Dig Yourself A Grave (Lie Down With The Worms)
Pairing: Eames/Arthur
Genre: H/C
Warnings: Slash
Rating: PG
Summary: The job goes suddenly, disastrously wrong when the mark - one Peter Winshaw, whose employers believed to have stolen some very important patented information with the intent to sell it to their competitors - gets the hots for Ariadne instead of Eames’s impeccable forge.
A/N: Okay, I'm actually stupidly nervous about this teeny tiny fic. Which is why I'm posting it where, well, no one will actually see it. Just so I can, you know, look at it until I figure out why I CANNOT write Arthur's voice to SAVE myself.
The job goes suddenly, disastrously wrong when the mark - one Peter Winshaw, whose employers believed to have stolen some very important patented information with the intent to sell it to their competitors - gets the hots for Ariadne instead of Eames’s impeccable forge.
They get Winshaw under for the second time in a hotel room, sending him down with Cobb and Arthur while the two of them sort themselves out and Yusuf watches. The first level of the Fischer job had given the Chemist something of a taste for working in the field, if only with the team that had accomplished inception.
“Can you forge me?” Ariadne asks, readying her own line quickly. Eames shakes off the blonde Amazon he has been wearing, returning to his own form: dark pants and jacket worn over an emerald-green silk shirt that Yusuf knows is his favourite colour, unusually blank expression.
Eames scoffs, “of course I could. But we can’t have two versions of the same person in one dream, the subconscious will pick up on that very quickly. No, I’m afraid we’re going to have to swap jobs for the day.”
“I can’t do your job,” Ariadne protests, looking very innocent and offended for a girl who Yusuf knows for a fact can shoot with the best of them, who in the two years since the Fischer job has spent hundreds of hours lucid dreaming while finishing her degree.
“You are the distraction. All you have to do is be distracting, sweetheart, I’m sure a girl of your intelligence can manage that,” Eames retorts, and his voice is just a little far this side of bladed.
“You don’t know the way through the maze,” Yusuf points out in an even voice, checking the PASIV with careful precision. He knows, in that absent way he knows most things about his fellow team members, that Eames isn’t fond of close spaces since what happened in Mombasa. He doesn’t stay in hotels that don’t have baths because closed showers freak him out, and he prefers taking stairs to riding in an elevator. However, he doesn’t bring that up: Eames wouldn’t take it well, if he did. For someone who spends so much of his time pretending to be less than he is, he really dislikes his true failings being bought up in conversation.
“Arthur does,” Eames replies. “I’m just there to watch his back and set the kick.” Arthur, who is the dreamer, can probably watch his own back, he’s that good, but between dreaming and pulling the information they need from the safe the team decided it was better to send someone else with him. That was supposed to be Ariadne, but now that isn’t going to fly.
“We’ve wasted enough time as it is,” Eames points out finally, when she doesn’t protest. “Let’s get down there.”
A nod to Yusuf, and they’re under.
***
The second level is a casino, where Dom and now Ariadne will be playing the mark until he puts his secrets into the hidden safe. The floors underneath are part of a plush older hotel riddled with paradoxes and other tricks to make the team hard to find. Red and gold are the predominant colours, giving a slightly tacky, aged air to the décor. It’s not at all Arthur.
The tricky part is that in order to manufacture the kick for all of them, they need to drop the entire casino to put them back on the first level. So Ariadne devised a series of vents on the floor right below where charges could be placed to do just that.
Eames and Arthur find themselves in the room where the ventilation system is most easily reachable through a duct in the roof. Arthur has to pull over the coffee table to stand on so he can remove the mesh cover and shove his bag inside. There isn’t much space inside, only enough that they can do a belly-crawl by pulling their entire body weight on their hands. As Arthur pushes himself into the dark space, he curses Ariadne’s sense of realism: she could have probably crawled properly through the ducts, of course, but for a man it’s a tight squeeze. The flashlight shows only grey metal and shadows.
He hears Eames climb inside behind him, and feels a twinge of sympathy. The forger might be no taller than Arthur but he is broader across the shoulders, and he doesn’t know what to expect under here. Arthur can reach his belt - and therefore his gun - if he wiggles his hand underneath his body, but he doubts that Eames can do the same.
“Okay?” Arthur asks, voice echoing eerily down the distance in front of him and probably muffled behind him. He can make out every shuffle that Eames makes, every indrawn breath and exhale.
“Fine,” Eames says, unusually terse, without any wisecracks for once in his life. This makes an alarm go off somewhere in the recesses of Arthur’s brain, but he can’t even see Eames, never mind make out whether or not the man is actually okay.
“Right,” Arthur says, and begins the slide.
It’s not the first time he has been crammed into an uncomfortable spot: he was in the marines, and always on point, so he’d crawled into plenty of dark, possibly-snake-infested places on his tours. It’s not the first time he has navigated a ventilation system, although he has never tried it in dreams before. He hopes nothing goes wrong up above: if the dream crumbles while they are in here, they don’t have a chance of getting out before they drop blind.
“First charge goes here,” Arthur says, and is glad that he can hear Eames, because otherwise he’d be having creepy thoughts about being all alone in here. He hopes absently that any suspicious projections don’t climb in here after them. It’d be like a fucking horror movie.
Arthur makes out the sound of the adhesive charge being stuck down, and the flash of the red light on it as it is armed reflecting dully against the metal. “Good?”
“Fine,” Eames says again, and starts up with the crawl again. Their banging, sliding progress is loud from here but inaudible through walls that Arthur has soundproofed.
Arthur has to slide his body around a corner to the right, glad that there at least aren’t any drops or rises in the maze. He hears Eames bang something, probably his elbow, and swear softly.
He is clinically aware of the steady in-and-out of his own breathing, the even undulations of his body. In physically and mentally demanding situations like this, he always switches into soldier-mode, his body automatically remembering days of walking in unholy heat or cold, days far harder than this one. He drifts a little, speaking only to mark the places where charges need to go.
On the sixth, after another tight right corner, Arthur hears Eames swear again. His voice is breathier than usual, not the usual clear-cut annunciations that Arthur is used to.
“What is it?” he raps out, because apparently soldier-mode extends to that tone of voice as well.
“Nothing,” Eames says, “just, you know, a tight fit for someone not as svelte as yourself.”
And Arthur must know the Forger too well, because he can tell straight away that Eames is lying. His breathing is too fast now, and his movements are now full of jittering as his fingers scrabble against the cold metal. Arthur has ten centimetres or so between his back and the top of the shaft, which probably gives Eames six centimetres of air. He should be able to move just as easily as he could before, which means that he’s probably having some kind of panic attack.
To prove Arthur’s point, Eames says quite suddenly, “shit. Fucking shit.” His inwards breaths whoop a little in his chest as he hyperventilates.
“Hey. Easy, there,” Arthur says, with a sinking feeling. Even though he can get his gun, he certainly can’t aim well enough from this angle without looking to put the other man out of his misery. And if he could, it’s going to throw the job to shit, because he can’t reach the charges that Eames has if he does wake him up.
He racks his brain, bringing up an image of the maze to the forefront of his mind. They’ve crawled a fair way already, more than half of the one hundred metre distance. Arthur knows that perhaps fifteen metres ahead there is a place where he could stand up and turn around, which means that he would have to crawl back down to Eames and then…do whatever, either kill him or convince him to keep going. That does, however, mean that he has to crawl the rest of the way backwards.
Neither of them are moving now, except for the horrible sound of Eames’s rapid breathing and his nails scraping. Arthur has to choose, and choose quickly. Distantly he can feel his own breath speeding, his heart rate climbing, his palms getting damp with his own nerves. It’s only distant because it has to be, because he can’t afford to lose it now. Arthur is good with clear-cut divisions, with separating feelings and work, with doing what has to be done.
“Eames,” he says, and his voice is as calm as it pretty much always is. “Eames. Talk to me, come on.”
Eames doesn’t say anything, so Arthur just keeps going. “I’m going to move on a little and turn around so that I can face you, okay? Just don’t move, keep breathing. In and out, nice and deep.”
It turns out that he can move much faster alone, because the fifteen metres take much less than any previous fifteen. Or maybe he’s just desperate, his muscles using the adrenaline his system is supplying. Arthur has to keep one hand on the ceiling so he doesn’t miss the upward shaft, talking all the while to Eames despite the lack of reply. His heartbeat races when his fingers hit empty air, allowing him a brief moment of freedom where he can actually kneel up and then half-stand, turning his body with his arms stretched over his head. It feels rather like standing in a metal coffin and, okay, Arthur could kill himself, because no wonder. No fucking wonder Eames is panicking, and it’s actually a fucking surprise he managed to get this far before losing it.
When he lies back down and turns his torch to face back the way he has come, he can make out the top of Eames’s head, his heaving back. The shuddering makes Arthur flash back to eighteen months ago: the sickly scent of warm earth, the even thud and the same distant, unearthly strain of Arthur’s muscles as right now as he digs, and digs. Cracking the top of the rough-hewn box, feeling more horror than he’s ever felt, ever, and somehow managing to find him alive. Four hours in a wooden box underground with not enough fresh air had been as bad for his mind as his body: Arthur can remember quite clearly the bloodied claws of his hands where he’d lost nails struggling, his staring blind eyes.
Right now Eames has buried his face in the crook of his outstretched arm, clearly fighting for control. Arthur keeps going until the man is within grasping distance, knowing that he has to move carefully from here on in. Eames was in the SAS, and it wouldn’t be the first time Arthur has surprised him and been struck in the face.
“Hey,” Arthur says, gentling his voice the only way he knows how. “Hey, hey.”
Eames tilts his chin a little, so that Arthur can make out his eyes, too bright and too absent, and his parted lips. Arthur palms his cheek gently, and then slaps him. Eames doesn’t flinch - he isn’t here mentally, probably imagining the inside of the coffin where his corpse would still be if not for a bet with Arthur involving tracking equipment.
Arthur works his body closer, awkwardly, trying to avoid hitting Eames in the face with his elbows. He has to crush the charges under his body to get there, but then he’s got his face right up against Eames’s. The Forger can probably only make out Arthur’s eyes and nose, his mouth and the slope of his throat, which is a good thing.
“Hey,” he says, “come on, Eames.” He would use the man’s first name, but it really is ridiculous, and Eames shudders whenever he even reads it.
He sees a spark of recognition, and takes a bit of leap: from measuring his breaths, slow and calm, trying to get Eames to match them, to actively kissing the other man. For a moment Eames just pants: then he responds, beautifully, because Arthur clearly has got the other man’s body very well trained in the last eighteen months. His lips are as dry and cool as a cadaver’s.
When he pulls back the few centimetres that he can, Eames’s eyes are fixed on his. He murmurs, “darling,” with a catch in his voice that makes Arthur’s chest burn. Arthur strokes his cheek, his arms, wishing he could do more, because touch is the best way to help anyone like this. It’s not in character for him, but he’ll do it because he has to and because this is Eames, it’s Eames, and it’s a miracle he’s not panicking himself.
“Are you alright to keep going, or should I wake you up?” Arthur asks, low, steady.
“I can-” Eames says, and then coughs, “I can keep going.”
And Arthur hardly believes him, because he looks like he’d quite like to be sick. But he can’t doubt him. He trusts Eames, and he cares about him a great deal, and - and. And they are both apparently emotionally retarded, so they are clearly meant to be together.
“Okay,” Arthur says, scooting backwards. “Let’s stick down this charge and go on, then.”
And they do.
***
Arthur isn’t surprised when Eames gets up without a word and leaves the warehouse. Ariadne opens her mouth, and Yusuf makes an abortive, twitchy move to catch his arm and - both stop at Arthur’s very convincing look. Eames had looked green about the lips, and Arthur had seen enough expressions like that to know full well that he has gone to be quietly unwell in the privacy of his hotel room.
When he turns around, Cobb is giving Arthur a curious look.
“I got what we need,” Arthur tries to cut him off. Their drop had gone perfectly to schedule, Eames setting off the charges just as Arthur had finished reading the information from the safe. Winshaw is planning on selling one main idea at the moment, which Arthur needs to tell the employers about, as soon as he...soon.
“Of course,” Cobb replies, which is almost funny. He has been back in the game for maybe five months now. Arthur’s not quite sure why, although he thinks that it’s mostly because Cobb can’t quite let go. After all, there’s nothing else like it.
Arthur isn’t Cobb’s partner anymore. He doesn’t have to follow him around the world trying to keep him from getting himself killed, or just following Mal off some hotel ledge in a foreign country. It’s a relief. Both to not have to worry about Cobb, and to be his own man. Apparently inception wasn’t only beneficial for Fischer.
“Is Eames alright? He left his jacket,” Cobb continues, grabbing his own coat.
“He’ll be fine. I’ll take it with me,” Arthur says, which is probably the closest he’s ever come to talking out loud to Cobb about the fact that he and Eames are in a relationship. Cobb knows anyway, he always knows shit like that about Arthur. The only other times Arthur has talked about Eames with Cobb in the past year and a half was when he flew to Mombasa after hearing whispers about people after the Forger, and when Cobb called about the murders he’d heard Arthur had committed.
Arthur doesn’t regret it, not at all. Some nights he wishes that he could kill them all over again for what they did to Eames. If that isn’t love, then he doesn’t know what is.
It’s not sensible, but it’s theirs.
“Excuse me,” Arthur says, throwing his jacket - elegant, well-cut - over his arm with Eames’s - atrociously styled, ill-fitting, utterly beguiling because one can’t at all see that Eames is solid muscle underneath it. He throws his satchel over his shoulder and exits, leaving Yusuf and Ariadne to erase all signs that they were in Winshaw’s apartment. He has somewhere to be. He knows that the others watch him go.
Back at their shared hotel suite, the lights are off but Arthur can tell that Eames is inside. He’s been in the shower with the bathroom door open like he always does, because he doesn’t like the mirror fogging up. It makes the air in the room humid, a little sticky, how Eames prefers it.
That being said, he almost walks right by where the other man is stretched out on the couch, one arm flung over his eyes. For a moment Arthur wonders whether he’s asleep: he’s still enough to be, sleep the only time he doesn’t give into nervous ticks so myriad that Arthur wonders whether some of them aren’t inherited from the forges.
And Arthur should, by all rights, be angry. He’s not though, he really isn’t. So what if Eames failed to point out the obvious flaw in their changed plan, which is his unofficial job seeing as he’s brilliant at it. So what if he wildly misjudged his own breaking point. Arthur knows why he did it - because of him, of course, and because of the others too. For a man who calls himself selfish, it’s a little ridiculous that he put himself in this situation on purpose.
Eames is a lot of stuff he says he isn’t, just like he isn’t a lot of things he says he is. Fortunately Arthur at some point has learnt to tell what is truth and what is with him.
Arthur dumps their stuff on the other chair and perches on the couch beside Eames’s hip. He places a hand on Eames’s chest, measuring the slow, easy movements of his breathing, the steady beat of his heart. Something in Arthur that he hadn’t known was strung taut relaxes.
“You okay?” he asks, because he isn’t good at gestures, barely knows how to flirt - not that Eames is much better, the immature bastard - and sometimes thinks that he takes for granted the fact that either of them are here like this at all. In response to his tone - genuine, with a little of the fear and hurt that he felt down there, the things that he can’t express at work but still feels like growls of thunder in his chest - Eames uncovers his face, his eyes rendered dark by the shadow falling where they sit.
“Yeah,” he says, with the steel Arthur knows he carries in his spine showing through in his voice as he covers Arthur’s fingers with his own. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
They sit like that for a long time.
Genre: H/C
Warnings: Slash
Rating: PG
Summary: The job goes suddenly, disastrously wrong when the mark - one Peter Winshaw, whose employers believed to have stolen some very important patented information with the intent to sell it to their competitors - gets the hots for Ariadne instead of Eames’s impeccable forge.
A/N: Okay, I'm actually stupidly nervous about this teeny tiny fic. Which is why I'm posting it where, well, no one will actually see it. Just so I can, you know, look at it until I figure out why I CANNOT write Arthur's voice to SAVE myself.
The job goes suddenly, disastrously wrong when the mark - one Peter Winshaw, whose employers believed to have stolen some very important patented information with the intent to sell it to their competitors - gets the hots for Ariadne instead of Eames’s impeccable forge.
They get Winshaw under for the second time in a hotel room, sending him down with Cobb and Arthur while the two of them sort themselves out and Yusuf watches. The first level of the Fischer job had given the Chemist something of a taste for working in the field, if only with the team that had accomplished inception.
“Can you forge me?” Ariadne asks, readying her own line quickly. Eames shakes off the blonde Amazon he has been wearing, returning to his own form: dark pants and jacket worn over an emerald-green silk shirt that Yusuf knows is his favourite colour, unusually blank expression.
Eames scoffs, “of course I could. But we can’t have two versions of the same person in one dream, the subconscious will pick up on that very quickly. No, I’m afraid we’re going to have to swap jobs for the day.”
“I can’t do your job,” Ariadne protests, looking very innocent and offended for a girl who Yusuf knows for a fact can shoot with the best of them, who in the two years since the Fischer job has spent hundreds of hours lucid dreaming while finishing her degree.
“You are the distraction. All you have to do is be distracting, sweetheart, I’m sure a girl of your intelligence can manage that,” Eames retorts, and his voice is just a little far this side of bladed.
“You don’t know the way through the maze,” Yusuf points out in an even voice, checking the PASIV with careful precision. He knows, in that absent way he knows most things about his fellow team members, that Eames isn’t fond of close spaces since what happened in Mombasa. He doesn’t stay in hotels that don’t have baths because closed showers freak him out, and he prefers taking stairs to riding in an elevator. However, he doesn’t bring that up: Eames wouldn’t take it well, if he did. For someone who spends so much of his time pretending to be less than he is, he really dislikes his true failings being bought up in conversation.
“Arthur does,” Eames replies. “I’m just there to watch his back and set the kick.” Arthur, who is the dreamer, can probably watch his own back, he’s that good, but between dreaming and pulling the information they need from the safe the team decided it was better to send someone else with him. That was supposed to be Ariadne, but now that isn’t going to fly.
“We’ve wasted enough time as it is,” Eames points out finally, when she doesn’t protest. “Let’s get down there.”
A nod to Yusuf, and they’re under.
***
The second level is a casino, where Dom and now Ariadne will be playing the mark until he puts his secrets into the hidden safe. The floors underneath are part of a plush older hotel riddled with paradoxes and other tricks to make the team hard to find. Red and gold are the predominant colours, giving a slightly tacky, aged air to the décor. It’s not at all Arthur.
The tricky part is that in order to manufacture the kick for all of them, they need to drop the entire casino to put them back on the first level. So Ariadne devised a series of vents on the floor right below where charges could be placed to do just that.
Eames and Arthur find themselves in the room where the ventilation system is most easily reachable through a duct in the roof. Arthur has to pull over the coffee table to stand on so he can remove the mesh cover and shove his bag inside. There isn’t much space inside, only enough that they can do a belly-crawl by pulling their entire body weight on their hands. As Arthur pushes himself into the dark space, he curses Ariadne’s sense of realism: she could have probably crawled properly through the ducts, of course, but for a man it’s a tight squeeze. The flashlight shows only grey metal and shadows.
He hears Eames climb inside behind him, and feels a twinge of sympathy. The forger might be no taller than Arthur but he is broader across the shoulders, and he doesn’t know what to expect under here. Arthur can reach his belt - and therefore his gun - if he wiggles his hand underneath his body, but he doubts that Eames can do the same.
“Okay?” Arthur asks, voice echoing eerily down the distance in front of him and probably muffled behind him. He can make out every shuffle that Eames makes, every indrawn breath and exhale.
“Fine,” Eames says, unusually terse, without any wisecracks for once in his life. This makes an alarm go off somewhere in the recesses of Arthur’s brain, but he can’t even see Eames, never mind make out whether or not the man is actually okay.
“Right,” Arthur says, and begins the slide.
It’s not the first time he has been crammed into an uncomfortable spot: he was in the marines, and always on point, so he’d crawled into plenty of dark, possibly-snake-infested places on his tours. It’s not the first time he has navigated a ventilation system, although he has never tried it in dreams before. He hopes nothing goes wrong up above: if the dream crumbles while they are in here, they don’t have a chance of getting out before they drop blind.
“First charge goes here,” Arthur says, and is glad that he can hear Eames, because otherwise he’d be having creepy thoughts about being all alone in here. He hopes absently that any suspicious projections don’t climb in here after them. It’d be like a fucking horror movie.
Arthur makes out the sound of the adhesive charge being stuck down, and the flash of the red light on it as it is armed reflecting dully against the metal. “Good?”
“Fine,” Eames says again, and starts up with the crawl again. Their banging, sliding progress is loud from here but inaudible through walls that Arthur has soundproofed.
Arthur has to slide his body around a corner to the right, glad that there at least aren’t any drops or rises in the maze. He hears Eames bang something, probably his elbow, and swear softly.
He is clinically aware of the steady in-and-out of his own breathing, the even undulations of his body. In physically and mentally demanding situations like this, he always switches into soldier-mode, his body automatically remembering days of walking in unholy heat or cold, days far harder than this one. He drifts a little, speaking only to mark the places where charges need to go.
On the sixth, after another tight right corner, Arthur hears Eames swear again. His voice is breathier than usual, not the usual clear-cut annunciations that Arthur is used to.
“What is it?” he raps out, because apparently soldier-mode extends to that tone of voice as well.
“Nothing,” Eames says, “just, you know, a tight fit for someone not as svelte as yourself.”
And Arthur must know the Forger too well, because he can tell straight away that Eames is lying. His breathing is too fast now, and his movements are now full of jittering as his fingers scrabble against the cold metal. Arthur has ten centimetres or so between his back and the top of the shaft, which probably gives Eames six centimetres of air. He should be able to move just as easily as he could before, which means that he’s probably having some kind of panic attack.
To prove Arthur’s point, Eames says quite suddenly, “shit. Fucking shit.” His inwards breaths whoop a little in his chest as he hyperventilates.
“Hey. Easy, there,” Arthur says, with a sinking feeling. Even though he can get his gun, he certainly can’t aim well enough from this angle without looking to put the other man out of his misery. And if he could, it’s going to throw the job to shit, because he can’t reach the charges that Eames has if he does wake him up.
He racks his brain, bringing up an image of the maze to the forefront of his mind. They’ve crawled a fair way already, more than half of the one hundred metre distance. Arthur knows that perhaps fifteen metres ahead there is a place where he could stand up and turn around, which means that he would have to crawl back down to Eames and then…do whatever, either kill him or convince him to keep going. That does, however, mean that he has to crawl the rest of the way backwards.
Neither of them are moving now, except for the horrible sound of Eames’s rapid breathing and his nails scraping. Arthur has to choose, and choose quickly. Distantly he can feel his own breath speeding, his heart rate climbing, his palms getting damp with his own nerves. It’s only distant because it has to be, because he can’t afford to lose it now. Arthur is good with clear-cut divisions, with separating feelings and work, with doing what has to be done.
“Eames,” he says, and his voice is as calm as it pretty much always is. “Eames. Talk to me, come on.”
Eames doesn’t say anything, so Arthur just keeps going. “I’m going to move on a little and turn around so that I can face you, okay? Just don’t move, keep breathing. In and out, nice and deep.”
It turns out that he can move much faster alone, because the fifteen metres take much less than any previous fifteen. Or maybe he’s just desperate, his muscles using the adrenaline his system is supplying. Arthur has to keep one hand on the ceiling so he doesn’t miss the upward shaft, talking all the while to Eames despite the lack of reply. His heartbeat races when his fingers hit empty air, allowing him a brief moment of freedom where he can actually kneel up and then half-stand, turning his body with his arms stretched over his head. It feels rather like standing in a metal coffin and, okay, Arthur could kill himself, because no wonder. No fucking wonder Eames is panicking, and it’s actually a fucking surprise he managed to get this far before losing it.
When he lies back down and turns his torch to face back the way he has come, he can make out the top of Eames’s head, his heaving back. The shuddering makes Arthur flash back to eighteen months ago: the sickly scent of warm earth, the even thud and the same distant, unearthly strain of Arthur’s muscles as right now as he digs, and digs. Cracking the top of the rough-hewn box, feeling more horror than he’s ever felt, ever, and somehow managing to find him alive. Four hours in a wooden box underground with not enough fresh air had been as bad for his mind as his body: Arthur can remember quite clearly the bloodied claws of his hands where he’d lost nails struggling, his staring blind eyes.
Right now Eames has buried his face in the crook of his outstretched arm, clearly fighting for control. Arthur keeps going until the man is within grasping distance, knowing that he has to move carefully from here on in. Eames was in the SAS, and it wouldn’t be the first time Arthur has surprised him and been struck in the face.
“Hey,” Arthur says, gentling his voice the only way he knows how. “Hey, hey.”
Eames tilts his chin a little, so that Arthur can make out his eyes, too bright and too absent, and his parted lips. Arthur palms his cheek gently, and then slaps him. Eames doesn’t flinch - he isn’t here mentally, probably imagining the inside of the coffin where his corpse would still be if not for a bet with Arthur involving tracking equipment.
Arthur works his body closer, awkwardly, trying to avoid hitting Eames in the face with his elbows. He has to crush the charges under his body to get there, but then he’s got his face right up against Eames’s. The Forger can probably only make out Arthur’s eyes and nose, his mouth and the slope of his throat, which is a good thing.
“Hey,” he says, “come on, Eames.” He would use the man’s first name, but it really is ridiculous, and Eames shudders whenever he even reads it.
He sees a spark of recognition, and takes a bit of leap: from measuring his breaths, slow and calm, trying to get Eames to match them, to actively kissing the other man. For a moment Eames just pants: then he responds, beautifully, because Arthur clearly has got the other man’s body very well trained in the last eighteen months. His lips are as dry and cool as a cadaver’s.
When he pulls back the few centimetres that he can, Eames’s eyes are fixed on his. He murmurs, “darling,” with a catch in his voice that makes Arthur’s chest burn. Arthur strokes his cheek, his arms, wishing he could do more, because touch is the best way to help anyone like this. It’s not in character for him, but he’ll do it because he has to and because this is Eames, it’s Eames, and it’s a miracle he’s not panicking himself.
“Are you alright to keep going, or should I wake you up?” Arthur asks, low, steady.
“I can-” Eames says, and then coughs, “I can keep going.”
And Arthur hardly believes him, because he looks like he’d quite like to be sick. But he can’t doubt him. He trusts Eames, and he cares about him a great deal, and - and. And they are both apparently emotionally retarded, so they are clearly meant to be together.
“Okay,” Arthur says, scooting backwards. “Let’s stick down this charge and go on, then.”
And they do.
***
Arthur isn’t surprised when Eames gets up without a word and leaves the warehouse. Ariadne opens her mouth, and Yusuf makes an abortive, twitchy move to catch his arm and - both stop at Arthur’s very convincing look. Eames had looked green about the lips, and Arthur had seen enough expressions like that to know full well that he has gone to be quietly unwell in the privacy of his hotel room.
When he turns around, Cobb is giving Arthur a curious look.
“I got what we need,” Arthur tries to cut him off. Their drop had gone perfectly to schedule, Eames setting off the charges just as Arthur had finished reading the information from the safe. Winshaw is planning on selling one main idea at the moment, which Arthur needs to tell the employers about, as soon as he...soon.
“Of course,” Cobb replies, which is almost funny. He has been back in the game for maybe five months now. Arthur’s not quite sure why, although he thinks that it’s mostly because Cobb can’t quite let go. After all, there’s nothing else like it.
Arthur isn’t Cobb’s partner anymore. He doesn’t have to follow him around the world trying to keep him from getting himself killed, or just following Mal off some hotel ledge in a foreign country. It’s a relief. Both to not have to worry about Cobb, and to be his own man. Apparently inception wasn’t only beneficial for Fischer.
“Is Eames alright? He left his jacket,” Cobb continues, grabbing his own coat.
“He’ll be fine. I’ll take it with me,” Arthur says, which is probably the closest he’s ever come to talking out loud to Cobb about the fact that he and Eames are in a relationship. Cobb knows anyway, he always knows shit like that about Arthur. The only other times Arthur has talked about Eames with Cobb in the past year and a half was when he flew to Mombasa after hearing whispers about people after the Forger, and when Cobb called about the murders he’d heard Arthur had committed.
Arthur doesn’t regret it, not at all. Some nights he wishes that he could kill them all over again for what they did to Eames. If that isn’t love, then he doesn’t know what is.
It’s not sensible, but it’s theirs.
“Excuse me,” Arthur says, throwing his jacket - elegant, well-cut - over his arm with Eames’s - atrociously styled, ill-fitting, utterly beguiling because one can’t at all see that Eames is solid muscle underneath it. He throws his satchel over his shoulder and exits, leaving Yusuf and Ariadne to erase all signs that they were in Winshaw’s apartment. He has somewhere to be. He knows that the others watch him go.
Back at their shared hotel suite, the lights are off but Arthur can tell that Eames is inside. He’s been in the shower with the bathroom door open like he always does, because he doesn’t like the mirror fogging up. It makes the air in the room humid, a little sticky, how Eames prefers it.
That being said, he almost walks right by where the other man is stretched out on the couch, one arm flung over his eyes. For a moment Arthur wonders whether he’s asleep: he’s still enough to be, sleep the only time he doesn’t give into nervous ticks so myriad that Arthur wonders whether some of them aren’t inherited from the forges.
And Arthur should, by all rights, be angry. He’s not though, he really isn’t. So what if Eames failed to point out the obvious flaw in their changed plan, which is his unofficial job seeing as he’s brilliant at it. So what if he wildly misjudged his own breaking point. Arthur knows why he did it - because of him, of course, and because of the others too. For a man who calls himself selfish, it’s a little ridiculous that he put himself in this situation on purpose.
Eames is a lot of stuff he says he isn’t, just like he isn’t a lot of things he says he is. Fortunately Arthur at some point has learnt to tell what is truth and what is with him.
Arthur dumps their stuff on the other chair and perches on the couch beside Eames’s hip. He places a hand on Eames’s chest, measuring the slow, easy movements of his breathing, the steady beat of his heart. Something in Arthur that he hadn’t known was strung taut relaxes.
“You okay?” he asks, because he isn’t good at gestures, barely knows how to flirt - not that Eames is much better, the immature bastard - and sometimes thinks that he takes for granted the fact that either of them are here like this at all. In response to his tone - genuine, with a little of the fear and hurt that he felt down there, the things that he can’t express at work but still feels like growls of thunder in his chest - Eames uncovers his face, his eyes rendered dark by the shadow falling where they sit.
“Yeah,” he says, with the steel Arthur knows he carries in his spine showing through in his voice as he covers Arthur’s fingers with his own. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
They sit like that for a long time.