Fic: Saints, Sleep and Another Shot of Scotch (Eames/Arthur)
Another inception_kink fill! These things are really fun! People prompt such lovely things! I enjoy exclamation points! This ended up waaaaay more schmoopy that the prompt required, I think.
Prompt: "the gang goes out for a drink except Arthur. drunk Eames calls Arthur in the middle of the night.
Please include a drunk Saito missing his carpet"
Title: Saints, Sleep, and Another Shot of Scotch
Aurhor: ainekatt
Fandom: Inception
Characters: the team! everyone! Except Fischer, poor guy. but specifically this one's big on Eames and Arthur. ARE YOU SURPRISED? nope.
Wordswordswords: 2723
Cross Posted to: eames_arthur , inceptionfilm and, of course, the kinkmeme.
Warnings: consumption of alcoholic beverages. schmoop. and a little bit of crack, because THEY ALL GET REALLY DRUNK.
don't own Inception, just having a gay old time in Mr. Nolan's lovely sandbox.
----
“You sure you’re not coming?” Ariadne asks for the third time, standing hesitantly, half in and half out of the workshop and the London street. The rest of the team is beckoning from the curb a short ways off. Saito’s called in a company car, a limo, so they don’t need a designated driver, which is normally the pretence she can convince Arthur to come out with the rest of them on.
“He’s not coming, Ariadne, come on,” Cobb calls to her. “Come get in the car.” fShe ignores him and raises her eyebrow questioningly at the Point Man. He smiles faintly and shakes his head, returning his attention to the paperwork spread on the desk before him.
“No thanks,” he assures her. “I’ve got plenty of better things to do right here that don’t involve inebriation or felonies. Well, maybe felonies. Anyway, have fun. And try to make sure Eames doesn’t get himself arrested again.”
Ariadne sighs in acquiescence, “Fine”, she says reluctantly, “we’ll see you tomorrow, then. ‘Night.” The door closes behind her and she skips off to join the others.
“I told you he wouldn’t come,” Eames tells her as she slips into the seat opposite him and the limo pulls away from the warehouse, leaving work, professionalism, and Arthur, behind them.
The Architect rolls her eyes and moves to fiddle with the stereo. As she skips from station to station, she says, “I just hoped he’d make an exception to his ‘all work, absolutely no play’ Nazi regime and let himself have fun for once.”
Eames cocks an eyebrow and laughs. “We are talking about Arthur, aren’t we?” Ariadne grinned. “In all seriousness though, he can be really quite playful at times. It’s the social interaction that’s his real problem. He deals with people just fine in a work setting, but put him in a party and he’s absolutely clueless. Not to mention, Arthur’s an incredible lightweight.”
Ariadne laughs incredulously. “Really?”
“Really, really.”
“Remember that gala we went to for the, damn, what was it, the…” Cobb trails off, searching his memory.
Something sparks in Eames’ mind and he grins impishly. “You mean the Thompson job? Oh dear god that was hilarious.”
“What happened?” Yusuf asks before Ariadne has a chance. The entire team, barring Eames and Cobb, who both already know the story, looks on expectantly. Even Saito, who was, up until that point, exploring the limo’s liquor cabinet in a somewhat overzealous endeavour to not remember the evening, turns towards the Extractor in anticipation of what the entire team can already sense is going to make excellent blackmail in the future.
“Well we’re at this gala opening, an art show, Arthur, Eames and I, gathering intel on our Mark, who’s the fiancée of the artist who’s show it is,” Cobb begins, “and it’s just the three of us, doing our best to blend in and act like we care about the show so we can all get in closer to the Mark and figure out any details we’re going to need in the upcoming job.”
“As with any of these posh events like that, there’s plenty of expensive, free alcohol, mostly cocktails and champagne. Everyone’s drinking, and Arthur isn’t, and I just sort of playfully nudged him into it,” Eames says. “I think I mentioned that he wasn’t doing a very good job of blending in by not schmoozing and boozing like everyone else there, and he says he doesn’t really drink, and I tell him everyone drinks at fancy parties, and then next time I see him, after that he stormed off to the bar, you see, he’s standing on a table, dancing and singing and shirtless to ‘Do You Believe in Miracles?’” Eames struggles to get out the last few words and then bursts out laughing, joined by Cobb and the rest of the team a few moments later.
“And the best part is, he’d only had a glass of champagne and a grasshopper,” Cobb says. “Like Eames said: lightweight.”
“You’re joking,” Ariadne deadpans, struggling to hold back more laughter.
Eames is practically crying with laughter at the memory as he shakes his head. “No, I’m actually not,” he manages before losing control completely. As usual, inhibitions have already been lifted so much that, by the time the team actually exits the limo at their destination, a rather exclusive, members-only bar and club (which Saito naturally gets them all into with ease) called the Mortal Wombat Lounge, all five seem quite intoxicated already, despite having not ordered their first shots yet. For a moment, as they sit down together at the bar, occupying five of the six open barstools, the team shares a moment wishing Arthur had decided to let his habits die and come along, but it passes as the bartender, Ginger, presents each extractor with their usual order and wishes them a good night.
About two hours after arriving at the Wombat, Ariadne is laughing uncontrollably as Cobb and Eames impersonate each other with mocking but playful accuracy, and Saito is curled on the floor, clutching an empty bottle of sake. Yusuf, as usual, has opted against hard liquor and is still firmly on his barstool, drinking from a mug of steaming black tea and grinning in amusement at the rest of the team.
Saito mumbles to himself and rolls over onto his stomach. The businessman notices, as if for the first time, the lack of sake in the bottle he is holding onto like a security blanket, and something like genuine sadness spreads across his face; he looks down at the tile beside his cheek and starts to cry. The others glance down from their barstools, falling silent. In their inebriated state, everything seems a little more important than it normally would, and despite the fact that this isn’t the first time Saito has wound up on the floor crying to himself, none of them, save Yusuf, remember the previous four times, and so this is new to them, again.
“What’s wrong with Saito?” Ariadne asks no one in particular, her words slightly slurred and dotted with odd, halting pauses, as if speaking English is a bike and she’s only just gotten her training wheels off.
“Saito misses his carpet,” Saito replies tearfully, pulling the empty sake bottle closer to his chest like a child holds a teddy bear. Ariadne nods as if this makes perfect sense and looks back up, and, finding her glass empty, orders a Singapore sling, knowing that the sad Japanese man on the floor can easily cover the just above twenty dollars the pricey cocktail demands.
At some point in the night, just after Ginger cuts Saito and Ariadne off, Eames decides to call Arthur; because everyone else is drunk, except Yusuf, of course, who has a strict ‘don’t get involved’ policy when it comes to the team’s bar nights, no one stops him to tell him that this is a bad idea.
By the third time Eames reaches Arthur’s answering machine, the Forger is on the verge of throwing a spectacularly childish fit and getting himself cut off as well. Angrily, he speed-dials, and presses call, losing his grip on the phone in surprise when Arthur actually picks up; the phone tumbles towards the floor and Eames dives and catches it just before it hits the tile.
“Hello?” Arthur says again, mentally admonishing himself for even picking up the phone in the first place. Then again, the last time this happened, he ignored the calls for long enough that Eames had wound up spending the night in prison for ‘disturbance of the peace’. It wasn’t an experience anyone wanted to repeat, least of all Arthur, who was reasonably certain that he was the only member of the team, save for Yusuf, that fully remembered that night. So really, he has a reason to pick up the phone, and it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s hardly gotten any work done the entire night with his head so full of possible scenarios in which Eames could wind up in trouble or hurt.
“Arthur!” Eames exclaims enthusiastically. In the backdrop of the call, something crashes to the ground and shatters. The rest of the team cheer. “Ooops,” Eames says quietly. Arthur sighs. Some things never change.
“What is it, Eames?” Arthur asks patiently. He is, by now, more than used to dealing with this sort of thing.
Eames takes a minute to reply, as if he’d only gotten so far in planning out what he was going to say as what he’d already said. “I am drunk,” he states finally.
The Point Man smiles in spite of himself. “I gathered that, Eames. And even if you hadn’t called, I could have guessed. I’m hoping that isn’t why you called me at three in the morning.”
“Negative,” Eames says. It is only then that The Forger begins to wonder why he is on the phone with Arthur in the first place. Something dawns on him which, in his incredibly drunk state, seems like a logical question to ask, and, being as he has already forgotten what he intended to say originally. “Arthur,” he asks accusatorially, “are you a king? Because King Arthur, he’s like, incredibly famous and he has a lot of money. I bet he had a whole lot of shoes. Really nice shoes. You have the same name as him, did you know that?”
“Yes, Eames, I was aware of the fact that King Arthur is, in fact, named Arthur.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Eames points out, gesturing to Ginger with his free hand to pour him another shot of scotch. The bartender shakes her head. Eames lets his hand drop to the countertop dejectedly. “And Ginger won’t give me more alcohol.”
Arthur sighs, spinning around in his office chair, phone pressed to his shoulder, hands free. Talking to Eames when he is drunk is a lot like trying to have a conversation with a brain damaged toddler. “Tell her thank you from me for that, then. And no, I’m not a king, Eames. I’m a Point Man.”
“Oh,” Eames says somewhat glumly. “Arthur says thank you for cutting me off,” he adds, to Ginger, who smiles and tells him ‘any time’. “Arthur?”
“Yes, Eames?”
“I’m tired,” Eames whines, “will you sleep with me?”
“We’ve been over this,” Arthur tells him calmly. “You don’t get to come over to my flat after you’ve been drinking.”
There is a long pause where neither of them say anything. “Arthur?” Eames asks.
Arthur sighs. “Yes, Eames, what is it?
“You’re really pretty,” he says, and then there is a thump and a crackle as the phone falls and so does Eames.
“Eames‽” Arthur half-shouts, worried. “Eames‽ Goddamn it, somebody pick up the phone and tell me he’s okay!” The Point Man continues shouting into the receiver until Yusuf, the only sober one of the team, picks it up.
“He’s alright, Arthur,” The Chemist assures him. “He’ll probably have one hell of a headache when he wakes up, but that’s pretty routine with the hangover to begin with. At worst, he‘s got a mild concussion. I‘ll get him awake and check him for response in a minute.”
Arthur, relieved, lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and smiles. Thank God for Yusuf and his sobriety and his medical training. “Good,” he says, nodding, “I guess a little bruised up is better than arrested, or dead, and hung-over is uncomfortable, but nothing new.” He smiles ruefully. “Just, God, I don’t know.” He considers for a moment. “Have the driver take him to my flat when you leave, won’t you? I have to make sure he doesn‘t kill himself.”
“I thought your place had a strict ‘no drunks’ policy,” Yusuf says with a laugh.
“I can make an exception to my own policy. Make sure he doesn’t have a concussion, alright? Oh, and Yusuf?”
“Yes, Arthur?”
“Thanks for being sober. We probably wouldn’t have a team anymore if it weren’t for you.”
Yusuf laughs again. “Don’t thank me,” he says, “thank the Prophet. And don’t worry: he‘ll be alright, Arthur. We‘ll probably drop him off in about a half an hour.” The Chemist hangs up then, and goes to check on the passed-out Forger.
The Point Man sets the phone on his desk and smiles. “Thank you, Mr. Mohammad,” he mutters, only half sarcastic.
The limo pulls up forty five minutes later, having taken a little longer than anticipated to coax Ariadne off of the table and away from her impromptu debut performance of a musical number about ‘how cool it was to like, build stuff’. Her talent to rhyme when drunk impressed even Yusuf, who, in his lifetime of sobriety had observed many incredible talents surface with a few pints; at one point in his early twenties, the Chemist had a friend who, although shy and awkward when sober, magically transformed into Fred Astaire once his B.A. level passed .12.
“Are we going to Disneyland?” Eames slurs drunkenly as Yusuf pulls the Forger’s deadweight over his shoulder and out of the limo.
“No, we are not,” Yusuf replies calmly. “Use your feet, Eames. You’ll find they’re very good for standing on.”
“I’ve never been to Disneyland,” Eames laments, struggling to get his balance.
“Neither have I,” Yusuf confides. “Now come on, there you go. We just need to get you to the elevator. Arthur lives on the third floor.”
Eames smiles in recognition. “Flat number three fifty two,” he mumbles.
“Precisely. Keep walking. I’m not going to carry you.”
Arthur is waiting outside the elevator when Yusuf, with Eames propped against his side, reaches the third floor. The Forger allows himself to be transferred from Yusuf’s supporting shoulder to Arthur’s strong arms undignifyingly without complaint, grinning lopsidedly. “Thank you,” he says sincerely. “I can take care of him from here.” Arthur assures the Chemist, steadying Eames to ensure he doesn’t fall over again.
“I have no doubt that you can,” Yusuf replies. “I’ll see you in the morning. Well, later in the morning, anyway. Oh, and don‘t worry, he doesn‘t have a concussion. This is how he‘s been acting for hours.” Arthur gives a little wave and then the elevator, with Yusuf inside, disappears on it’s way back down to ground level.
“That man is a saint,” Arthur tells Eames as he carries the Forger to his flat and lays him down on the couch.
“Like Santa Claus.” Eames is grinning like an idiot and Arthur finds that he is too, because even if the Forger is acting incredibly infantile and that sort of thing usually gets on Arthur’s nerves like nothing else, it’s Eames, and that smile is infectious.
“Yes,” Arthur says, fetching down an extra blanket from the closet, “exactly like Santa Claus.”
“Arthur?”
“Yes, Eames?”
The Forger hesitates, the last smattering of an inhibition surfacing. He continues in a childish almost-whisper, “Can I sleep in your bed?”
The Point Man does his best to say no, but drunk Eames brings out the worst in him, because now he doesn’t just care about him, he feels responsible for his safety and his happiness: it’s something a little bit like a maternal instinct, only Arthur seriously hopes mothers don’t want to kiss their children as much as he feels drawn to Eames then. “Alright,” he tells Eames, folding the blanket and tucking it back onto the shelf where he’s pulled it down from. Arthur lifts Eames from the couch and carries him the short distance to his bedroom, pulling back the quilt and laying the Forger carefully down.
“I really love you,” Eames murmurs, slurring his words so badly that Arthur only understands him by the tone of his voice.
Arthur smiles and pulls the quilt back over Eames and tucks it in around him. The Point Man leans down, and, he can’t help himself, kisses Eames, even though he won’t remember any of this in the morning. “Goodnight, Mr. Eames,” he says, and settles down with a book in the armchair nearby to watch over him until he wakes up, just to make sure that he’s there if the Forger needs anything, of course. His early morning vigil has absolutely nothing to do with how peaceful and beautiful Eames looks when he’s sleeping.
Prompt: "the gang goes out for a drink except Arthur. drunk Eames calls Arthur in the middle of the night.
Please include a drunk Saito missing his carpet"
Title: Saints, Sleep, and Another Shot of Scotch
Aurhor: ainekatt
Fandom: Inception
Characters: the team! everyone! Except Fischer, poor guy. but specifically this one's big on Eames and Arthur. ARE YOU SURPRISED? nope.
Wordswordswords: 2723
Cross Posted to: eames_arthur , inceptionfilm and, of course, the kinkmeme.
Warnings: consumption of alcoholic beverages. schmoop. and a little bit of crack, because THEY ALL GET REALLY DRUNK.
don't own Inception, just having a gay old time in Mr. Nolan's lovely sandbox.
----
“You sure you’re not coming?” Ariadne asks for the third time, standing hesitantly, half in and half out of the workshop and the London street. The rest of the team is beckoning from the curb a short ways off. Saito’s called in a company car, a limo, so they don’t need a designated driver, which is normally the pretence she can convince Arthur to come out with the rest of them on.
“He’s not coming, Ariadne, come on,” Cobb calls to her. “Come get in the car.” fShe ignores him and raises her eyebrow questioningly at the Point Man. He smiles faintly and shakes his head, returning his attention to the paperwork spread on the desk before him.
“No thanks,” he assures her. “I’ve got plenty of better things to do right here that don’t involve inebriation or felonies. Well, maybe felonies. Anyway, have fun. And try to make sure Eames doesn’t get himself arrested again.”
Ariadne sighs in acquiescence, “Fine”, she says reluctantly, “we’ll see you tomorrow, then. ‘Night.” The door closes behind her and she skips off to join the others.
“I told you he wouldn’t come,” Eames tells her as she slips into the seat opposite him and the limo pulls away from the warehouse, leaving work, professionalism, and Arthur, behind them.
The Architect rolls her eyes and moves to fiddle with the stereo. As she skips from station to station, she says, “I just hoped he’d make an exception to his ‘all work, absolutely no play’ Nazi regime and let himself have fun for once.”
Eames cocks an eyebrow and laughs. “We are talking about Arthur, aren’t we?” Ariadne grinned. “In all seriousness though, he can be really quite playful at times. It’s the social interaction that’s his real problem. He deals with people just fine in a work setting, but put him in a party and he’s absolutely clueless. Not to mention, Arthur’s an incredible lightweight.”
Ariadne laughs incredulously. “Really?”
“Really, really.”
“Remember that gala we went to for the, damn, what was it, the…” Cobb trails off, searching his memory.
Something sparks in Eames’ mind and he grins impishly. “You mean the Thompson job? Oh dear god that was hilarious.”
“What happened?” Yusuf asks before Ariadne has a chance. The entire team, barring Eames and Cobb, who both already know the story, looks on expectantly. Even Saito, who was, up until that point, exploring the limo’s liquor cabinet in a somewhat overzealous endeavour to not remember the evening, turns towards the Extractor in anticipation of what the entire team can already sense is going to make excellent blackmail in the future.
“Well we’re at this gala opening, an art show, Arthur, Eames and I, gathering intel on our Mark, who’s the fiancée of the artist who’s show it is,” Cobb begins, “and it’s just the three of us, doing our best to blend in and act like we care about the show so we can all get in closer to the Mark and figure out any details we’re going to need in the upcoming job.”
“As with any of these posh events like that, there’s plenty of expensive, free alcohol, mostly cocktails and champagne. Everyone’s drinking, and Arthur isn’t, and I just sort of playfully nudged him into it,” Eames says. “I think I mentioned that he wasn’t doing a very good job of blending in by not schmoozing and boozing like everyone else there, and he says he doesn’t really drink, and I tell him everyone drinks at fancy parties, and then next time I see him, after that he stormed off to the bar, you see, he’s standing on a table, dancing and singing and shirtless to ‘Do You Believe in Miracles?’” Eames struggles to get out the last few words and then bursts out laughing, joined by Cobb and the rest of the team a few moments later.
“And the best part is, he’d only had a glass of champagne and a grasshopper,” Cobb says. “Like Eames said: lightweight.”
“You’re joking,” Ariadne deadpans, struggling to hold back more laughter.
Eames is practically crying with laughter at the memory as he shakes his head. “No, I’m actually not,” he manages before losing control completely. As usual, inhibitions have already been lifted so much that, by the time the team actually exits the limo at their destination, a rather exclusive, members-only bar and club (which Saito naturally gets them all into with ease) called the Mortal Wombat Lounge, all five seem quite intoxicated already, despite having not ordered their first shots yet. For a moment, as they sit down together at the bar, occupying five of the six open barstools, the team shares a moment wishing Arthur had decided to let his habits die and come along, but it passes as the bartender, Ginger, presents each extractor with their usual order and wishes them a good night.
About two hours after arriving at the Wombat, Ariadne is laughing uncontrollably as Cobb and Eames impersonate each other with mocking but playful accuracy, and Saito is curled on the floor, clutching an empty bottle of sake. Yusuf, as usual, has opted against hard liquor and is still firmly on his barstool, drinking from a mug of steaming black tea and grinning in amusement at the rest of the team.
Saito mumbles to himself and rolls over onto his stomach. The businessman notices, as if for the first time, the lack of sake in the bottle he is holding onto like a security blanket, and something like genuine sadness spreads across his face; he looks down at the tile beside his cheek and starts to cry. The others glance down from their barstools, falling silent. In their inebriated state, everything seems a little more important than it normally would, and despite the fact that this isn’t the first time Saito has wound up on the floor crying to himself, none of them, save Yusuf, remember the previous four times, and so this is new to them, again.
“What’s wrong with Saito?” Ariadne asks no one in particular, her words slightly slurred and dotted with odd, halting pauses, as if speaking English is a bike and she’s only just gotten her training wheels off.
“Saito misses his carpet,” Saito replies tearfully, pulling the empty sake bottle closer to his chest like a child holds a teddy bear. Ariadne nods as if this makes perfect sense and looks back up, and, finding her glass empty, orders a Singapore sling, knowing that the sad Japanese man on the floor can easily cover the just above twenty dollars the pricey cocktail demands.
At some point in the night, just after Ginger cuts Saito and Ariadne off, Eames decides to call Arthur; because everyone else is drunk, except Yusuf, of course, who has a strict ‘don’t get involved’ policy when it comes to the team’s bar nights, no one stops him to tell him that this is a bad idea.
By the third time Eames reaches Arthur’s answering machine, the Forger is on the verge of throwing a spectacularly childish fit and getting himself cut off as well. Angrily, he speed-dials, and presses call, losing his grip on the phone in surprise when Arthur actually picks up; the phone tumbles towards the floor and Eames dives and catches it just before it hits the tile.
“Hello?” Arthur says again, mentally admonishing himself for even picking up the phone in the first place. Then again, the last time this happened, he ignored the calls for long enough that Eames had wound up spending the night in prison for ‘disturbance of the peace’. It wasn’t an experience anyone wanted to repeat, least of all Arthur, who was reasonably certain that he was the only member of the team, save for Yusuf, that fully remembered that night. So really, he has a reason to pick up the phone, and it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s hardly gotten any work done the entire night with his head so full of possible scenarios in which Eames could wind up in trouble or hurt.
“Arthur!” Eames exclaims enthusiastically. In the backdrop of the call, something crashes to the ground and shatters. The rest of the team cheer. “Ooops,” Eames says quietly. Arthur sighs. Some things never change.
“What is it, Eames?” Arthur asks patiently. He is, by now, more than used to dealing with this sort of thing.
Eames takes a minute to reply, as if he’d only gotten so far in planning out what he was going to say as what he’d already said. “I am drunk,” he states finally.
The Point Man smiles in spite of himself. “I gathered that, Eames. And even if you hadn’t called, I could have guessed. I’m hoping that isn’t why you called me at three in the morning.”
“Negative,” Eames says. It is only then that The Forger begins to wonder why he is on the phone with Arthur in the first place. Something dawns on him which, in his incredibly drunk state, seems like a logical question to ask, and, being as he has already forgotten what he intended to say originally. “Arthur,” he asks accusatorially, “are you a king? Because King Arthur, he’s like, incredibly famous and he has a lot of money. I bet he had a whole lot of shoes. Really nice shoes. You have the same name as him, did you know that?”
“Yes, Eames, I was aware of the fact that King Arthur is, in fact, named Arthur.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” Eames points out, gesturing to Ginger with his free hand to pour him another shot of scotch. The bartender shakes her head. Eames lets his hand drop to the countertop dejectedly. “And Ginger won’t give me more alcohol.”
Arthur sighs, spinning around in his office chair, phone pressed to his shoulder, hands free. Talking to Eames when he is drunk is a lot like trying to have a conversation with a brain damaged toddler. “Tell her thank you from me for that, then. And no, I’m not a king, Eames. I’m a Point Man.”
“Oh,” Eames says somewhat glumly. “Arthur says thank you for cutting me off,” he adds, to Ginger, who smiles and tells him ‘any time’. “Arthur?”
“Yes, Eames?”
“I’m tired,” Eames whines, “will you sleep with me?”
“We’ve been over this,” Arthur tells him calmly. “You don’t get to come over to my flat after you’ve been drinking.”
There is a long pause where neither of them say anything. “Arthur?” Eames asks.
Arthur sighs. “Yes, Eames, what is it?
“You’re really pretty,” he says, and then there is a thump and a crackle as the phone falls and so does Eames.
“Eames‽” Arthur half-shouts, worried. “Eames‽ Goddamn it, somebody pick up the phone and tell me he’s okay!” The Point Man continues shouting into the receiver until Yusuf, the only sober one of the team, picks it up.
“He’s alright, Arthur,” The Chemist assures him. “He’ll probably have one hell of a headache when he wakes up, but that’s pretty routine with the hangover to begin with. At worst, he‘s got a mild concussion. I‘ll get him awake and check him for response in a minute.”
Arthur, relieved, lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and smiles. Thank God for Yusuf and his sobriety and his medical training. “Good,” he says, nodding, “I guess a little bruised up is better than arrested, or dead, and hung-over is uncomfortable, but nothing new.” He smiles ruefully. “Just, God, I don’t know.” He considers for a moment. “Have the driver take him to my flat when you leave, won’t you? I have to make sure he doesn‘t kill himself.”
“I thought your place had a strict ‘no drunks’ policy,” Yusuf says with a laugh.
“I can make an exception to my own policy. Make sure he doesn’t have a concussion, alright? Oh, and Yusuf?”
“Yes, Arthur?”
“Thanks for being sober. We probably wouldn’t have a team anymore if it weren’t for you.”
Yusuf laughs again. “Don’t thank me,” he says, “thank the Prophet. And don’t worry: he‘ll be alright, Arthur. We‘ll probably drop him off in about a half an hour.” The Chemist hangs up then, and goes to check on the passed-out Forger.
The Point Man sets the phone on his desk and smiles. “Thank you, Mr. Mohammad,” he mutters, only half sarcastic.
The limo pulls up forty five minutes later, having taken a little longer than anticipated to coax Ariadne off of the table and away from her impromptu debut performance of a musical number about ‘how cool it was to like, build stuff’. Her talent to rhyme when drunk impressed even Yusuf, who, in his lifetime of sobriety had observed many incredible talents surface with a few pints; at one point in his early twenties, the Chemist had a friend who, although shy and awkward when sober, magically transformed into Fred Astaire once his B.A. level passed .12.
“Are we going to Disneyland?” Eames slurs drunkenly as Yusuf pulls the Forger’s deadweight over his shoulder and out of the limo.
“No, we are not,” Yusuf replies calmly. “Use your feet, Eames. You’ll find they’re very good for standing on.”
“I’ve never been to Disneyland,” Eames laments, struggling to get his balance.
“Neither have I,” Yusuf confides. “Now come on, there you go. We just need to get you to the elevator. Arthur lives on the third floor.”
Eames smiles in recognition. “Flat number three fifty two,” he mumbles.
“Precisely. Keep walking. I’m not going to carry you.”
Arthur is waiting outside the elevator when Yusuf, with Eames propped against his side, reaches the third floor. The Forger allows himself to be transferred from Yusuf’s supporting shoulder to Arthur’s strong arms undignifyingly without complaint, grinning lopsidedly. “Thank you,” he says sincerely. “I can take care of him from here.” Arthur assures the Chemist, steadying Eames to ensure he doesn’t fall over again.
“I have no doubt that you can,” Yusuf replies. “I’ll see you in the morning. Well, later in the morning, anyway. Oh, and don‘t worry, he doesn‘t have a concussion. This is how he‘s been acting for hours.” Arthur gives a little wave and then the elevator, with Yusuf inside, disappears on it’s way back down to ground level.
“That man is a saint,” Arthur tells Eames as he carries the Forger to his flat and lays him down on the couch.
“Like Santa Claus.” Eames is grinning like an idiot and Arthur finds that he is too, because even if the Forger is acting incredibly infantile and that sort of thing usually gets on Arthur’s nerves like nothing else, it’s Eames, and that smile is infectious.
“Yes,” Arthur says, fetching down an extra blanket from the closet, “exactly like Santa Claus.”
“Arthur?”
“Yes, Eames?”
The Forger hesitates, the last smattering of an inhibition surfacing. He continues in a childish almost-whisper, “Can I sleep in your bed?”
The Point Man does his best to say no, but drunk Eames brings out the worst in him, because now he doesn’t just care about him, he feels responsible for his safety and his happiness: it’s something a little bit like a maternal instinct, only Arthur seriously hopes mothers don’t want to kiss their children as much as he feels drawn to Eames then. “Alright,” he tells Eames, folding the blanket and tucking it back onto the shelf where he’s pulled it down from. Arthur lifts Eames from the couch and carries him the short distance to his bedroom, pulling back the quilt and laying the Forger carefully down.
“I really love you,” Eames murmurs, slurring his words so badly that Arthur only understands him by the tone of his voice.
Arthur smiles and pulls the quilt back over Eames and tucks it in around him. The Point Man leans down, and, he can’t help himself, kisses Eames, even though he won’t remember any of this in the morning. “Goodnight, Mr. Eames,” he says, and settles down with a book in the armchair nearby to watch over him until he wakes up, just to make sure that he’s there if the Forger needs anything, of course. His early morning vigil has absolutely nothing to do with how peaceful and beautiful Eames looks when he’s sleeping.