’s still Arthur, still something different in reality, but he brushes the thought aside. He wants her like this, desperately.
"Please, Arthur. It's only a dream."
Arthur watches him with those wide, dark eyes. "Call me Arlet, if I'm the woman of your dreams."
"Arlet," Eames murmurs, rolling the name around in his mouth, and Arlet lays a hand lightly over his in a silent acquiescence. It's all Eames needs to surge forward and kiss her, and Arlet arches up to him with a soft little noise in her throat that makes him dizzy with want. She is so soft and strong beneath him, and the smell of her skin is headier than the garden flowers.
Arlet slides him out of his shirt, and her small hands are all over him, mapping his skin and tracing his tattoos. She takes her time touching him; they are in no hurry, and she is nothing if not thorough, thorough and unexpectedly sweet. Eames rucks up the skirt of her dress, and Arlet obligingly sits up just enough to pull it off and cast it aside on the grass. Her pert little breasts are bare, and Eames palms both, learning their feel cupped in his hands, the way Arlet lets out a gasping sort of sigh and arches into his touch.
"You're so gorgeous," Eames breathes against her skin, and swirls his tongue around one rosy nipple, feeling it tighten. Arlet moans softly and works his belt and pants open, slides her hand into his boxers and wraps slender fingers around Eames' cock. Eames hisses in a breath, hips bucking into the touch, and Arlet smiles up at him with a faint gleam of mischief in her chocolate eyes.
Whatever plan that clever mind has brewing, though, is cut off by Eames tugging her underwear off and pushing her legs open, dipping his head to taste her. Arlet's whole body jerks in surprised pleasure, and then she lets her legs fall open wider, threads her fingers in Eames's hair.
"Oh," she says when Eames teases at her with the tip of his tongue, and her hips press for more friction. Her grins and pins her hips down before he gives her what she's aching for, licking and sucking at her clit until Arlet is a bundle of desperate nerves, writhing and moaning for more, please, more. She is wet and hot and slick with lust, and she finishes with his fingers buried inside her and his tongue relentless, still working her through her climax even as she arches and shakes and her grip on his hair goes painful. It takes her a long time to come down from the high again. She looks dazed.
"That... that was amazing."
Eames grins. "Rocked your world, have I, love? I'm only getting started."
"I don't even care how insufferable it's going to make you to admit this, because yes, you absolutely did." She tugs the rest of Eames' clothes off with quick, economical motions, her eyes turning hungry. "And if you're only getting started, by all means, keep going."
Eames is more than happy to oblige.
In reality, Arthur is still Arthur, and neither of them talks about it. Arthur has any number of excellent qualities- he is clever and collected and incredibly competent- but there’s a world of difference between flirting and acting that Eames isn’t ready to negotiate. In dreams, Arthur is Arlet, and- well, actually, they don't talk all that much there, either, but for completely different reasons. Arthur tells Ariadne that he's killing two birds with one stone, practicing forgery while he's on the training runs, and Ariadne shrugs and lets it slide because she trusts Arthur and is only there intermittently to teach them the mazes anyway.
"You should really learn to forge more than one shape," Eames remarks absently one day. "Not that I object to this one, mind, she's lovely. But you can't use her for everything."
Something goes shadowed and unhappy in Arlet's eyes. "Not she," she says quietly, and Eames' brow creases in confusion.
"Beg pardon, darling?"
"Not she's lovely," Arlet clarifies, "I am."
"You aren't getting a split personality on me now, are you, darling?"
Arlet lets out a bitter-sounding laugh. The click of her heels as she walks gets sharper.
"No. No, of course not. It's not like Arthur is some kind of freak or something." Her voice is hard and miserable, and Eames grabs her by the arms in genuine worry.
"Arthur-"
"Don't call me that!" She tries to twist away, but he holds fast- she can't pull loose or reach for her gun, so she settles for glaring. Her gaze is hot and angry and wrecked, and Eames spares the barest of moments to wonder how the hell he of all people never saw the raw, gnawing thing at Arthur's core.
"Arlet," he starts again, "please just tell me what's wrong."
She's scaring him, scaring him half to death, but at least the pieces finally make sense when she admits, defeated and defiant, "I'm a woman."
Eames doesn't know what to say, doesn't know if there really is anything to say in a situation like this, so he just pulls Arlet tight against his chest and folds his arms around her, breathing in the smell of her hair. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she relaxes against him, but her shoulders are shaking.
"Shh," Eames soothes, "shh, it's okay, pet."
"It's not," she says, voice choking up, but she is still that same steadfast person Eames knows when she looks up at him; no tears fall. "I've spent my life being wrong."
"You aren't wrong. Never that."
"My body is."
This Eames acknowledges with a nod, then leans down and kisses her gently. "Not here."
"Not here. Thank you for that."
"I wouldn't have put you through the hoops if I'd known."
Arlet manages a hint of a smile. "Well, it is a useful skill. Wasn't the reason, but it's true."
"Explains why Cobb was so difficult for you." Eames is petting her soft hair, and Arlet lets herself lean into the touch. "Doesn't explain why I was easier."
Arlet actually blushes. "I, um. I had looked at you like I hadn't ever at Cobb. My guess is there's a difference between my seeing him as just a male shape, and you as a, ah. Object of desire. The first is kind of repulsive for me, the second obviously not."
Eames remembers how fast Arlet had filled in Eames' lips, his eyes. As if she had memorized them. The puzzle is falling into place.
He grins at her. "So you did want me."
"You were the one who flirted with me, Mr. Eames," Arlet reminds him, nonplussed, and glances at her watch. "Time's going to be up in a minute."
"Yeah." He shrugs, thrusts his hands in his pockets. "We'll be back, though."
The next morning, Eames walks in still trying to reconcile the man he sees sitting at the desk with the woman he had in his arms in their dreams the day before. Dark eyes glance up, nervous, and Eames drops into the nearest chair.
"What should I call you when we're awake?" he asks in a murmur, and hands over a coffee.
"Arlet when we're alone," she says, and curls her hands around the cup. "I'm not out, obviously, but that doesn't-" she sighs. Frowns, tries again, "The me you see when we're asleep is me. And it's one thing to be called Arthur by people who don't know better, because I let them think that and that's my decision, but you do know better, so."
"So treat you as you are," Eames finishes for her, "got it."
She flashes him a grateful smile and takes a drink of her coffee- black, no sugar. "Thank you."
"For what, exactly?"
"For being so... so reasonable about this. People can be terrible about what they don't understand, you know that as well as I do."
"I'm a forger, love," Eames reminds her, "it's my job to understand everyone."
Arlet looks at him for a long moment, the morning light through the window catching in her eyes. "I'm going to kiss you now," she says, and that's all the warning she gives before she leans in and presses her lips to Eames'. In reality, her lips are a little thinner, a little drier, but she kisses with the same single-minded intensity, giving it all her attention.
But when Eames wraps his arms around her, her shoulders are Arthur's, her chest a flat plane, and Eames breaks the kiss, his breath rough in his chest.
'Wait, wait," he says, "I can't- I mean. I like you a lot, Arlet, I do, but I- I'm not gay. Or at least I don’t think I am."
Arlet pulls back like she's been slapped. "Neither am I."
Eames exhales a frustrated breath and rakes a hand through his hair. "Right, no, I didn't mean it like that. It’s not about you. Look, Arlet, I get that you're a woman, right, you've made that clear. But here, like this, you... well you said it yourself, this body isn't that."
But she's already withdrawing, pulling back into herself, hiding in the crisp lines of Arthur's suits. "Right," she says flatly, "got it. If you'll excuse me, then, I have work to be doing."
"Darling-"
"Work, Eames," she snaps and Eames has no choice but to move away and leave her to it.
The coffee on her desk sits untouched for the rest of the day.
It's not, Eames thinks as he frowns down at his drink, that he doesn't understand what Arlet has been saying to him. He does, he honestly does, and he believes every word she's told him. Thinks of her, even, as "she," as Arlet, even when it's the Arlet in three-piece suits and crisp oxford shirt and ties. Eames still likes that Arlet, even with all the tense snappishness that the discord between self and body bring- she is still clever and competent and cool, and there is still that spark of pleasure when the façade cracks and she smiles, or laughs, or tells one of her dry little jokes. She is still the same impossible, infuriating, stunning, perfect woman whatever body she's wearing, and Eames knows this.
He knows it all, and his head understands it. Eames is very, very good at understanding things, but that doesn't change the fact that in reality Arlet doesn't have those pretty curves. Physically she's very much male, an x and a y, and however much she hates it doesn't change the fact that outside of dreams Arlet has a dick and that Eames doesn't know how to deal with that. Flirting with Arthur to irritate him was one thing. Messing around with men in their dreams was one thing. This is something else, something he doesn’t know what to do with, this confused attraction to her.
Eames sighs and flops back on his sofa, flipping his cell phone open and closed with one hand. He can't call Arlet, not yet. Almost without his permission, Eames' fingers are dialing the only other number he has to call. He almost hangs up after the first ring, but his sister picks up before he has a chance to make up his mind.
"Jack, hey."
"Theresa, kitten, how are you?"
"I'm doing good." He can hear the smile in her voice, and instantly regrets not calling her more often. She's only a year younger than him; they had been so close growing up, but his line of work makes closeness so hard to keep.
"Glad to hear it. Sorry I haven't been in touch."
"You better be, loser."
Eames grins in spite of herself. "I'm suitably chastened."
Theresa makes a dismissive, disbelieving noise. "Nothing can chasten you."
"Guilty as charged. Mostly. Actually, that's sort of-" he breaks off. "Listen, T, you got some time on your hands?"
"Always got time for you, big brother. Hang on a sec, I'm gonna go upstairs first." There is a pause, and the background noises of television and voices fade into silence. "Okay," she says, "now shoot. It sounds like something's eating at you."
"Yeah." Eames huffs out a wry laugh. "Yeah. Girl trouble, I guess you'd say."
"Since when do you have girl trouble?" she accuses genially. "You were always the ladykiller."
"The lady isn't... completely a lady, technically, I guess you could say."
"Okay, wow, way to be vague. Can you try for a little less cryptic?"
Eames sighs. "Right. So there's this... this guy I work with."
"The dream stuff?"
"Yeah. Anyway, long story short: it turns out, not a guy at all. She's trans. She's a woman in the shared dreams, but reality- well. Still a woman obviously, but physically not, and I-"
"-you're having a sexual crisis about it," Theresa finishes for him. Eames closes his eyes.
"Yes."
"Okay. Have you shagged her yet?"
"Theresa!"
"Well, have you?"
"Just in the dreams."
"What about awake?"
"She kissed me once."
"Uh huh." He can practically hear the look Theresa is giving him. "You freaked out, didn't you?"
"I... "freaked out" makes it sound so-"
"Yeah, yeah, got it. Look, Jack, cut the bullshit if you want my advice."
He sighs, defeated. "I freaked out. I'm straight, T. Or maybe bi-curious, if you count pretending to be a woman in dreams to distract people."
"All right, first of all? That doesn't sound very straight to me. Second, do you even know if she wants to have sex with you when she's in a guy's body? Because to me that sounds like it'd be completely horrible for her- I mean, if you were trans, would you really want to get into the most obvious reminder of them all that your body isn't what it should be?"
"Well, when you put it like that."
"You suck at this communication thing," Theresa informs him flatly. "It's a good thing you read people well, otherwise everyone would hate you. Just talk to her, Jack, and try not to say anything wildly insensitive."
"Right. Except I'm pretty sure I already did that."
"Then apologize for being an idiot. And get over yourself and make out with her, for God's sake, let her know she's wanted. Trans women are still women, you shouldn't need me to tell you all this."
"Maybe I just needed to hear it from someone else. It sounds so good in your "Jack is a moron" voice, pet."
Theresa snorts out a laugh. "Okay. Well, I hope I helped. Is she cute?"
Eames grins. "She's bloody beautiful, actually. Pretty little brunette with big brown eyes and an amazing arse."
"Which version?"
"Well, both, actually."
Theresa laughs. "Nice. Do I get to meet her?"
"If it works out," he hedges. "Not sure you'd get along, though. She and I sure as hell didn't at first. Kind of has a stick up her arse."
"Can't be all bad if you like her so much," Theresa says. "Promise me you'll bring her 'round when you get the chance, all right?"
"Promise." Eames lets out a breath and sits up. "So, enough about me. What have you been up to?"
The job in Brussels goes off smoothly, and has the added perk of getting their names off a few wanted lists that have been interfering with other business. Eames may be a thief and a freelancer by nature, but even he has to acknowledge that international espionage jobs have their share of perks.
He'd be feeling a lot better about it, though, if Arlet weren't still giving him the cold shoulder.
"Arlet?" he finally says, because he can't take the entire train ride in stony silence. She doesn't look up.
"Hm?"
"I wanted to apologize."
Then, at least, Arlet finally turns her head, though her expression is unreadable. Eames swallows and barrels on, "I was an idiot, the other day, and I just... I panicked, and I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."
Arlet sighs, and for a long moment she doesn't answer, staring out the window over Eames' shoulder as the countryside rushes by. "I know you didn't," she finally answers, "but thank you for the apology." Her fingers are fidgeting restlessly on the arm of her chair, and Eames stills them by curling a hand around hers. Arlet's gaze drops to their hands, and after a moment she laces her fingers with his and leans to rest her head on Eames's shoulder.
"You did well today," she murmurs, closing her eyes.
Arlet dozes for most of the train ride to Paris, a warm weight at Eames' side. Her skin smells faintly of citrus, and Eames almost hates to shake her awake as the train pulls into Gare Nord.
"Do you want to come back to mine for a while?" Arlet asks him as they head for the metro, and Eames recognizes that it's her quiet way of saying he's forgiven.
"Sure." He doesn't let go of her hand during the ride, and Arlet offers him a hint of a smile and squeezes his hand before she finally lets go at her door to unlock it.
Her apartment is clean and inviting, suggesting an owner who's not home often enough to make a mess but settles in to be comfortable when she is. Arlet shucks her jacket and hangs it up on a hook in the entryway, gesturing for Eames' with one hand.
"You have a nice place," Eames remarks, and she smiles at him.
"Thank you. Make yourself at home. Would you like anything to drink?"
"I'm fine, thanks, darling." Eames settles on the couch and pats the space next to him. Arlet curls into it without hesitation, cuddling up to his side. She flicks the television on, and they sit like that, Arlet watching the news and translating bits of it for Eames while he runs his fingers through her hair until the gel is worked soft.
"Hey, darling?"
"Mm?" she hums, turning her head to look up at him, and Eames traces a finger over her lips.
"I'm going to kiss you now," he tells her, and feels Arlet smile against his mouth when he presses his lips to hers. She reaches a hand up and threads it in his hair, thumb stroking the nape of his neck.
They end up falling asleep in Arlet's bed at three in the morning, Eames stripped down to his boxers and Arlet in a set of pajamas that cover most of her body, the two of them kissing until slumber claims them with their lips still pressed together.
Eames wakes the next morning to an empty bed, but he can hear the quiet sounds of Arlet rustling around elsewhere in the apartment, so he doesn't let it worry him. It comes as no surprise that she is an early riser- as long as he's known her, she has been the first to start work and the last to leave it. Eames stretches lazily and rolls out of bed, padding to the bathroom before going to seek her out.
She's not hard to find, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and the morning paper. Eames kisses the top of her head, and she smiles and snakes an arm around his waist, pulling him into a brief hug without looking up from the article she's reading. "There's coffee if you like," she tells him, "but I'm pretty much out of breakfast food at the moment, I'm afraid."
"That's all right." He pours himself a cup of coffee and settles in next to her, foot stroking over her ankle. "Maybe we should go get you some actual food, then take some time to ourselves with the PASIV, hm? Unless you have other plans."
"Even if I did, I like that one."
They finish their coffee and dress- without a job to do, Arlet substitutes a pair of nice jeans for her usual slacks, though she keeps her crisp oxford shirt- and head to the nearest grocery store, bickering amiably over what to get. Eames is an impulse shopper, picking up whatever appeals at the moment; Arlet is the type to make a methodical shopping list from which she refuses to deviate.
"We don't need ice cream," Arlet grouses at him, handing the cashier money for the groceries.
"Sure we do," Eames says. "If it'll make you feel better about a frivolous purchase, you can eat it off of me later." And right there in the checkout line, Eames leans in and kisses Arlet, slipping a hand down to give her ass a teasing squeeze.
"Pédés," spits the man behind them, and Arlet jerks back, cheeks burning scarlet. Eames doesn't speak much French, but the tone and Arlet's reaction are enough and he turns, hands clenching to fist.
Arlet's hand closes on his wrist. "Don't," she says, and picks up the grocery bag and tugs Eames quickly out of the store.
"You shouldn't have stopped me."
"I don't- I can't-" Arlet tries, then deflates miserably. "Maybe not. But I did."
Eames takes the grocery bag from her and slides his other arm around her shoulders for the rest of the walk to the apartment. Arlet stays silent, stone-faced, and still doesn't speak when they're inside save to tell Eames where things go.
"How about that time in your dreams we talked about, darling?" Eames asks, and Arlet seems to perk up a little.
"Please."
The dreamscape is more or less the same as Arlet's real apartment, save that the floors are all carpeted instead of hardwood. Arlet is still sitting perched on the same kitchen chair, but she's wearing a sleek midnight blue dress and a pair of strappy, spike-heeled shoes, and her hair is held back in a perfect French braid.
Eames wolf-whistles at her, and Arlet rolls her eyes.
"What? You look good," Eames says, eying her up and down without even a pretense of subtlety.
"Just because I'm your girl doesn't mean you get to objectify me."
"Well, you can objectify me all you like."
"I'm sure you'd enjoy that." Arlet uncrosses her legs and gets to her feet- standing in those heels, she's taller than Eames.
"I would. You've got legs for days, Jesus."
She just smiles and walks to her bedroom, hips swaying enticingly.
Needless to say, Eames follows.
The doorbell rings, and Arlet panics. What if it's Ariadne? Eames has been gone on business for two weeks- Yusuf needed a favor- and Ariadne is the only friendly associate in Paris who might know where this apartment is. But Arlet still doesn't know her all that well, and it would be one thing for Ariadne to come by and see Arthur-in-jeans, quite another for her to see Arlet, hanging around the house in the soft gray dress that she keeps hidden in her bottom dresser drawer.
Another ring, impatient, and Arlet peers through the peephole and lets out a sigh of relief. It's Eames, only Eames, and so she tugs the door open, her body obscured behind it while he walks in. To Eames' credit, there is only the briefest flicker of surprise in his gaze when he sees Arlet like this, in the right clothes but the wrong body, though she does what she can about the latter. Her legs and underarms are shaved bare, chin as smooth as ever, and her hair has been left to curl soft around her sharp face. It's not enough, not really, but it's better, enough better that there's a little less tension in her shoulders than usual.
"I had wondered," Eames remarks, pressing a kiss to her mouth. Arlet quirks a brow at him.
"You're back early. Wondered what?"
"I'm just that good, we got done faster than expected. Wondered if you ever- well, hm, I guess crossdress is the wrong word, isn't it, when it comes to you? The suits would be the crossdressing. I wondered if you ever didn't crossdress, then."
Arlet smiles faintly, both amused and pleased that Eames had worked through the tangle of words without her help. "Sometimes," she answers, motioning him to follow as she drifts to the kitchen for drinks. "Only between jobs, of course. I have a few things I wear, when I have the luxury." She pops open a bottle of beer for Eames, and a cider for herself. "Though I like suits quite a lot, actually. Professional, classic. If I looked the way I ought to, I'd probably dress much the same when I'm on the job." She takes a drink of her cider, and Eames watches her lips around the bottle, the way the muscles of her throat work when she swallows.
"Sexy," Eames says, thinking of the dreams. Usually Arlet spends a lot of their shared dreaming time wearing nothing at all, and her clothes are usually dresses, tailored and elegant and easy to remove. But those suits.
Arlet smiles like she knows exactly what he's thinking. "You could tell me how it looks in the dreams, one of these days," she offers casually, "since I can already tell that you're thinking about peeling me out of all those layers."
"You don't know that," Eames protests, and Arlet drops her gaze pointedly to his crotch. Eames glances down. "All right, maybe you do know that," he concedes, chuckling. It is an enjoyable thought; he makes no apologies for that. Arlet looks more amused than anything else, and drops gracefully on to one of the kitchen chairs.
"Someone's got a suit kink," she accuses lightly. "Now sit in a chair like a civilized person, Eames, and don't even think of hopping up on the counter."
Really, Eames thinks, sometimes Arlet knows a little too much.
"So," he says, "anything interesting happen while I was away? I know it's not likely, without me around, but you never know."
Arlet doesn't dignify the editorial comment with acknowledgment. "Actually, Cobb called."
"Isn't he retired now?"
"That's what I said," Arlet agrees, "but I can't say I'm surprised. Cobb's even more obsessive than I am, which, yes, I know, that's saying something."
Eames smiles. "So what's the job?"
"Bringing down a dirty district attorney."
"That sounds... surprisingly legitimate."
"He has the kids to think of, he wants to stay on the up. We'll need to be in L.A. on Thursday if we take it."
"Of course we're taking it. Right?"
Arlet smiles. "That's what I told him," she agrees, bringing her cider to her lips. Eames cocks his head.
"Does Cobb know?"
"Know...?"
"About you."
"Ah." A pause, another drink. "No. Well, probably not. If he does, it's not because I told him." She drums her fingers against the side of bottle for a moment. "Mal knew."
"Just her?"
Arlet nods. "I've known her longer than anyone, even Dom. She was... she was really good to me. I used to sit with her in her room, and she'd let me borrow a dress and do my makeup, and we would just talk. For hours, sometimes. She was like a sister to me, but without any of the fighting."
Eames watches her thoughtfully for a long moment. "Is there a reason you never had surgery? If you don't mind my asking."
"I couldn't when I was younger," Arlet says, "I was never out to my parents, and it's staying that way. Then there was West Point- bad idea, obviously- and then I was moving around all the time. Even if I could see a psychiatrist, which is unwise for someone who works in illegal extractions, I'd need to be able to stick with one of them in one place."
"So it's a logistical thing."
Arlet nods. "Believe me, I... if I thought it was at all feasible to do, I would. If I hadn't gone to West Point I'd have done it in college." She's quiet for a moment. "Does it bother you? That I still have a dick?"
"Oh, darling," Eames murmurs. "It's not what I usually go for, no, but I." He swallows. "I think I might be in love with you. And that's what's important."
Arlet's brown eyes go startled and wide, and then she pushes out of her chair and moves astride Eames' lap to kiss him, her hands cradling his face. Eames pulls her in close without any self-consciousness for his erection and forces down the twinge of discomfort he feels when Arlet's presses against him, even though she tries to hold her hips away as much as possible. It's not a turn-off, not like it should be, and it's that, more than anything, that makes Eames break for air, try to gather his thoughts and force them aside. She's Arlet, she's still Arlet, he tells himself.
She's still Arlet, and she's looking at him with worry and fear in her expression when Eames opens his eyes. Arlet, who isn't afraid of anything, looks nervous, and she shouldn't have to be.
"It's okay," Eames mumbles against her mouth, and Arlet presses close to him with less hesitation this time and winds her hands in his hair. Her hardness isn't unpleasant, not really, and the friction when she shifts her weight makes Eames draw in a quiet gasp.
"Let me suck you," she says, pupils blown wide, "my mouth is still my mouth. I want to make you feel good while you're awake for once."
"You make me feel good more often than you think," he answers, "but you can do whatever you want to me."
Arlet smiles, a flush staining her cheeks, and slides down to the kitchen floor, pushing Eames' legs apart to kneel between them. She unzips Eames' jeans and tugs the fabric out of the way, Eames shifting his hips obligingly to make it easier. Then she's pulling his cock out, and they never touch each other like this- in reality it’s all endless kisses and bodies curled close, but nothing like sex. Not in reality. This is new and different and they're both in way too deep with each other, but Eames stops thinking about that at the first touch of Arlet's tongue to the head of his cock, flicking lightly at the slit and tasting the fluid there before swirling around the head.
A low groan escapes Eames when Arlet licks up the underside of his cock and then takes him in her mouth, sucking hot and wet. Eames tangles his hands in her hair, too considerate to tug and pull but unable to resist touching her somehow while she slowly drives him out of his mind. His chest heaves with helpless want; even though she’s only done this to him in dreams, her mouth in this body still knows all the same tricks, all the ways to make him come apart, and soon Eames is moaning desperately. His hips don't have the leverage to thrust into her mouth or else he probably wouldn't be able to control himself. It feels so good, she feels so good, and when he comes in her mouth Eames knows somewhere in the back of his mind that she is watching every second of it.
He’s boneless, spent, and when Eames opens his eyes she is still kneeling on the linoleum between his spread legs, and there is something wild and complicated and infinitely tender in his gaze when their eyes meet.
"Is there. Is there anything I can do for you, darling?"
Arlet smiles up at him, that same look still haunting in her eyes even as they crinkle up at the corners. Arlet rises and pushes his legs back together so she can sit on his lap, smoothing her dress down.
"You've done more than you know," she murmurs cryptically. Her voice is wrecked and beautiful, and Eames pulls her in and kisses her deep, tasting himself on her clever tongue.
"Still," Eames murmurs, and Arlet nudges their noses together, a soft little nuzzle.
"No one else has been in love with me before," she whispers, "and that wasn't just timing or logistics or anything else. No one but you ever saw me like that."
"Their loss, my gain," Eames says, and hugs her close. Arlet closes her eyes and rests her head against his broad shoulder, smile still playing at her lips.
"I think I'm in love with you, too," she tells him, curling close. "Thank you."
Continue to part 2
Rating: NC-17
"Much as it pains me," Arthur says to Eames, "I have to ask a favor." He is regarding the other man across a table in a crowded bar, arms crossed over his chest and glass of scotch half gone. Eames cocks his head, a smile tugging at his plush lips.
"A personal favor?"
"Don't push your luck," Arthur answers, and unfolds his arms to pick up his glass again. "No, work-related."
"Where's the fun in that?" Eames grouses, but makes a 'go on' gesture. Arthur is quiet for a moment.
"I need to learn to forge," he finally says, and Eames raises an eyebrow.
"Not to sound immodest, but you've already got the best forger in the business, pet."
"When you're free, sure. But you aren't always free, Eames, and besides, I always feel better about having back-up options."
Eames regards Arthur for a long moment. The reasons are valid, and Arthur is conscientious to a fault- well, no, not a fault, because it keeps his teams safe and makes him the best point man in the business to work with. Which is why, all things considered, it's intriguing that he's asking this now, when he's had ample opportunities in the past. It can't possibly be the first time he's thought of it. That, along with his reticence, leads Eames to the inevitable conclusion that there's something else at work here, something more interesting and more personal than mere professional excellence.
Arthur has always been an unsolvable puzzle, but Eames knows an opportunity to pick up another piece of it when he sees one. He gives Arthur his most beguiling smile.
"I don't work cheap."
"I'm aware. And you, Mr. Eames, are aware that I can afford you."
Eames chuckles. "All the same, I think for you I can drop my fee a little, darling. As a personal favor."
"Mm, and here was me prepared to pay you extra. As a personal favor."
"Well, in that case," Eames says, and Arthur smirks at him over the rim of his glass as Eames tries to backpedal, "maybe we should settle at the usual price and have done with it."
"That's fair," Arthur agrees easily, and extends a hand for Eames to shake. Eames holds on just a little longer than he needs to, but not quite long enough to get Arthur to break his wrist. Eames can see him consider it, though, before he remembers that he needs Eames to not be angry with him and settles for a narrowing of dark eyes as Eames draws his hand back with a smile.
"So, how does Tuesday sound?"
"Forging isn't just about changing how you look, that's the thing most people don't realize," Eames is explaining, sitting slouched in his chair. "The focus to keep another appearance comes with practice, and you're so bloody single-minded that you shouldn't have too much trouble with that. But to be believable you have to know your subject inside and out. How they talk, how they walk, how they move, their little nervous ticks, how they think, what they feel, where they've come from, what they want."
"I know a good forgery is difficult," Arthur murmurs, though he doesn't look up from the notes he's scribbling down in his Moleskine. "I certainly appreciate the expertise required of you, Eames."
"Well, it'll be expertise required of you if you're going to moonlight as a forger," Eames reminds him. "In the interest of time, I think we should start you on someone you know pretty well already. Think you're up to impersonating Cobb?"
"It's as good a place to begin as any," Arthur says with a shrug, sliding the lead of the PASIV into his arm. "I'll give us an hour to start with."
Arthur's practice dreamscape is nondescript, the usual sleek financial-district look he always defaults to when the architecture isn't important. Eames rolls his eyes- no imagination- but doesn't bother to needle him about it today, just follows Arthur's lead into a high-rise hotel and down the hall to the bathroom. Eames leans against one of the sinks, watching as Arthur stares at himself in the mirror.
"So how do I actually do this?" Arthur asks. "I know how Cobb looks, do I just... imagine myself as him?"
"Not exactly. It's more... you have to become him."
"God, why would I want to do that?" Arthur says without thinking about it, and Eames lets out a bark of laughter. Arthur's cheeks go a little pink, but he smiles sheepishly. "Um. Don't tell him I said that."
"Your secret's safe with me, Arthur. But go on, try it."
Arthur lets out a breath and shuts his eyes, and Eames watches his features flicker and shift as he struggles for Cobb's body, face rounding, hair lightening. To his credit, Arthur's posture changes, going solid and heavy and losing some of Arthur's own tension, replacing it with the weighted-down cast that Cobb's shoulders always seem to bear. When he opens his eyes, they have gone blue and narrow, but his build remains resolutely slender, his face stubbornly clean-shaven. Cobb's posture looks wrong on Arthur's skinny frame.
"You need some more bulk," Eames instructs him. "Cobb's stockier than you, so you have to fill out."
"I..." Arthur frowns again but with Cobb's squinting scowl. For a moment it looks like he might get it right, his shoulders starting to broaden, but then the illusion is abruptly gone. It's just Arthur, standing in front of the mirror looking frustrated. "I can't get the muscle on."
"Sure you can," Eames assures him, "you changed your face, you can change your body. And you had his stance and expressions, which is the hard part."
"Not when you've seen that posture for years on end."
Eames grins at him. "The importance of research, darling. We do have some common ground."
Arthur rolls his eyes, then turns them blue.
By the time they wake, Arthur still hasn't managed to adopt Cobb's heavier build, and he opens his eyes with a look of frustration.
"You'll get it," Eames promises, sliding the IV from his wrist and getting to his feet. "I'll see you tomorrow, Arthur."
"Let's try something different this time," Eames suggests. "I'm getting sick of seeing Cobb's squint whenever you try to focus."
"I can't be held responsible for facial expressions that aren't even mine," Arthur mutters distractedly. He's experimenting with his hair in the mirror, and Eames watches it shading to a deep auburn and taking on a soft wave. The forgery holds when Arthur turns back to Eames- it's not a color that looks particularly good on him, but it's very well executed. "Who did you have in mind?"
"Try me," Eames suggests. Arthur arches a brow and falls into Eames' posture first, loosening his stance, adopting that swagger, and it looks strange on Arthur, who is built small and narrow and is always so deliberate, so poised in everything he does. The moment breaks when Arthur's body slowly starts to fill out, gradual but definite, not stuck in his own shape like he had been with Cobb. It's at the face that Arthur gets hung up, bone structure not going heavy enough and jaw remaining close-shaven, though Eames' eyes and lips seem to come to Arthur easily. Interesting.
It takes a solid half an hour for Arthur to settle completely into Eames' shape, and it's uncanny, looking at himself reflected in Arthur like this.
"What do you think, darling?" Arthur asks, the words coming out in Eames' own British drawl, caressing the syllables when he speaks. The words sound like a silky come-on instead of a professional question, and Eames spares a moment to wonder how much of that is really Eames and how much is just Arthur's perception. Eames grins at him, and then slips into Arthur's skin.
"It'll do," he says in Arthur's own dismissive tones, and Arthur throws Eames' gravelly chuckle back at him.
"Your condescension is, as always, much appreciated," Arthur parrots, teasing, and abruptly Eames wants, desperately, to see that wicked glint of amusement in Arthur's own eyes instead of borrowed ones. He is started by the sudden strength of it.
Arthur still can't hold his forgery very long, and soon he is back to his own body, back to his usual grave expression- but it's a start. They practice daily, until Arthur can slide into Eames' shape relatively quickly and hold on to it for more than fifteen minutes at a stretch before Eames suggests they try something different.
"Pick a woman, any woman," he says grandly, kicking back in his chair. He expects Arthur to have trouble with this, finding the proportions and weight and feel of the opposite sex. Eames had, at first.
Instead, Arthur's body changes in all the right ways, taking on lushly curving hips and perfect breasts, a trim waist and a slender neck. His hair lengthens, curls, and then Mal's face is looking at Eames, but Mal as she had been when he first met her, beautiful and young and kind. Mal with her liquid, haunting eyes, Mal with her soft smiles and sundresses, Mal the mother and the mentor and the friend. Mal who Arthur had, once upon a time, trusted with his life.
"Eames," Arthur says, jarring him from his thoughts. The voice is gentle and rich with her accent, and the memories of her Eames had let himself forget come back in a rush. Mal had trusted him when no one else had, but it has been so long since she was any more than a violent shade in the depths of Cobb's mind. He swallows, pushes back the sudden pang of loss the sight of her sends through him and focuses on Arthur, Arthur. She is Arthur.
"I see someone's in touch with their feminine side," Eames remarks, teasing as a distraction. Arthur doesn't react defensively, though, much to Eames' surprise- no denial, no shooting Eames in the head. Just a shrug of Mal's shoulders, and then a moment later it is Ariadne standing in front of him, her curious eyes and tiny frame and a bright scarf around her neck.
"What's your point?" Arthur asks. His voice- Ariadne's voice- is calm.
"No point. Just took me longer to be able to do that when I was starting out."
Ariadne's lips quirk into one of Arthur's restrained little smiles. "It's not that hard. Or maybe I'm just better at it than you were."
The kick comes before Eames can retort.
"Creating a new person is quite different from becoming someone who already exists," Eames explains. He and Arthur are sitting together at Arthur's desk, a blank sheet of paper and a box of colored pencils spread out in front of them. "You have to decide everything about them, every detail, every little tick that will make the forgery seem real. You have to have-" he grins- "imagination."
Eames picks up a pencil, twirling it between his fingers as he continues, "I usually start by sketching them out. Helps me pin down their features, get a feel for what I'll be doing in the dream. Let's say, for the hell of it, that I need a Japanese loli girl for a job." Eames starts sketching, quick lines forming the outline of a slender young woman, petite, with a demure stance. To that Eames begins adding the clothing: the dress is chocolate brown, long sleeves puffed at the shoulder and a full skirt edged in ruffles. The dress buttons up all the way up the throat, and after a moment's consideration Eames adds a bow at the neck, and then sketches in stockings and shoes. Arthur watches all this in interest- he remembers seeing clothes like this last time he was in Osaka- but it is when Eames begins drawing his forgery's face that Arthur's attention sharpens, and it is there that Eames lingers longest, perfecting the shape of her face, her almond eyes, her small mouth, her mass of curled black hair.
"The body is important," Eames murmurs, "but the face is crucial." He darkens, fractionally, the line of her lashes, then pauses. "I probably should have asked before we started this if you can draw."
"Well enough," Arthur answers, picking up his own pencil. "All right. Let's say I need a businesswoman."
She is practically jumping out of his pencil, Eames observes, watching Arthur's hand fly across the paper like this woman has been waiting, just waiting to be realized. Decent height and trim as Arthur himself but with roundness to her hips and just enough of a chest to be womanly, not enough to be particularly distracting. Arthur, being Arthur, puts her in a suit- gray pencil skirt and jacket over a dark blouse. She looks, Eames thinks as he watches Arthur start on her face, a good deal like Arthur himself might if he were a woman. Her face is rounder, jaw a bit less sharp, but she has the same serious expression, the same fathomless dark eyes. Her hair falls in loose waves around her face, though, not slicked back like Arthur wears his, and Eames decides against making an issue of any similarities. A radical change isn't really the place to start, anyway.
"She'll work," he declares. "Focus on her while I set up the PASIV. Every last detail, everything about her, remember it."
Arthur nods like he's not really listening, and Eames sighs and goes to flip open the silver briefcase by the lawn chairs and set the timer. A minute later, Arthur comes over and settles in his usual spot, and Eames hands him a lead and takes one for himself.
"See you on the other side," Arthur says, and they go to sleep.
In the dream, in person, Arthur's new forgery is really fucking beautiful. It takes Eames a while to track her down- he finds her sitting on a park bench, watching ducks in a pond. She has good posture, but not so tense as Arthur always is, and in profile Eames becomes absurdly fixated for a brief flash of a moment on her adorable little nose.
"Well I'd do business with you," Eames says, sitting down next to Arthur, who makes an amused little sound in the back of his throat.
"And where is your disguise, Mr. Eames?"
"I don't really need the practice," he says with a shrug, but turns into her anyway. Arthur's eyes still crinkle at the corners when he smiles.
"She's cute."
"I might use her again sometime," Eames muses, but in a soft, girly voice with a pronounced Japanese accent. "Do you think Saito-san would like me?"
Arthur snickers. "Saito would probably kill you."
"Only if he found out," Eames protests, but he's laughing- giggling, really, a bubbling feminine sound for this forgery.
They stay under for two hours of dreaming, and Arthur's new face doesn't so much as flicker once.
"I think you've got what you need from me. You know what you're doing now, and practice on your own will take care of the rest."
Arthur actually smiles, genuinely smiles at Eames, wide enough that his cheeks dimple. "Thanks for teaching me. I... well. I couldn't have done it without your help."
Eames makes a dismissive noise. "You could have. It just would have been much harder, taken much longer, and been much less fun."
"Mm," Arthur hums noncommittally. "I'll have your payment tomorrow, if you can swing by the warehouse to get it. Do you have anything else lined up?"
"Not at the moment," Eames answers with a shrug, "but I've got plenty to live off of for a while, even with the amount I burn though." He grins, self-deprecating, and Arthur looks wry.
"If you're up for postponing your life of leisure a bit longer, I may have a job prospect," he says casually, "and I could do with someone to watch my back. Ariadne's designing the maze, but she's not going down there with me."
"Protecting her?"
Arthur shakes his head, lips twitching up at the corners. "She has exams."
"Better her than me," Eames says. "I could probably spare some time to help you out. Where will it be?"
"Brussels, it looks like."
Eames makes a face. "Brussels? Really? I hope it pays well, Belgium is the most bloody boring country I've ever been to."
"It pays very well indeed. Besides, stealing secrets from diplomats sounds like your kind of job."
"You know me so well, darling. Sounds like fun."
"I'll get you the details with the pay for those lessons, then."
"Perfect. See you tomorrow."
Arthur is alone in the warehouse and hooked up to the PASIV when Eames lets himself in. He always looks peaceful in sleep, Eames muses, calm and at ease the way he never seems to be when awake. It's a good look for him; Arthur is usually much too tense.
He could give Arthur a kick to wake him, of course, or even just wait for the time to run out, but where's the fun in that? Instead, Eames settles down in the chair next to Arthur, pulls out a second lead, and sinks into sleep.
It's not a particularly exciting dream, but it's a pleasant one; Eames finds himself in the middle of a lush, green garden, the air a riot of sweet floral scents. It is warm, the sun bright in an impossibly blue sky, and Eames can hear birdsong.
In the center of it all is Arthur's female forgery, lying stretched out on the grass in a white cotton sundress and staring up at the sky. Arthur looks absolutely, perfectly at peace.
Arthur looks beautiful. It hits Eames like a kick, this goddess in the grass, and before he even thinks to remember that he shouldn't be here in Arthur's dream to begin with he is kneeling beside him, running his fingers through her hair.
"Eames," Arthur says on a startled breath, pushing up on his elbow, and Eames can only stare in naked, helpless want. He knows she’s still Arthur, still something different in reality, but he brushes the thought aside. He wants her like this, desperately.
"Please, Arthur. It's only a dream."
Arthur watches him with those wide, dark eyes. "Call me Arlet, if I'm the woman of your dreams."
"Arlet," Eames murmurs, rolling the name around in his mouth, and Arlet lays a hand lightly over his in a silent acquiescence. It's all Eames needs to surge forward and kiss her, and Arlet arches up to him with a soft little noise in her throat that makes him dizzy with want. She is so soft and strong beneath him, and the smell of her skin is headier than the garden flowers.
Arlet slides him out of his shirt, and her small hands are all over him, mapping his skin and tracing his tattoos. She takes her time touching him; they are in no hurry, and she is nothing if not thorough, thorough and unexpectedly sweet. Eames rucks up the skirt of her dress, and Arlet obligingly sits up just enough to pull it off and cast it aside on the grass. Her pert little breasts are bare, and Eames palms both, learning their feel cupped in his hands, the way Arlet lets out a gasping sort of sigh and arches into his touch.
"You're so gorgeous," Eames breathes against her skin, and swirls his tongue around one rosy nipple, feeling it tighten. Arlet moans softly and works his belt and pants open, slides her hand into his boxers and wraps slender fingers around Eames' cock. Eames hisses in a breath, hips bucking into the touch, and Arlet smiles up at him with a faint gleam of mischief in her chocolate eyes.
Whatever plan that clever mind has brewing, though, is cut off by Eames tugging her underwear off and pushing her legs open, dipping his head to taste her. Arlet's whole body jerks in surprised pleasure, and then she lets her legs fall open wider, threads her fingers in Eames's hair.
"Oh," she says when Eames teases at her with the tip of his tongue, and her hips press for more friction. Her grins and pins her hips down before he gives her what she's aching for, licking and sucking at her clit until Arlet is a bundle of desperate nerves, writhing and moaning for more, please, more. She is wet and hot and slick with lust, and she finishes with his fingers buried inside her and his tongue relentless, still working her through her climax even as she arches and shakes and her grip on his hair goes painful. It takes her a long time to come down from the high again. She looks dazed.
"That... that was amazing."
Eames grins. "Rocked your world, have I, love? I'm only getting started."
"I don't even care how insufferable it's going to make you to admit this, because yes, you absolutely did." She tugs the rest of Eames' clothes off with quick, economical motions, her eyes turning hungry. "And if you're only getting started, by all means, keep going."
Eames is more than happy to oblige.
In reality, Arthur is still Arthur, and neither of them talks about it. Arthur has any number of excellent qualities- he is clever and collected and incredibly competent- but there’s a world of difference between flirting and acting that Eames isn’t ready to negotiate. In dreams, Arthur is Arlet, and- well, actually, they don't talk all that much there, either, but for completely different reasons. Arthur tells Ariadne that he's killing two birds with one stone, practicing forgery while he's on the training runs, and Ariadne shrugs and lets it slide because she trusts Arthur and is only there intermittently to teach them the mazes anyway.
"You should really learn to forge more than one shape," Eames remarks absently one day. "Not that I object to this one, mind, she's lovely. But you can't use her for everything."
Something goes shadowed and unhappy in Arlet's eyes. "Not she," she says quietly, and Eames' brow creases in confusion.
"Beg pardon, darling?"
"Not she's lovely," Arlet clarifies, "I am."
"You aren't getting a split personality on me now, are you, darling?"
Arlet lets out a bitter-sounding laugh. The click of her heels as she walks gets sharper.
"No. No, of course not. It's not like Arthur is some kind of freak or something." Her voice is hard and miserable, and Eames grabs her by the arms in genuine worry.
"Arthur-"
"Don't call me that!" She tries to twist away, but he holds fast- she can't pull loose or reach for her gun, so she settles for glaring. Her gaze is hot and angry and wrecked, and Eames spares the barest of moments to wonder how the hell he of all people never saw the raw, gnawing thing at Arthur's core.
"Arlet," he starts again, "please just tell me what's wrong."
She's scaring him, scaring him half to death, but at least the pieces finally make sense when she admits, defeated and defiant, "I'm a woman."
Eames doesn't know what to say, doesn't know if there really is anything to say in a situation like this, so he just pulls Arlet tight against his chest and folds his arms around her, breathing in the smell of her hair. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she relaxes against him, but her shoulders are shaking.
"Shh," Eames soothes, "shh, it's okay, pet."
"It's not," she says, voice choking up, but she is still that same steadfast person Eames knows when she looks up at him; no tears fall. "I've spent my life being wrong."
"You aren't wrong. Never that."
"My body is."
This Eames acknowledges with a nod, then leans down and kisses her gently. "Not here."
"Not here. Thank you for that."
"I wouldn't have put you through the hoops if I'd known."
Arlet manages a hint of a smile. "Well, it is a useful skill. Wasn't the reason, but it's true."
"Explains why Cobb was so difficult for you." Eames is petting her soft hair, and Arlet lets herself lean into the touch. "Doesn't explain why I was easier."
Arlet actually blushes. "I, um. I had looked at you like I hadn't ever at Cobb. My guess is there's a difference between my seeing him as just a male shape, and you as a, ah. Object of desire. The first is kind of repulsive for me, the second obviously not."
Eames remembers how fast Arlet had filled in Eames' lips, his eyes. As if she had memorized them. The puzzle is falling into place.
He grins at her. "So you did want me."
"You were the one who flirted with me, Mr. Eames," Arlet reminds him, nonplussed, and glances at her watch. "Time's going to be up in a minute."
"Yeah." He shrugs, thrusts his hands in his pockets. "We'll be back, though."
The next morning, Eames walks in still trying to reconcile the man he sees sitting at the desk with the woman he had in his arms in their dreams the day before. Dark eyes glance up, nervous, and Eames drops into the nearest chair.
"What should I call you when we're awake?" he asks in a murmur, and hands over a coffee.
"Arlet when we're alone," she says, and curls her hands around the cup. "I'm not out, obviously, but that doesn't-" she sighs. Frowns, tries again, "The me you see when we're asleep is me. And it's one thing to be called Arthur by people who don't know better, because I let them think that and that's my decision, but you do know better, so."
"So treat you as you are," Eames finishes for her, "got it."
She flashes him a grateful smile and takes a drink of her coffee- black, no sugar. "Thank you."
"For what, exactly?"
"For being so... so reasonable about this. People can be terrible about what they don't understand, you know that as well as I do."
"I'm a forger, love," Eames reminds her, "it's my job to understand everyone."
Arlet looks at him for a long moment, the morning light through the window catching in her eyes. "I'm going to kiss you now," she says, and that's all the warning she gives before she leans in and presses her lips to Eames'. In reality, her lips are a little thinner, a little drier, but she kisses with the same single-minded intensity, giving it all her attention.
But when Eames wraps his arms around her, her shoulders are Arthur's, her chest a flat plane, and Eames breaks the kiss, his breath rough in his chest.
'Wait, wait," he says, "I can't- I mean. I like you a lot, Arlet, I do, but I- I'm not gay. Or at least I don’t think I am."
Arlet pulls back like she's been slapped. "Neither am I."
Eames exhales a frustrated breath and rakes a hand through his hair. "Right, no, I didn't mean it like that. It’s not about you. Look, Arlet, I get that you're a woman, right, you've made that clear. But here, like this, you... well you said it yourself, this body isn't that."
But she's already withdrawing, pulling back into herself, hiding in the crisp lines of Arthur's suits. "Right," she says flatly, "got it. If you'll excuse me, then, I have work to be doing."
"Darling-"
"Work, Eames," she snaps and Eames has no choice but to move away and leave her to it.
The coffee on her desk sits untouched for the rest of the day.
It's not, Eames thinks as he frowns down at his drink, that he doesn't understand what Arlet has been saying to him. He does, he honestly does, and he believes every word she's told him. Thinks of her, even, as "she," as Arlet, even when it's the Arlet in three-piece suits and crisp oxford shirt and ties. Eames still likes that Arlet, even with all the tense snappishness that the discord between self and body bring- she is still clever and competent and cool, and there is still that spark of pleasure when the façade cracks and she smiles, or laughs, or tells one of her dry little jokes. She is still the same impossible, infuriating, stunning, perfect woman whatever body she's wearing, and Eames knows this.
He knows it all, and his head understands it. Eames is very, very good at understanding things, but that doesn't change the fact that in reality Arlet doesn't have those pretty curves. Physically she's very much male, an x and a y, and however much she hates it doesn't change the fact that outside of dreams Arlet has a dick and that Eames doesn't know how to deal with that. Flirting with Arthur to irritate him was one thing. Messing around with men in their dreams was one thing. This is something else, something he doesn’t know what to do with, this confused attraction to her.
Eames sighs and flops back on his sofa, flipping his cell phone open and closed with one hand. He can't call Arlet, not yet. Almost without his permission, Eames' fingers are dialing the only other number he has to call. He almost hangs up after the first ring, but his sister picks up before he has a chance to make up his mind.
"Jack, hey."
"Theresa, kitten, how are you?"
"I'm doing good." He can hear the smile in her voice, and instantly regrets not calling her more often. She's only a year younger than him; they had been so close growing up, but his line of work makes closeness so hard to keep.
"Glad to hear it. Sorry I haven't been in touch."
"You better be, loser."
Eames grins in spite of herself. "I'm suitably chastened."
Theresa makes a dismissive, disbelieving noise. "Nothing can chasten you."
"Guilty as charged. Mostly. Actually, that's sort of-" he breaks off. "Listen, T, you got some time on your hands?"
"Always got time for you, big brother. Hang on a sec, I'm gonna go upstairs first." There is a pause, and the background noises of television and voices fade into silence. "Okay," she says, "now shoot. It sounds like something's eating at you."
"Yeah." Eames huffs out a wry laugh. "Yeah. Girl trouble, I guess you'd say."
"Since when do you have girl trouble?" she accuses genially. "You were always the ladykiller."
"The lady isn't... completely a lady, technically, I guess you could say."
"Okay, wow, way to be vague. Can you try for a little less cryptic?"
Eames sighs. "Right. So there's this... this guy I work with."
"The dream stuff?"
"Yeah. Anyway, long story short: it turns out, not a guy at all. She's trans. She's a woman in the shared dreams, but reality- well. Still a woman obviously, but physically not, and I-"
"-you're having a sexual crisis about it," Theresa finishes for him. Eames closes his eyes.
"Yes."
"Okay. Have you shagged her yet?"
"Theresa!"
"Well, have you?"
"Just in the dreams."
"What about awake?"
"She kissed me once."
"Uh huh." He can practically hear the look Theresa is giving him. "You freaked out, didn't you?"
"I... "freaked out" makes it sound so-"
"Yeah, yeah, got it. Look, Jack, cut the bullshit if you want my advice."
He sighs, defeated. "I freaked out. I'm straight, T. Or maybe bi-curious, if you count pretending to be a woman in dreams to distract people."
"All right, first of all? That doesn't sound very straight to me. Second, do you even know if she wants to have sex with you when she's in a guy's body? Because to me that sounds like it'd be completely horrible for her- I mean, if you were trans, would you really want to get into the most obvious reminder of them all that your body isn't what it should be?"
"Well, when you put it like that."
"You suck at this communication thing," Theresa informs him flatly. "It's a good thing you read people well, otherwise everyone would hate you. Just talk to her, Jack, and try not to say anything wildly insensitive."
"Right. Except I'm pretty sure I already did that."
"Then apologize for being an idiot. And get over yourself and make out with her, for God's sake, let her know she's wanted. Trans women are still women, you shouldn't need me to tell you all this."
"Maybe I just needed to hear it from someone else. It sounds so good in your "Jack is a moron" voice, pet."
Theresa snorts out a laugh. "Okay. Well, I hope I helped. Is she cute?"
Eames grins. "She's bloody beautiful, actually. Pretty little brunette with big brown eyes and an amazing arse."
"Which version?"
"Well, both, actually."
Theresa laughs. "Nice. Do I get to meet her?"
"If it works out," he hedges. "Not sure you'd get along, though. She and I sure as hell didn't at first. Kind of has a stick up her arse."
"Can't be all bad if you like her so much," Theresa says. "Promise me you'll bring her 'round when you get the chance, all right?"
"Promise." Eames lets out a breath and sits up. "So, enough about me. What have you been up to?"
The job in Brussels goes off smoothly, and has the added perk of getting their names off a few wanted lists that have been interfering with other business. Eames may be a thief and a freelancer by nature, but even he has to acknowledge that international espionage jobs have their share of perks.
He'd be feeling a lot better about it, though, if Arlet weren't still giving him the cold shoulder.
"Arlet?" he finally says, because he can't take the entire train ride in stony silence. She doesn't look up.
"Hm?"
"I wanted to apologize."
Then, at least, Arlet finally turns her head, though her expression is unreadable. Eames swallows and barrels on, "I was an idiot, the other day, and I just... I panicked, and I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."
Arlet sighs, and for a long moment she doesn't answer, staring out the window over Eames' shoulder as the countryside rushes by. "I know you didn't," she finally answers, "but thank you for the apology." Her fingers are fidgeting restlessly on the arm of her chair, and Eames stills them by curling a hand around hers. Arlet's gaze drops to their hands, and after a moment she laces her fingers with his and leans to rest her head on Eames's shoulder.
"You did well today," she murmurs, closing her eyes.
Arlet dozes for most of the train ride to Paris, a warm weight at Eames' side. Her skin smells faintly of citrus, and Eames almost hates to shake her awake as the train pulls into Gare Nord.
"Do you want to come back to mine for a while?" Arlet asks him as they head for the metro, and Eames recognizes that it's her quiet way of saying he's forgiven.
"Sure." He doesn't let go of her hand during the ride, and Arlet offers him a hint of a smile and squeezes his hand before she finally lets go at her door to unlock it.
Her apartment is clean and inviting, suggesting an owner who's not home often enough to make a mess but settles in to be comfortable when she is. Arlet shucks her jacket and hangs it up on a hook in the entryway, gesturing for Eames' with one hand.
"You have a nice place," Eames remarks, and she smiles at him.
"Thank you. Make yourself at home. Would you like anything to drink?"
"I'm fine, thanks, darling." Eames settles on the couch and pats the space next to him. Arlet curls into it without hesitation, cuddling up to his side. She flicks the television on, and they sit like that, Arlet watching the news and translating bits of it for Eames while he runs his fingers through her hair until the gel is worked soft.
"Hey, darling?"
"Mm?" she hums, turning her head to look up at him, and Eames traces a finger over her lips.
"I'm going to kiss you now," he tells her, and feels Arlet smile against his mouth when he presses his lips to hers. She reaches a hand up and threads it in his hair, thumb stroking the nape of his neck.
They end up falling asleep in Arlet's bed at three in the morning, Eames stripped down to his boxers and Arlet in a set of pajamas that cover most of her body, the two of them kissing until slumber claims them with their lips still pressed together.
Eames wakes the next morning to an empty bed, but he can hear the quiet sounds of Arlet rustling around elsewhere in the apartment, so he doesn't let it worry him. It comes as no surprise that she is an early riser- as long as he's known her, she has been the first to start work and the last to leave it. Eames stretches lazily and rolls out of bed, padding to the bathroom before going to seek her out.
She's not hard to find, sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and the morning paper. Eames kisses the top of her head, and she smiles and snakes an arm around his waist, pulling him into a brief hug without looking up from the article she's reading. "There's coffee if you like," she tells him, "but I'm pretty much out of breakfast food at the moment, I'm afraid."
"That's all right." He pours himself a cup of coffee and settles in next to her, foot stroking over her ankle. "Maybe we should go get you some actual food, then take some time to ourselves with the PASIV, hm? Unless you have other plans."
"Even if I did, I like that one."
They finish their coffee and dress- without a job to do, Arlet substitutes a pair of nice jeans for her usual slacks, though she keeps her crisp oxford shirt- and head to the nearest grocery store, bickering amiably over what to get. Eames is an impulse shopper, picking up whatever appeals at the moment; Arlet is the type to make a methodical shopping list from which she refuses to deviate.
"We don't need ice cream," Arlet grouses at him, handing the cashier money for the groceries.
"Sure we do," Eames says. "If it'll make you feel better about a frivolous purchase, you can eat it off of me later." And right there in the checkout line, Eames leans in and kisses Arlet, slipping a hand down to give her ass a teasing squeeze.
"Pédés," spits the man behind them, and Arlet jerks back, cheeks burning scarlet. Eames doesn't speak much French, but the tone and Arlet's reaction are enough and he turns, hands clenching to fist.
Arlet's hand closes on his wrist. "Don't," she says, and picks up the grocery bag and tugs Eames quickly out of the store.
"You shouldn't have stopped me."
"I don't- I can't-" Arlet tries, then deflates miserably. "Maybe not. But I did."
Eames takes the grocery bag from her and slides his other arm around her shoulders for the rest of the walk to the apartment. Arlet stays silent, stone-faced, and still doesn't speak when they're inside save to tell Eames where things go.
"How about that time in your dreams we talked about, darling?" Eames asks, and Arlet seems to perk up a little.
"Please."
The dreamscape is more or less the same as Arlet's real apartment, save that the floors are all carpeted instead of hardwood. Arlet is still sitting perched on the same kitchen chair, but she's wearing a sleek midnight blue dress and a pair of strappy, spike-heeled shoes, and her hair is held back in a perfect French braid.
Eames wolf-whistles at her, and Arlet rolls her eyes.
"What? You look good," Eames says, eying her up and down without even a pretense of subtlety.
"Just because I'm your girl doesn't mean you get to objectify me."
"Well, you can objectify me all you like."
"I'm sure you'd enjoy that." Arlet uncrosses her legs and gets to her feet- standing in those heels, she's taller than Eames.
"I would. You've got legs for days, Jesus."
She just smiles and walks to her bedroom, hips swaying enticingly.
Needless to say, Eames follows.
The doorbell rings, and Arlet panics. What if it's Ariadne? Eames has been gone on business for two weeks- Yusuf needed a favor- and Ariadne is the only friendly associate in Paris who might know where this apartment is. But Arlet still doesn't know her all that well, and it would be one thing for Ariadne to come by and see Arthur-in-jeans, quite another for her to see Arlet, hanging around the house in the soft gray dress that she keeps hidden in her bottom dresser drawer.
Another ring, impatient, and Arlet peers through the peephole and lets out a sigh of relief. It's Eames, only Eames, and so she tugs the door open, her body obscured behind it while he walks in. To Eames' credit, there is only the briefest flicker of surprise in his gaze when he sees Arlet like this, in the right clothes but the wrong body, though she does what she can about the latter. Her legs and underarms are shaved bare, chin as smooth as ever, and her hair has been left to curl soft around her sharp face. It's not enough, not really, but it's better, enough better that there's a little less tension in her shoulders than usual.
"I had wondered," Eames remarks, pressing a kiss to her mouth. Arlet quirks a brow at him.
"You're back early. Wondered what?"
"I'm just that good, we got done faster than expected. Wondered if you ever- well, hm, I guess crossdress is the wrong word, isn't it, when it comes to you? The suits would be the crossdressing. I wondered if you ever didn't crossdress, then."
Arlet smiles faintly, both amused and pleased that Eames had worked through the tangle of words without her help. "Sometimes," she answers, motioning him to follow as she drifts to the kitchen for drinks. "Only between jobs, of course. I have a few things I wear, when I have the luxury." She pops open a bottle of beer for Eames, and a cider for herself. "Though I like suits quite a lot, actually. Professional, classic. If I looked the way I ought to, I'd probably dress much the same when I'm on the job." She takes a drink of her cider, and Eames watches her lips around the bottle, the way the muscles of her throat work when she swallows.
"Sexy," Eames says, thinking of the dreams. Usually Arlet spends a lot of their shared dreaming time wearing nothing at all, and her clothes are usually dresses, tailored and elegant and easy to remove. But those suits.
Arlet smiles like she knows exactly what he's thinking. "You could tell me how it looks in the dreams, one of these days," she offers casually, "since I can already tell that you're thinking about peeling me out of all those layers."
"You don't know that," Eames protests, and Arlet drops her gaze pointedly to his crotch. Eames glances down. "All right, maybe you do know that," he concedes, chuckling. It is an enjoyable thought; he makes no apologies for that. Arlet looks more amused than anything else, and drops gracefully on to one of the kitchen chairs.
"Someone's got a suit kink," she accuses lightly. "Now sit in a chair like a civilized person, Eames, and don't even think of hopping up on the counter."
Really, Eames thinks, sometimes Arlet knows a little too much.
"So," he says, "anything interesting happen while I was away? I know it's not likely, without me around, but you never know."
Arlet doesn't dignify the editorial comment with acknowledgment. "Actually, Cobb called."
"Isn't he retired now?"
"That's what I said," Arlet agrees, "but I can't say I'm surprised. Cobb's even more obsessive than I am, which, yes, I know, that's saying something."
Eames smiles. "So what's the job?"
"Bringing down a dirty district attorney."
"That sounds... surprisingly legitimate."
"He has the kids to think of, he wants to stay on the up. We'll need to be in L.A. on Thursday if we take it."
"Of course we're taking it. Right?"
Arlet smiles. "That's what I told him," she agrees, bringing her cider to her lips. Eames cocks his head.
"Does Cobb know?"
"Know...?"
"About you."
"Ah." A pause, another drink. "No. Well, probably not. If he does, it's not because I told him." She drums her fingers against the side of bottle for a moment. "Mal knew."
"Just her?"
Arlet nods. "I've known her longer than anyone, even Dom. She was... she was really good to me. I used to sit with her in her room, and she'd let me borrow a dress and do my makeup, and we would just talk. For hours, sometimes. She was like a sister to me, but without any of the fighting."
Eames watches her thoughtfully for a long moment. "Is there a reason you never had surgery? If you don't mind my asking."
"I couldn't when I was younger," Arlet says, "I was never out to my parents, and it's staying that way. Then there was West Point- bad idea, obviously- and then I was moving around all the time. Even if I could see a psychiatrist, which is unwise for someone who works in illegal extractions, I'd need to be able to stick with one of them in one place."
"So it's a logistical thing."
Arlet nods. "Believe me, I... if I thought it was at all feasible to do, I would. If I hadn't gone to West Point I'd have done it in college." She's quiet for a moment. "Does it bother you? That I still have a dick?"
"Oh, darling," Eames murmurs. "It's not what I usually go for, no, but I." He swallows. "I think I might be in love with you. And that's what's important."
Arlet's brown eyes go startled and wide, and then she pushes out of her chair and moves astride Eames' lap to kiss him, her hands cradling his face. Eames pulls her in close without any self-consciousness for his erection and forces down the twinge of discomfort he feels when Arlet's presses against him, even though she tries to hold her hips away as much as possible. It's not a turn-off, not like it should be, and it's that, more than anything, that makes Eames break for air, try to gather his thoughts and force them aside. She's Arlet, she's still Arlet, he tells himself.
She's still Arlet, and she's looking at him with worry and fear in her expression when Eames opens his eyes. Arlet, who isn't afraid of anything, looks nervous, and she shouldn't have to be.
"It's okay," Eames mumbles against her mouth, and Arlet presses close to him with less hesitation this time and winds her hands in his hair. Her hardness isn't unpleasant, not really, and the friction when she shifts her weight makes Eames draw in a quiet gasp.
"Let me suck you," she says, pupils blown wide, "my mouth is still my mouth. I want to make you feel good while you're awake for once."
"You make me feel good more often than you think," he answers, "but you can do whatever you want to me."
Arlet smiles, a flush staining her cheeks, and slides down to the kitchen floor, pushing Eames' legs apart to kneel between them. She unzips Eames' jeans and tugs the fabric out of the way, Eames shifting his hips obligingly to make it easier. Then she's pulling his cock out, and they never touch each other like this- in reality it’s all endless kisses and bodies curled close, but nothing like sex. Not in reality. This is new and different and they're both in way too deep with each other, but Eames stops thinking about that at the first touch of Arlet's tongue to the head of his cock, flicking lightly at the slit and tasting the fluid there before swirling around the head.
A low groan escapes Eames when Arlet licks up the underside of his cock and then takes him in her mouth, sucking hot and wet. Eames tangles his hands in her hair, too considerate to tug and pull but unable to resist touching her somehow while she slowly drives him out of his mind. His chest heaves with helpless want; even though she’s only done this to him in dreams, her mouth in this body still knows all the same tricks, all the ways to make him come apart, and soon Eames is moaning desperately. His hips don't have the leverage to thrust into her mouth or else he probably wouldn't be able to control himself. It feels so good, she feels so good, and when he comes in her mouth Eames knows somewhere in the back of his mind that she is watching every second of it.
He’s boneless, spent, and when Eames opens his eyes she is still kneeling on the linoleum between his spread legs, and there is something wild and complicated and infinitely tender in his gaze when their eyes meet.
"Is there. Is there anything I can do for you, darling?"
Arlet smiles up at him, that same look still haunting in her eyes even as they crinkle up at the corners. Arlet rises and pushes his legs back together so she can sit on his lap, smoothing her dress down.
"You've done more than you know," she murmurs cryptically. Her voice is wrecked and beautiful, and Eames pulls her in and kisses her deep, tasting himself on her clever tongue.
"Still," Eames murmurs, and Arlet nudges their noses together, a soft little nuzzle.
"No one else has been in love with me before," she whispers, "and that wasn't just timing or logistics or anything else. No one but you ever saw me like that."
"Their loss, my gain," Eames says, and hugs her close. Arlet closes her eyes and rests her head against his broad shoulder, smile still playing at her lips.
"I think I'm in love with you, too," she tells him, curling close. "Thank you."
Continue to part 2