Fic: Quietus (Chapter 6)
Title: Quietus
Pairing: Eames/Arthur
Rating: R
Summary: (Modern day slave!AU) In life, Eames is a beaten down slave, but in the dreamworld he's smooth, dangerous, and sexy. And even though he's Dom's property, he's gotten under Arthur's skin.
TRIGGER WARNINGS: Slavery, implication of previous non-consensual sex, classism, brutality, and possible dubious consent depending on how you see it, treating people as objects, implied mild to moderate torture, suicide (in a dream), moral ambiguity by the good guys, and forced silencing.
I don't want to give the impression this is some sort of ultra-dark fic, because it isn't, but the last thing I want to do is trigger anyone. So if you are at all sensitive to these issues I ask that you give this fic a pass. You are reading at your own risk.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5
*****
Note: I'm updating two chapters at once, so make sure you read chapters 5 & 6.
Note2: I am aware that Mythbusters proved you can't start a fire by shooting a puddle of gasoline, but I'm going to have to ask you to roll with it. ;D
Arthur was the first to start coughing - one of those miserable high summer flus that seemed to work backwards, starting with a racking cough before moving up to the sinuses and ending with a sore throat.
It wasn't before Dom caught the bug, then finally Eames. Soon the small second story office space they'd rented for the job was made miserable with trash bins full of Kleenex, liberal use of cold medicine, and much manly sniffling.
Eames had the worst of the first stage as occasionally his Quietus collar would engage during a run of hard coughing.
"Can you turn it down so it's not so sensitive?" Arthur demanded as he heard Eames' coughing from across the room halt abruptly, to be replaced by a choked off gasp of pain.
"No," Dom replied, but looking like he felt bad about it. "It's automatic, I only have control over the manual discipline settings." Then he honked into a handful of tissues.
Arthur scowled and went over the PASIV to run a basic diagnostic. They were running low on somnacin, and by some reports their usual chemist, a woman named Kara, had been recently busted for drug running in her home country of Ireland. They'd have to get someone else soon.
"You could always bring me chicken soup, if you feel badly about infecting me," Eames suggested, later, as he and Arthur delved into a dream. It wasn't strictly necessary, but no over the counter cure seemed to assuage Arthur's sore throat; he'd gotten little sleep last night, and it was always a good idea to allow Eames to work out the kinks of his forge while under.
He had allowed Eames to build the dream this time, and for some reason known only to him, they were beside a horse-racing track - Arthur clutching ticket stubs in his hand while a pack of thoroughbreds thundered down the home stretch.
Arthur shot Eames an annoyed look. "Chicken soup? Do I look like your mother?"
Eames grinned. "She was a brunette."
The finishing bell rang and Arthur checked his tickets as the announcer rattled off the standings, for some reason in a thick cockney accent. He didn't have a winner.
"You're ridiculous," Arthur said. "And it was Dom who probably infected you."
Eames pulled a ridiculous face. "There's no danger of that, darling. I still catch him crying at night over his wife."
Arthur winced, both at Eames' implication and the fact that Dom was still grieving so. "How is he?"
"Better, I believe," Eames replied after a long moment, sobering. "He hasn't asked me to build for them at night for some time, and I'm certain you've noticed we haven't been recently stabbed or shot out of our practice runs."
It was true. Dom had been careful to use Eames as the subject when all three shared a dream, and Mal had been nowhere to be seen.
Another string of high spirited horses were starting at the gate. It would have been a prime opportunity to ask Eames to show him his newest forge of the mark's long lost sister, but even down in the dream, his throat throbbed with heat. Arthur indulged in a lemon icy while Eames went on about the standings of the horses as if they mattered, and occasionally coughed into a checkered handkerchief.
Perhaps, he thought as the sun started to sink along the horizon and the overhead announcer called the last race at the gate, today should be counted as a sick day.
When they woke, Arthur didn't rise immediately to his feet, but lay on the lawn chair feeling rested and... oddly at peace. His throat felt a little better, too.
"How'd it go?" Dom asked from his workstation.
Arthur glanced over and caught Eames' eye. He hadn't risen from his chair either, but lay back, blinking sleepily up at the ceiling. Some dreams always hit harder than others, and it had been a long time since Arthur had used the PASIV purely for recreational use. He had forgotten how it could be.
"It went well," Arthur said. "Eames has got the basics of the forgery down." Which was not a complete lie: he just didn't need a dream to confirm it.
Dom nodded, half listening. "I was able find a new chemist while you were down. Marko Alberts."
Reluctantly, Arthur sat up and unhooked himself. The peace of the dream still clung to him and he struggled for a moment to place the name. Then it hit him. "He was a friend of Mal's, wasn't he?"
"He's good," Dom confirmed. "He prefers to customize the somnacin himself. He'll be here in a few days."
In fact it was nearly a week until Alberts showed. By that time, the somnacin had run dry and Dom was looking a little crazed in the eye. Arthur had gone through withdrawal before, though it was less of a chemical drying out than it was the mind reacting to not being able to enter REM sleep at night - unpleasant, but the worst of the effects took weeks to show.
Arthur tried to ignore the fact that his friend was snappy and irritable after mere forty-eight hours. How much dreaming did he do on his own?
Alberts himself was a scrawny beanpole of a man with a long neck, a beaky nose, and a chain smoking habit. He did seem dedicated to the job, and spent the first half of the day taking a sample of everyone's blood, weights, and ordering Eames to set up his home-made lab up to exacting standards. He promised to have preliminary samples by the end of the day.
Arthur was hours deep into surveillance footage of the mark when it happened; the murmurings of the team at work changed and a sixth sense caused Arthur to look up in time to see the exchange.
There was little room to be had in the cramped office-space. As a result, Alberts had various vials and beakers spread out over the desk Eames usually used. Eames reached for his notebook of forgery notes, and in doing so one of his hands brushed a vial filled with amber liquid that tipped dangerously to one side. Deftly, Eames caught and righted it before a drop was spilled.
Alberts rose from his stool to glance at the near mishap. And, with an almost casual motion, backhanded Eames across the face.
Eames staggered, surprise more than pain registering on his face. Arthur didn't care. He was up on his feet, mouth open and ready to - he didn't know what, but it wasn't going to bode well for Alberts - but to his surprise, Dom got there first.
Stepping between them, Dom grabbed Alberts wrist in a painful grip. "That's not how we do things here," he said, firmly.
"The big oaf almost knocked it over!" Alberts protested. "Hours of work gone, just like that!"
Dom released his grip, but his eyes were steely as he said, "Eames is my slave. If you have a problem with him, bring it to me to deal with."
Alberts spat something in French - it sounded like a curse - but then took himself out, presumably to smoke a cigarette or three. Dom waited until the door closed before he turned to Eames who had taken himself off to the side, staring down at the ground. "Are you hurt?"
Eames shook his head. The side of his face was bright red where he had been struck, but a deeper flush was creeping up his neck. He looked embarrassed, or angry. Probably both.
"Good," Dom said, glancing again at the closed door. He leaned closer, but Arthur still caught the words. "If anything like that happens again, you have my permission to hit him back."
Eames lifted his head at this, staring in open surprise at his master. When Dom looked at him expectantly, he nodded.
There he is, Arthur thought, looking at Dom. There was a glimpse of the man he admired - Mal's husband, and his best friend. Not the haunted, risk-taking fugitive he seemed to have become over the last few months.
Arthur spoke up. "We should get another chemist."
Dom looked over at him and frowned. "He'll be worth it if he can provide half of what he promises."
"He's unstable," Arthur said, and, seeing Dom frown at him gestured to Eames' work station. "And messy. He's been here a day and this workstation is already a pigsty." That part didn't bother him so much - he wasn't the OCD robot that rumor painted him to be - but a sinking feeling told him that Dom wouldn't be swayed by poor treatment of a team member (even if he was a slave) alone. Two days dry, and he already needed to dream badly.
"He's all that we've got right now. Without somnacin, we can't work. Just stay out of his way if you can." Dom looked at Eames. "That goes for you, too." Then, before Arthur could reply he walked out, presumably to go unruffle Alberts' feathers.
Suppressing a sigh, Arthur rewound the surveillance footage by five minutes and sat back down while Eames quietly went back to his own work.
Arthur got his private revenge a few days later, after Alberts made a disgusting pass at him after they happened to be working late one night. Perhaps pulling out his Glock 17 was a touch over the top, but Alberts' bug-eyed fear, and the next day, his quick and sudden completion of the somnacin mix, was well worth it.
Seventy-two hours until the job was scheduled to go down, Dom happened to glance out the window overlooking their second story rented office-space, and went very still.
"Arthur," he said, sharply. "Three black vans just pulled into the parking lot."
Arthur snapped his laptop shut and was at his side in an instant. He peeked out the gap between blind and window in time to see several armed men pour out of the first van.
"We've been made," he confirmed, turning from the window. "Eames, pack it up. We're leaving."
By his estimate they had two minutes tops before they were surrounded. He had to get his team out before then. A few choice keystrokes set his hard drive to reformatting. Arthur grabbed his notebook, his two handguns, and an extra clip that would fit them both. Everything else could be safely burned -- it was why he insisted on fake ID's at all times.
He turned to see Eames close the PASIV case. Arthur held out his hand for it, but to his surprise Eames gestured for a handgun in return. The slave's eyes were bright with excitement -- Arthur had seen that same look down in the dream when the projections starting to go sour.
"You can shoot?" Arthur asked.
Eames nodded and gestured again, so Arthur handed him his least favorite gun.
"The back's clear!" Dom called, from his spot near the rear fire escape. He, too, had a gun, but even from across the room Arthur could see how he held it: Awkward and uncertain. Dom was almost James Bond-smooth down in a dream, but it was all bluff. Up above, he was only marginally competent.
"Go," Arthur said, nodding for Dom and Eames to leave. He would hold the building to give them a few extra minutes. If all went well, they'd meet up at a safe-house in Italy.
He saw them make their way out from the corner of his eye. Without further ado, Arthur grabbed a canister of gasoline he kept stored for such an occasion. He had finished dumping out the last of it when the front door flew open.
It was one of those shitty situations where Arthur was caught a step too far from the nearest cover ¬− Dom's oversize metal desk − and the gunmen were too quick off the mark for him to get away unscathed.
Arthur shot the first man, but two more took his place. He saw it in slow motion: the man in front take aim and his fingers tightening on the trigger, and Arthur--
The man jerked, a dark hole appearing in his forehead as if by magic. Arthur had been too focused to even hear the shot. He reacted by instinct, using the vantage of surprise to take out the third man. Then he turned.
Eames stood behind Arthur, his gun trained steadily on the front door, his feet set apart and shoulders level. He had almost perfect shooting posture.
"Why did Dom send you back?" Arthur snapped, annoyed despite the fact that the man had probably just saved him from getting shot. Before Eames could do more than look at him, Arthur shook his head, lowering his gun. It didn't matter. They had to get out of here.
Eames must have felt the same way, for he motioned for Arthur to hurry towards him. As he did, Eames aimed at one of the puddles of gasoline towards the middle of the room and fired. It sparked, and the fire was just starting to catch as they left from the back.
Arthur shot two men stationed at the back alley entrance. He noted Eames kept his position, his trigger discipline, and how he covered Arthur's blind spots as he moved along with him.
He had to have previous military experience of some sort -- no master in his right mind would teach a slave how to do this.
Through many starts and stops, they made their way from the now merrily burning office building by way of ducking in and out of alleys. A large plume of smoke could be seen behind them, and Arthur heard the sound of sirens drawing closer. He smiled tightly to himself: too late. By the time authorities got a handle of it, there would be no evidence left to point in their direction. If he was lucky, the fire took out a couple of would-be assassins, too.
Three blocks away, Arthur found and broke into a mid-size sedan. He was no good with the newer, more computerized models, but hotwiring a car really hadn't changed since his older brother taught him years ago.
"Did Dom say where he wanted to meet up?" Arthur asked, brushing safety glass off the seat and buckling in. They were to meet up out of country, but if he sent Eames back he might have other plans.
Eames shook his head as he got into the passenger's side. He moved stiffly, causing Arthur to make a quick double-take. It had been the first time he had taken a good look at him and he realized with a start that there was a growing spot of blood staining Eames' long sleeve shirt, just above where bicep met elbow.
"You're hurt? Why didn't you tell--" Arthur bit off the rest of his sentence.
Eames just looked at him in answer and there was gleam in his eye that seemed to say, I was trying to keep from getting further shot, wasn't I?
"Shut up," Arthur grumbled, putting the car into drive.
Eames just blinked at him.
Arthur was able to navigate away from the scene of the crime, and slide back into the flow of traffic without incident. He regretted the fact that he had to destroy his laptop -- someone had tipped them off, and it would be difficult to pinpoint who, though he would put his money on Alberts the chemist.
Until he found out, he would have to lay low and try to contact Dom. Besides, it would be difficult to cross into another country with a slave in tow without paperwork or the remote control to Eames' collar to prove ownership.
Arthur pulled into a middle-rate hotel across town and ditched the car several blocks away. Eames had put pressure on the wound thanks to a first-aid kit they found in the car and the bleeding seemed to have slowed. He shook his head when Arthur asked if he was dizzy, or if he thought he needed a doctor.
The lady at the hotel front desk took in Eames' blood-streaked arm, his Quietus collar, and gave a very dirty look to Arthur. But she said nothing, and Arthur tipped her well to buy her silence.
It bothered him more than it should that he was seen as an owner.
"Take off your shirt," he said, as soon as he and Eames stepped into their room. He had rented one with two twin beds, but they would rest there only a few hours, get Eames patched up, and then move somewhere else for the night. Until Arthur knew how much danger they were in, it was best to be on the move.
He had help Eames remove his shirt as the arm was apparently bothering him, and some of the blood had began to glue the fabric to the wound. It wasn't as bad as he feared - no more than a deep bullet-burn. He directed Eames to sit on one of the beds, then got to work.
Eames' arm twitched as Arthur washed the wound clear of blood, but made no move to stop him. His guess was that he got grazed by a ricochet, as the bullet burn was at an angle. Arthur moved behind Eames to sop up the rest of the blood and apply disinfectant. The first aid kit had pads of clean cloth, but no real bandaging. Arthur ended up tearing a thin pillowcase into strips and winding it around Eames's arm to keep pressure on the pad. It would have to do.
"Brace yourself," he said as he tightened the knot.
Eames made no sound, of course, but all the muscles along the length of his back went taunt with pain. Unthinkingly, Arthur placed his hand over the middle of his back, between the shoulder blades. Eames' bare skin was warm under his palm, and Arthur's eyes fell to his collar which sat, silver and ominous, against his neck.
This close, he could see that Eames' skin was darker directly under it - from callus and from years of corrections issued by the collar. It generated specialized pulses which stimulated pain centers in the brain. Whenever Eames was finally released from his bondage, he would still have a darkened marks around his throat as a reminder.
He realized that Eames had gone very still. His face was turned away from Arthur, but from where he sat he saw Eames' eyelashes against his cheeks, his eyes closed. And it was about then that Arthur realized his other hand was still holding Eames' bicep, his thumb running soothing mindless circles over the flesh there.
Was Eames frightened, or interested? Arthur couldn't honestly tell, and as Arthur took in Eames' wide back, and the play of dark tattoos over muscles, he knew that Eames would not stop him if he pushed this. Arthur would make sure Eames enjoyed himself, and certainly he flirted enough in dreamspace so that Arthur thought he probably wouldn't have to work hard to convince him...
... but that was Eames in a dream. This was a slave - Dom's property - who sat before him, very still and possibly frightened.
Arthur let out a long breath and dropped his hands away. "One day, you're going to have to tell me the story behind those tattoos," he said, to cover the moment.
Eames glanced over his shoulder - his grey eyes full of disquiet, and Arthur was the first to glance away, abruptly ashamed of himself.
Once they were safely out of the country, he could go to any gay club and pick up a quick fuck if he wanted. He didn't need-he didn't want it from a slave. Not when he couldn't be sure if it was coerced or not.
Arthur rose from the bed and walked to the bathroom, quietly shutting the door behind himself. He needed a few minutes alone.
A single knock came at the door nearly an hour later. Arthur exchanged a quick glance with Eames - the slave was flipping through news channels, watching for information on the fire while Arthur was scrolling through his contact list on his cell, determining which favor to call in first.
Silently, Arthur pulled out his handgun from his waistband, and, with quick hand signals he'd learned from his time in the service, gestured for Eames to cover him. Eames nodded.
Arthur slid up to the door and peeked out the peephole. Whoever had knocked had covered it.
In one smooth movement, Arthur unlatched the lock and yanked open the door, his gun pointed and ready to shoot.
For a terrifying second, he and Dom stood two feet apart, guns pointed in each other's faces.
Dom squinted at him. "Arthur," he said, lowering his gun. "Glad to see you made it out okay."
Arthur let out a breath and did the same. He stepped aside to let the other man in. "How did you find us?"
Dom dug in his pocket and held out the remote to Eames' collar. "I used the embedded tracking chip." He glanced over at Eames who had stood automatically at his master's presence, took one look at his bandaged arm and nodded back to Arthur. "We got separated finding a way out."
Arthur cut a swift look at Eames. The man had a near perfect poker face, but the way he wouldn't quite meet Arthur's eye told him enough: Eames had disobeyed Dom, slipped away in the chaos and had come back, looking for Arthur.
Something tightened in Arthur's stomach. He hadn't even thanked Eames for saving his life.
And he wondered if he should have leaned in and kissed Eames when he had the chance, if it was what Eames had wanted but was unable to tell him.
"I was lucky I found him at all after the fire," Arthur said, keeping the lie vague. Eames' eyes flicked to him, and he thought he saw gratitude there. Arthur turned back to Dom. "Did you find out who's behind this?"
"Alberts," Dom said, grimly. "I got the call from a mutual contact, afterwards."
Then Alberts was a dead man. Arthur would make sure of that. He only nodded and said, "We should get out of the county as soon as we can, then regroup."
He tried to ignore the officious way Dom ordered Eames to follow him out of the hotel, afterwards, and how he never even asked about his slave's injury.
Pairing: Eames/Arthur
Rating: R
Summary: (Modern day slave!AU) In life, Eames is a beaten down slave, but in the dreamworld he's smooth, dangerous, and sexy. And even though he's Dom's property, he's gotten under Arthur's skin.
TRIGGER WARNINGS: Slavery, implication of previous non-consensual sex, classism, brutality, and possible dubious consent depending on how you see it, treating people as objects, implied mild to moderate torture, suicide (in a dream), moral ambiguity by the good guys, and forced silencing.
I don't want to give the impression this is some sort of ultra-dark fic, because it isn't, but the last thing I want to do is trigger anyone. So if you are at all sensitive to these issues I ask that you give this fic a pass. You are reading at your own risk.
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5
*****
Note: I'm updating two chapters at once, so make sure you read chapters 5 & 6.
Note2: I am aware that Mythbusters proved you can't start a fire by shooting a puddle of gasoline, but I'm going to have to ask you to roll with it. ;D
Arthur was the first to start coughing - one of those miserable high summer flus that seemed to work backwards, starting with a racking cough before moving up to the sinuses and ending with a sore throat.
It wasn't before Dom caught the bug, then finally Eames. Soon the small second story office space they'd rented for the job was made miserable with trash bins full of Kleenex, liberal use of cold medicine, and much manly sniffling.
Eames had the worst of the first stage as occasionally his Quietus collar would engage during a run of hard coughing.
"Can you turn it down so it's not so sensitive?" Arthur demanded as he heard Eames' coughing from across the room halt abruptly, to be replaced by a choked off gasp of pain.
"No," Dom replied, but looking like he felt bad about it. "It's automatic, I only have control over the manual discipline settings." Then he honked into a handful of tissues.
Arthur scowled and went over the PASIV to run a basic diagnostic. They were running low on somnacin, and by some reports their usual chemist, a woman named Kara, had been recently busted for drug running in her home country of Ireland. They'd have to get someone else soon.
"You could always bring me chicken soup, if you feel badly about infecting me," Eames suggested, later, as he and Arthur delved into a dream. It wasn't strictly necessary, but no over the counter cure seemed to assuage Arthur's sore throat; he'd gotten little sleep last night, and it was always a good idea to allow Eames to work out the kinks of his forge while under.
He had allowed Eames to build the dream this time, and for some reason known only to him, they were beside a horse-racing track - Arthur clutching ticket stubs in his hand while a pack of thoroughbreds thundered down the home stretch.
Arthur shot Eames an annoyed look. "Chicken soup? Do I look like your mother?"
Eames grinned. "She was a brunette."
The finishing bell rang and Arthur checked his tickets as the announcer rattled off the standings, for some reason in a thick cockney accent. He didn't have a winner.
"You're ridiculous," Arthur said. "And it was Dom who probably infected you."
Eames pulled a ridiculous face. "There's no danger of that, darling. I still catch him crying at night over his wife."
Arthur winced, both at Eames' implication and the fact that Dom was still grieving so. "How is he?"
"Better, I believe," Eames replied after a long moment, sobering. "He hasn't asked me to build for them at night for some time, and I'm certain you've noticed we haven't been recently stabbed or shot out of our practice runs."
It was true. Dom had been careful to use Eames as the subject when all three shared a dream, and Mal had been nowhere to be seen.
Another string of high spirited horses were starting at the gate. It would have been a prime opportunity to ask Eames to show him his newest forge of the mark's long lost sister, but even down in the dream, his throat throbbed with heat. Arthur indulged in a lemon icy while Eames went on about the standings of the horses as if they mattered, and occasionally coughed into a checkered handkerchief.
Perhaps, he thought as the sun started to sink along the horizon and the overhead announcer called the last race at the gate, today should be counted as a sick day.
When they woke, Arthur didn't rise immediately to his feet, but lay on the lawn chair feeling rested and... oddly at peace. His throat felt a little better, too.
"How'd it go?" Dom asked from his workstation.
Arthur glanced over and caught Eames' eye. He hadn't risen from his chair either, but lay back, blinking sleepily up at the ceiling. Some dreams always hit harder than others, and it had been a long time since Arthur had used the PASIV purely for recreational use. He had forgotten how it could be.
"It went well," Arthur said. "Eames has got the basics of the forgery down." Which was not a complete lie: he just didn't need a dream to confirm it.
Dom nodded, half listening. "I was able find a new chemist while you were down. Marko Alberts."
Reluctantly, Arthur sat up and unhooked himself. The peace of the dream still clung to him and he struggled for a moment to place the name. Then it hit him. "He was a friend of Mal's, wasn't he?"
"He's good," Dom confirmed. "He prefers to customize the somnacin himself. He'll be here in a few days."
In fact it was nearly a week until Alberts showed. By that time, the somnacin had run dry and Dom was looking a little crazed in the eye. Arthur had gone through withdrawal before, though it was less of a chemical drying out than it was the mind reacting to not being able to enter REM sleep at night - unpleasant, but the worst of the effects took weeks to show.
Arthur tried to ignore the fact that his friend was snappy and irritable after mere forty-eight hours. How much dreaming did he do on his own?
Alberts himself was a scrawny beanpole of a man with a long neck, a beaky nose, and a chain smoking habit. He did seem dedicated to the job, and spent the first half of the day taking a sample of everyone's blood, weights, and ordering Eames to set up his home-made lab up to exacting standards. He promised to have preliminary samples by the end of the day.
Arthur was hours deep into surveillance footage of the mark when it happened; the murmurings of the team at work changed and a sixth sense caused Arthur to look up in time to see the exchange.
There was little room to be had in the cramped office-space. As a result, Alberts had various vials and beakers spread out over the desk Eames usually used. Eames reached for his notebook of forgery notes, and in doing so one of his hands brushed a vial filled with amber liquid that tipped dangerously to one side. Deftly, Eames caught and righted it before a drop was spilled.
Alberts rose from his stool to glance at the near mishap. And, with an almost casual motion, backhanded Eames across the face.
Eames staggered, surprise more than pain registering on his face. Arthur didn't care. He was up on his feet, mouth open and ready to - he didn't know what, but it wasn't going to bode well for Alberts - but to his surprise, Dom got there first.
Stepping between them, Dom grabbed Alberts wrist in a painful grip. "That's not how we do things here," he said, firmly.
"The big oaf almost knocked it over!" Alberts protested. "Hours of work gone, just like that!"
Dom released his grip, but his eyes were steely as he said, "Eames is my slave. If you have a problem with him, bring it to me to deal with."
Alberts spat something in French - it sounded like a curse - but then took himself out, presumably to smoke a cigarette or three. Dom waited until the door closed before he turned to Eames who had taken himself off to the side, staring down at the ground. "Are you hurt?"
Eames shook his head. The side of his face was bright red where he had been struck, but a deeper flush was creeping up his neck. He looked embarrassed, or angry. Probably both.
"Good," Dom said, glancing again at the closed door. He leaned closer, but Arthur still caught the words. "If anything like that happens again, you have my permission to hit him back."
Eames lifted his head at this, staring in open surprise at his master. When Dom looked at him expectantly, he nodded.
There he is, Arthur thought, looking at Dom. There was a glimpse of the man he admired - Mal's husband, and his best friend. Not the haunted, risk-taking fugitive he seemed to have become over the last few months.
Arthur spoke up. "We should get another chemist."
Dom looked over at him and frowned. "He'll be worth it if he can provide half of what he promises."
"He's unstable," Arthur said, and, seeing Dom frown at him gestured to Eames' work station. "And messy. He's been here a day and this workstation is already a pigsty." That part didn't bother him so much - he wasn't the OCD robot that rumor painted him to be - but a sinking feeling told him that Dom wouldn't be swayed by poor treatment of a team member (even if he was a slave) alone. Two days dry, and he already needed to dream badly.
"He's all that we've got right now. Without somnacin, we can't work. Just stay out of his way if you can." Dom looked at Eames. "That goes for you, too." Then, before Arthur could reply he walked out, presumably to go unruffle Alberts' feathers.
Suppressing a sigh, Arthur rewound the surveillance footage by five minutes and sat back down while Eames quietly went back to his own work.
Arthur got his private revenge a few days later, after Alberts made a disgusting pass at him after they happened to be working late one night. Perhaps pulling out his Glock 17 was a touch over the top, but Alberts' bug-eyed fear, and the next day, his quick and sudden completion of the somnacin mix, was well worth it.
Seventy-two hours until the job was scheduled to go down, Dom happened to glance out the window overlooking their second story rented office-space, and went very still.
"Arthur," he said, sharply. "Three black vans just pulled into the parking lot."
Arthur snapped his laptop shut and was at his side in an instant. He peeked out the gap between blind and window in time to see several armed men pour out of the first van.
"We've been made," he confirmed, turning from the window. "Eames, pack it up. We're leaving."
By his estimate they had two minutes tops before they were surrounded. He had to get his team out before then. A few choice keystrokes set his hard drive to reformatting. Arthur grabbed his notebook, his two handguns, and an extra clip that would fit them both. Everything else could be safely burned -- it was why he insisted on fake ID's at all times.
He turned to see Eames close the PASIV case. Arthur held out his hand for it, but to his surprise Eames gestured for a handgun in return. The slave's eyes were bright with excitement -- Arthur had seen that same look down in the dream when the projections starting to go sour.
"You can shoot?" Arthur asked.
Eames nodded and gestured again, so Arthur handed him his least favorite gun.
"The back's clear!" Dom called, from his spot near the rear fire escape. He, too, had a gun, but even from across the room Arthur could see how he held it: Awkward and uncertain. Dom was almost James Bond-smooth down in a dream, but it was all bluff. Up above, he was only marginally competent.
"Go," Arthur said, nodding for Dom and Eames to leave. He would hold the building to give them a few extra minutes. If all went well, they'd meet up at a safe-house in Italy.
He saw them make their way out from the corner of his eye. Without further ado, Arthur grabbed a canister of gasoline he kept stored for such an occasion. He had finished dumping out the last of it when the front door flew open.
It was one of those shitty situations where Arthur was caught a step too far from the nearest cover ¬− Dom's oversize metal desk − and the gunmen were too quick off the mark for him to get away unscathed.
Arthur shot the first man, but two more took his place. He saw it in slow motion: the man in front take aim and his fingers tightening on the trigger, and Arthur--
The man jerked, a dark hole appearing in his forehead as if by magic. Arthur had been too focused to even hear the shot. He reacted by instinct, using the vantage of surprise to take out the third man. Then he turned.
Eames stood behind Arthur, his gun trained steadily on the front door, his feet set apart and shoulders level. He had almost perfect shooting posture.
"Why did Dom send you back?" Arthur snapped, annoyed despite the fact that the man had probably just saved him from getting shot. Before Eames could do more than look at him, Arthur shook his head, lowering his gun. It didn't matter. They had to get out of here.
Eames must have felt the same way, for he motioned for Arthur to hurry towards him. As he did, Eames aimed at one of the puddles of gasoline towards the middle of the room and fired. It sparked, and the fire was just starting to catch as they left from the back.
Arthur shot two men stationed at the back alley entrance. He noted Eames kept his position, his trigger discipline, and how he covered Arthur's blind spots as he moved along with him.
He had to have previous military experience of some sort -- no master in his right mind would teach a slave how to do this.
Through many starts and stops, they made their way from the now merrily burning office building by way of ducking in and out of alleys. A large plume of smoke could be seen behind them, and Arthur heard the sound of sirens drawing closer. He smiled tightly to himself: too late. By the time authorities got a handle of it, there would be no evidence left to point in their direction. If he was lucky, the fire took out a couple of would-be assassins, too.
Three blocks away, Arthur found and broke into a mid-size sedan. He was no good with the newer, more computerized models, but hotwiring a car really hadn't changed since his older brother taught him years ago.
"Did Dom say where he wanted to meet up?" Arthur asked, brushing safety glass off the seat and buckling in. They were to meet up out of country, but if he sent Eames back he might have other plans.
Eames shook his head as he got into the passenger's side. He moved stiffly, causing Arthur to make a quick double-take. It had been the first time he had taken a good look at him and he realized with a start that there was a growing spot of blood staining Eames' long sleeve shirt, just above where bicep met elbow.
"You're hurt? Why didn't you tell--" Arthur bit off the rest of his sentence.
Eames just looked at him in answer and there was gleam in his eye that seemed to say, I was trying to keep from getting further shot, wasn't I?
"Shut up," Arthur grumbled, putting the car into drive.
Eames just blinked at him.
Arthur was able to navigate away from the scene of the crime, and slide back into the flow of traffic without incident. He regretted the fact that he had to destroy his laptop -- someone had tipped them off, and it would be difficult to pinpoint who, though he would put his money on Alberts the chemist.
Until he found out, he would have to lay low and try to contact Dom. Besides, it would be difficult to cross into another country with a slave in tow without paperwork or the remote control to Eames' collar to prove ownership.
Arthur pulled into a middle-rate hotel across town and ditched the car several blocks away. Eames had put pressure on the wound thanks to a first-aid kit they found in the car and the bleeding seemed to have slowed. He shook his head when Arthur asked if he was dizzy, or if he thought he needed a doctor.
The lady at the hotel front desk took in Eames' blood-streaked arm, his Quietus collar, and gave a very dirty look to Arthur. But she said nothing, and Arthur tipped her well to buy her silence.
It bothered him more than it should that he was seen as an owner.
"Take off your shirt," he said, as soon as he and Eames stepped into their room. He had rented one with two twin beds, but they would rest there only a few hours, get Eames patched up, and then move somewhere else for the night. Until Arthur knew how much danger they were in, it was best to be on the move.
He had help Eames remove his shirt as the arm was apparently bothering him, and some of the blood had began to glue the fabric to the wound. It wasn't as bad as he feared - no more than a deep bullet-burn. He directed Eames to sit on one of the beds, then got to work.
Eames' arm twitched as Arthur washed the wound clear of blood, but made no move to stop him. His guess was that he got grazed by a ricochet, as the bullet burn was at an angle. Arthur moved behind Eames to sop up the rest of the blood and apply disinfectant. The first aid kit had pads of clean cloth, but no real bandaging. Arthur ended up tearing a thin pillowcase into strips and winding it around Eames's arm to keep pressure on the pad. It would have to do.
"Brace yourself," he said as he tightened the knot.
Eames made no sound, of course, but all the muscles along the length of his back went taunt with pain. Unthinkingly, Arthur placed his hand over the middle of his back, between the shoulder blades. Eames' bare skin was warm under his palm, and Arthur's eyes fell to his collar which sat, silver and ominous, against his neck.
This close, he could see that Eames' skin was darker directly under it - from callus and from years of corrections issued by the collar. It generated specialized pulses which stimulated pain centers in the brain. Whenever Eames was finally released from his bondage, he would still have a darkened marks around his throat as a reminder.
He realized that Eames had gone very still. His face was turned away from Arthur, but from where he sat he saw Eames' eyelashes against his cheeks, his eyes closed. And it was about then that Arthur realized his other hand was still holding Eames' bicep, his thumb running soothing mindless circles over the flesh there.
Was Eames frightened, or interested? Arthur couldn't honestly tell, and as Arthur took in Eames' wide back, and the play of dark tattoos over muscles, he knew that Eames would not stop him if he pushed this. Arthur would make sure Eames enjoyed himself, and certainly he flirted enough in dreamspace so that Arthur thought he probably wouldn't have to work hard to convince him...
... but that was Eames in a dream. This was a slave - Dom's property - who sat before him, very still and possibly frightened.
Arthur let out a long breath and dropped his hands away. "One day, you're going to have to tell me the story behind those tattoos," he said, to cover the moment.
Eames glanced over his shoulder - his grey eyes full of disquiet, and Arthur was the first to glance away, abruptly ashamed of himself.
Once they were safely out of the country, he could go to any gay club and pick up a quick fuck if he wanted. He didn't need-he didn't want it from a slave. Not when he couldn't be sure if it was coerced or not.
Arthur rose from the bed and walked to the bathroom, quietly shutting the door behind himself. He needed a few minutes alone.
A single knock came at the door nearly an hour later. Arthur exchanged a quick glance with Eames - the slave was flipping through news channels, watching for information on the fire while Arthur was scrolling through his contact list on his cell, determining which favor to call in first.
Silently, Arthur pulled out his handgun from his waistband, and, with quick hand signals he'd learned from his time in the service, gestured for Eames to cover him. Eames nodded.
Arthur slid up to the door and peeked out the peephole. Whoever had knocked had covered it.
In one smooth movement, Arthur unlatched the lock and yanked open the door, his gun pointed and ready to shoot.
For a terrifying second, he and Dom stood two feet apart, guns pointed in each other's faces.
Dom squinted at him. "Arthur," he said, lowering his gun. "Glad to see you made it out okay."
Arthur let out a breath and did the same. He stepped aside to let the other man in. "How did you find us?"
Dom dug in his pocket and held out the remote to Eames' collar. "I used the embedded tracking chip." He glanced over at Eames who had stood automatically at his master's presence, took one look at his bandaged arm and nodded back to Arthur. "We got separated finding a way out."
Arthur cut a swift look at Eames. The man had a near perfect poker face, but the way he wouldn't quite meet Arthur's eye told him enough: Eames had disobeyed Dom, slipped away in the chaos and had come back, looking for Arthur.
Something tightened in Arthur's stomach. He hadn't even thanked Eames for saving his life.
And he wondered if he should have leaned in and kissed Eames when he had the chance, if it was what Eames had wanted but was unable to tell him.
"I was lucky I found him at all after the fire," Arthur said, keeping the lie vague. Eames' eyes flicked to him, and he thought he saw gratitude there. Arthur turned back to Dom. "Did you find out who's behind this?"
"Alberts," Dom said, grimly. "I got the call from a mutual contact, afterwards."
Then Alberts was a dead man. Arthur would make sure of that. He only nodded and said, "We should get out of the county as soon as we can, then regroup."
He tried to ignore the officious way Dom ordered Eames to follow him out of the hotel, afterwards, and how he never even asked about his slave's injury.