The Bullet Catch 3/12 (An Inception Fanfiction)
Title: The Bullet Catch 3/12
Author: Mel Wong, @ chn_breathmint on Livejournal and AO3.
Characters/Pairings: Eames, Arthur, Ariadne, Yusuf, OCs. Eames/Arthur flirting, Arthur/Eames attraction, Arthur/Ariadne attraction (and vice versa), Ariadne/Eames attraction (and vice versa), eventual Eames/Arthur/Ariadne OT3, Eames/OC ex-relationship, Arthur/OFC ex-relationship, Yusuf/OC relationship (eventually.)
Status: WIP
Rating: R for language, graphic violence, sexuality, drug use, other nasty stuff.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Inception or its characters.
Word Count: 6493
Summary: This is the fic I’ve spent 50k words winding up to - Eames and Arthur finally enact their mission of payback, but to get to their targets they have to go through the Russian mafia first.
Warnings: Gentlemen, behold! Gun porn! Graphic descriptions of unpleasant things happening to people; psych issues (PTSD is serious business), high-octane nightmare fuel, drug use, general underworld seediness.
Notes: Thank you to skiriki and algren for the help and to heronymus_waat for the beta. Words in < > brackets denote conversation taking place in a language other than English that the POV character does in fact understand. Chlorpromazine is the generic name for Thorazine (Largactil to the rest of the world), an antipsychotic drug, and yes, the driver is in fact a shout-out to Eastern Promises.
Eames thought it was funny how it was possible to know the break in a man’s voice and the taste of his skin and come away knowing only how he liked his coffee afterwards. Christian had always been like a mysterious artifact from a lost civilization, physical and tangible and real, but utterly mute about his past, and he had talked more about himself in the last few days than he had ever done so in the eighteen months they had lived together. Eames wondered how he had missed some of those details in hindsight, but he was now old and wise enough to know that there are none so blind as those who will not see, and he had spent most of those eighteen months in a willful sort of blindness.
Lunchtime meetings at Christian’s house became a regular part of their mission planning even though they were still short a team member. Petra had been too busy to meet up with everyone in Helsinki and had promised to link up with the team in Vyborg, once they had crossed the Russian border. Their itinerary was complete - the only thing they needed at this point was confirmation of their meeting in St. Petersburg, and that came late one afternoon two days before they were scheduled to leave.
Christian got a phone call just before four, and he had paced barefoot and restless across the kitchen floor while he spoke tersely to his caller in Russian. Eames was not familiar enough with the thieves’ cant used to know the details of the conversation, but it was obvious enough who was on the other end.
“My contacts just called to say that Nikolai’s agreed to meet us on neutral ground,” Christian said after he concluded the phone call. “Sidearms are permissible, but nothing more.”
“I don’t know how you talked him into it, but at least he’s letting us keep the guns,” Arthur said as he made a note in his Moleskine. He had set up a temporary HQ in Christian’s house and a corner of the kitchen table was now permanently reserved for a sheaf of folders and a slightly scuffed Toughbook.
Eames turned his poker chip over in his fingers, practiced the two-finger switch as he mulled the news over. “I’m still rather concerned about this being a trap.” He paused, glanced up at Christian. “How many of his people did you stab, again?”
“You know I do not keep count of that.” Christian stared down into his coffee mug; let his hair fall over his face. “It’s unprofessional,” he said.
Arthur gave Eames a warning look. Keep your personal drama out of this, we’re here to work, it read. “Word from Nicole is that Nikolai’s in no position to argue,” he said, attempting to steer the conversation back on track. “Forgive me if I don’t get this entirely right,” he continued, “but I understand that seeking Nikolai’s backing is mostly a formality, seeing how Sergey’s people are edging him out of his turf.”
Christian drained his coffee cup, still avoiding Eames’ stare. “Yes and no,” he said. “We are probably going to start a mob war with our interventions, even if our intent is only to clean up after Woodruff. It is not something we can avoid - our actions are going to change the balance of power, and I would rather have it benefit someone than anyone.”
“The devil you know, eh?” Yusuf said from behind a copy of the International Herald Tribune.
“Unfortunately I know them all, and I know he’s the least bad of all our alternatives.”
“Do they still call you the Ghost?” Eames glanced at Christian, who met his gaze this time. He could see the memories flitting behind those eyes, of the times they had held the extraction world by the ankles and shaken it until the money fell out. Those times were too good to last. Nothing lasts forever.
“I wouldn’t know,” Christian said at last in his sandpaper voice. He looked away after that tense moment, his expression frozen over again.
Yusuf put his paper down and raised a brow at Christian. “I had thought ghosts were just urban legends,” he said.
There was a taut silence as Christian looked down at the polished wood of the tabletop, a quiet that thrummed in the air until Eames sighed and spoke up. “You would think so because they’re bloody rare, that’s what,” he said as he started to explain what it was that ghosts did.
Eames himself had thought it impossible until he had met Christian during a failed inception job. Ghosts were, according to the extractor who had hired them in the first place, rather like forgers whose talents were innate and not trained, but their roles in an extraction could not have been more different. Forgers were mercurial shapeshifters and conmen who could become anyone in dreams. Ghosts were the inverse; they were very specialized extractors whose identities had become so eroded that they were more a person-shaped void in a shared dream than an actual entity. This unstable self-image made them invisible to projections as long as they remained discreet.
“To use Cobb’s favorite analogy,” Arthur said as Eames finished his brief explanation, “if a mark’s projections are like white blood cells, then a ghost is a retrovirus that co-opts the mark’s own antigen coating so the immune system doesn’t catch on.”
“The required psychological profile does not sound healthy,” Yusuf had said, a little doubtfully. Eames could see that Ariadne shared Yusuf’s misgivings; it was obvious from Cobb and his murderous projection of Mal that it was difficult enough to keep track of reality in dreamshare without bringing the specter of psychological instability into it.
“It isn’t,” Christian said blandly, his mouth a little too thin and taut for the tone of his voice. “Most ghosts don’t last very long. They usually burn out spectacularly, kill themselves because they think they’re still dreaming or self-medicate into addiction and overdose.”
“What about therapy or medications?” Ariadne asked after a few moments of thought.
“Therapy would be why I refer to myself as an ex-ghost,” Christian said after a while. “The goal of therapy and medication is to treat the underlying personality disorder that allows an extractor to ghost in the first place. It’s a fine line to tread. I had to be insane enough to ghost, but not so insane that I couldn’t function. I wound up with a drug habit just to cope, and that led to a lot of stupid risk-taking behavior.”
“That explains everything now,” Eames said drily, and Christian punched him gently on the arm in response, his green eyes alight with a bittersweet amusement.
“So you don’t ghost any more?” Ariadne asked.
“I’m just an ordinary extractor now, and in the event that I start ghosting again it probably means I need my medication dosages adjusted.” Christian picked up one of his many pill bottles and shook it idly, listened to the pills rattling around inside. “That or a short stay in a nice padded room where I cannot hurt myself.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Eames said, thinking now of the bad days as well as the good, of Christian’s insecurity and brittleness and of holding him all night until he calmed down.
“Well, if it does happen a little chlorpromazine never hurt anyone,” Yusuf said. Ariadne frowned at him, her expression vaguely frustrated as her mind drew a blank on the generic name.
“Thorazine,” Arthur said helpfully in response to her puzzled look. Christian smiled, shook his head gently at Yusuf and then got up to refill the coffee cups.
“Can we really trust your contacts, Christian?” Ariadne asked him after he sat back down at the table. “I mean, I’m new to all this, but I’m fairly sure walking into a meeting with people who probably want you dead isn’t a good idea.”
“If Nikolai had wanted me dead I would have been found floating facedown in the Baltic Sea a long time ago,” Christian said. He cracked the knuckles of his left hand and then rubbed idly at his right forearm through the sleeve of his shirt, his mouth taut from pain. He had not bothered wearing the prosthetic today and had pinned his sleeve up instead.
“Are you all right?” Yusuf asked.
Christian nodded absently in reply. “I am just trying to fool my brain into thinking my hand is still there. The pain is not too bad, but it feels always like my hand has fallen asleep."
“So why has he not tried?” Eames asked, probing gently for any kind of response, “I’d expect a man like Nikolai to want revenge for his dead son.”
Christian’s head snapped up as he looked back up at Eames, his expression hard and defiant; a look that Eames understood instantly. He was willing to explain some aspects of his past now, but other, darker things still lay submerged in the space behind his eyes. “I was working on Sergey’s orders. Later he discarded me and let Woodruff set me up in Dubai. Nikolai is not the kind of man who will leave a gun because an enemy has used it to shoot at him. Not especially if it’s the only weapon he may have to hand.”
“Why is that?” Ariadne asked. She appeared genuinely interested despite her uncertainty on the topic.
“Politics and economics, mostly,” Christian shrugged. “A lot of the vory v zakone - the thieves-in-law, they are losing ground to the New Russians with university degrees, oil and gas money, political clout. Nowadays you’re more likely to see corrupt police running the protection rackets, not the brothers. Big business money got involved when dreamshare went underground, and the newcomers have been taking over the organizations from within.”
“There are similar schisms in organized crime everywhere,” Arthur said. He sipped at his coffee and then put the cup down. “Younger, more educated types get into fields the old guard don’t even consider as a possibility, and then they have more money and power than the traditionalists, but far fewer rules.”
Eames tilted his head, smiled cynically. “No honor among thieves, eh?” In his personal experience, big business money almost always signified a willingness to use and discard assets in a manner that spoke of human beings reduced to base economic units in a mental ledger.
“It depends on the thief in question. My father and I, we both worked for Sergey’s father before he took over. Mikhail would never have betrayed one of his own unless they sold him out first. Sergey, not so much. He has a business degree from Harvard. I suppose he learned to cheat and steal from the best.” The cadence of Christian’s speech slowed as he translated mentally into English before he spoke.
“The US mortgage industry can testify to that,” Arthur said. There was a soft creak as he tipped his chair back and rocked on the spot like a bored schoolboy.
“Or, you know, Iceland’s entire economy,” Yusuf said with a wicked smile.
“The darker side of business school and economics,” Ariadne said, and Eames remembered the university transcripts he had acquired when he did the background check, and the microeconomics survey class she had taken as an undergraduate. “One can use economies of scale and market research for good or for very bad. Things are just what they are.”
“Amen,” Arthur let the chair drop back on all four of its legs with a soft screech, shifted uneasily in a way that made Eames wonder if the old injury to his hip was hurting him again.
“So yes, I would trust Nikolai, at least for that first meeting in St. Petersberg,” Christian said, returning to the original topic of their discussion. “What happens after, we shall see. I expect that if things don’t go well he’ll probably give us enough time to get out of the city before he sends hit men after us.” Eames knew Finnish humor well enough to know that he was joking, but his expression was dead enough that the others would have no idea whether he was serious or simply indulging a pessimistic streak.
They left Helsinki for Vyborg two days later, and Christian was still making phone calls and answering text messages while their train pulled out of Rautatieasema - the central station. Ariadne had asked him if there was something wrong after the fifth phone call, and he shook his head and smiled crookedly at her.
“Nothing to worry about,” he said. “It is my next-door neighbor asking me things like how much she needs to feed Oscar every day.”
“I didn’t think your next-door neighbor spoke Russian,” Ariadne said mildly.
Christian looked at her, grinned his approval. “Sharp,” he said, and the look he shot to Eames suggested that the fib had been more of a test than an actual lie. “I was just talking to a few contacts, setting up a safeguard in case things go wrong at the meeting.”
“Isn’t that just a little paranoid?” Ariadne asked.
“It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you,” Arthur said without lifting his gaze from his copy of Jonathan Strange and Mister Norrel.
“And you wonder why I prefer not to go into the field,” Yusuf said.
Petra met them at Vyborg as promised, and she had not changed much from the last time Eames had seen her over four years ago. Her hair was now red and she had a few more piercings, but she still wore bruise-colored lipstick and metal-band t-shirts, and he smiled to notice the unlit Ziganov Black tucked behind her ear like a pencil.
She waved to them at the station platform and then gave Eames a brief hug and a polite kiss on the cheek. “Good to see you, you cheating bastard,” she had said by way of greeting. She greeted Christian with another hug and a kiss, which he took with a long-suffering grace born of long acquaintance. She let go of Christian’s neck after a minute and glanced over at Arthur, who had just retrieved an unremarkable-looking duffel bag from a locker in the train station. “Is that Eames’ new boyfriend?” she asked in a loud stage whisper.
“That’s Arthur,” Christian said with his usual lack of affect, but wicked amusement gleamed in his eyes as he turned also to look in Arthur’s direction.
“The Arthur?” Petra whispered, as she looked him over. “He’s a lot cuter than I expected. What is he, seventeen?”
“I can hear you, you know,” Arthur said over his shoulder as Petra shook hands with Ariadne, and he rolled his eyes in mock exasperation over Ariadne’s giggles.
“I have no idea how you got involved with these guys, but it’s nice to have another woman on the job. You have no idea how boring it is without someone to talk girly stuff with.” Petra said warmly. It amused Eames to see them standing next to each other - Petra was nearly as tall as Arthur, which only served to highlight Ariadne’s delicate build.
“Your English is almost American-sounding,” Ariadne said after she had let go of Petra’s hand. “Where did you learn it?”
“South Park and trashy romance novels,” Petra said with a wicked grin, “Oh, and my undergraduate degree at Cal Tech.”
“I’m surrounded by smart people,” Ariadne groaned.
Arthur poked Ariadne gently on the shoulder with his free hand. “Says Professor Miles’ brightest protégé.”
Ariadne blushed self-consciously, frowned in Arthur’s direction. “Yeah, but I’m one of his architecture students and that’s not exactly a hard science.”
“If you’re good enough for his standards you’re probably smarter than most of us here,” Petra said kindly before she walked over to Yusuf, who had kept himself on the periphery of the group the whole time.
“You,” she said, slapping him on the shoulder, “What are you doing hiding from me?”
“I wasn’t hiding. I knew you’d get to me eventually,” said Yusuf, and Eames could not help but laugh at his old friend’s utter discomfort. He knew that professional rivalry had something to do with it, but it also sounded as though Petra enjoyed teasing Yusuf more than he enjoyed being teased.
“Um, Eames, what’s going on?” Ariadne whispered over to the others as she watched Yusuf squirm.
“They, um, have a past,” Christian said softly before Eames could answer. “I never got a straight answer out of either of them, so you’ll have to ask them yourself.”
“Like you and Eames?” she asked with a knowing look in his direction.
Eames shrugged, smiled to cover the ache of nostalgia somewhere behind his heart. “If they have a past Yusuf has never told me about it,” he said after a brief pause. “Perhaps they’re just friendly rivals.”
“I don’t know,” Ariadne murmured. “I think they like each other, they just show it differently. Like you and Arthur,” she said in a stage whisper for Arthur’s benefit.
“I never claimed to like Eames,” Arthur said as he adjusted the strap of the duffel bag on his shoulder, “I just work with him.” The smile on his face betrayed his real thoughts on the situation; they had come to something of an understanding in the fallout following the job in Singapore, and Eames was fairly confident that it still held even if Arthur chose to protest the fact in public.
“Keep telling yourself that, huh?” Ariadne asked, her expression knowing and wicked, and Christian shook his head gently as he watched Arthur’s ears turn red.
“Ariadne’s a nice girl,” Christian murmured softly to Eames as they boarded the express train to St. Petersburg an hour later. She had entered the compartment ahead of them and was no longer in earshot.
Eames adjusted the strap of his overnight bag on his shoulder as the train lurched into motion, shot a glance over at Christian once he was sure of his footing. “You’re not going to get rid of me by pairing us up, you know.”
“She’s too nice to deserve anything like that,” Christian said, straight-faced for a beat. Eames snorted, smiled ruefully at him as he shook his head and smiled a little, his eyes wistful behind the ice. A messy hank of hair fell over his face but he made no attempt to brush it away. “No. I’d like to keep her if I could.”
Eames raised an eyebrow in askance. “Like a pet?” he asked.
“Like a sister.” Christian mouthed the words as he turned to leave, but Eames read the words on his lips and caught him by the sleeve of his jacket, pulled him down to his level. The train rocked gently around them as he stopped and waited for Eames to speak again.
“Did you have a sister?” Eames asked him, as gently as he could, “You’ve never talked about your family, not even while we were together.”
Christian tugged his sleeve out of Eames’ grasp and straightened up out of his reach. His expression was unreadable, his eyes hidden behind strands of hair that gleamed gold in the afternoon sunlight. “There is no-one left to talk about,” he said before he left to join the others.
Their arrival in St. Petersburg had not gone unnoticed. Nikolai had sent a driver - his name was Vladimir - down to the train station to collect them in a Mercedes R350. He had greeted Christian with grave courtesy and helped Petra and Ariadne with their luggage, but a glance at the man told Eames that he was probably more than just a driver. Elaborate prison tattoos crawled across his knuckles and above the collar of his shirt, and while Eames didn’t understand the iconography the Russians used he knew enough to guess that Vladimir probably ranked higher than the average mob soldier. He would have put even money on the man being armed even now.
Well, two can play at that game; Eames thought. He smiled faintly as the sight of Arthur’s seeming obliviousness as he read his novel with the duffel bag in his lap. They had left their handguns with Yves back in Paris before they had boarded the commercial flight to Helsinki, and the arms dealer had, for a fee, arranged for the equipment to be cached discreetly across the Russian border. The duffel bag didn’t contain all of the guns they had actually cached, but it did hold their sidearms and backup guns, including Ariadne’s Skyph. In the event that this chauffeur was also an assassin he would have Arthur’s Glock 17 to contend with at the very least.
Eames climbed into the Mercedes with Ariadne beside him, and he felt her reach for his hand after they had seated themselves. Her fingers were cold and clammy with anxiety but she had adopted the marble calm of a statue and feigned it well. She smiled briefly up at him when he squeezed her hand reassuringly and then turned to look out at the city streets through the smoked glass windows. Eames could see no tension in the set of Vladimir’s shoulders but his eyes were hard and bright in the rear-view mirror, and he kept as much of an eye on them as he did on the road.
Vladimir dropped them off at the Astoria on St. Isaac’s Square, and Ariadne let herself sag wearily once the black SUV was no longer in line of sight.
“Are you all right?” Christian asked. He reached out to steady her with his left hand. There was something distant about the way he stood, as though he were holding her at arms’ reach in case she tried to hug him.
“Yeah. It was just a little nerve-wracking,” she said, her voice faintly shaky as she rubbed at her face with a hand.
Christian nodded in sympathy. “Russian drivers are maniacs,” he said. He let go of Ariadne as Arthur stepped up to tuck an arm around her shoulders. She looked oddly fragile right now, as though the anxiety had sapped her physically, left her less substantial than she had been before.
“Russian drivers don’t scare her. She knows Paris drivers,” Eames said as Ariadne leaned briefly against Arthur’s shoulder and then straightened up, herself again. They had gotten close since Paris, Eames thought, and for a brief moment he felt a faint twinge in his chest, something that wasn’t quite jealousy but was uncomfortably close, nevertheless.
“You didn’t have to worry,” Christian told them. “I was keeping an eye on him from the front passenger seat. If he had tried to start something he would not have lived to finish it.” That was not a boast. Eames knew Christian’s speed and skill with the knife, and he was probably almost as good with his left hand as he had been with his right.
“That’s reassuring, I guess,” Ariadne said doubtfully.
“I will not let anybody hurt you,” he told her. “That’s a promise, and Michael can tell you that I keep my promises.” That was the truth - Christian was more likely to avoid making promises than to break them, and Eames could not help but think of the wistfulness in his face earlier, when he had wished for a sister like Ariadne.
“What do you think is going to happen tomorrow?” Ariadne asked him, a little nervously.
“That depends on the mood Nikolai is in when we see him,” Christian said with a shrug and a half-hearted, lopsided smile.
The journey from Helsinki and the tense drive to the hotel had left Eames stiff and sore, and he retreated to his room once the formalities of check-in were done with. A hot shower helped him work most of the stiffness out of his back and shoulders but also left him feeling drained of energy, and he was pondering a nap when he heard a polite knock on the door. He sighed quietly to himself, pulled on some clothes and then looked through the peephole. Arthur stood in the hallway outside with the duffel bag hanging off his shoulder, and Eames stepped away from the door and let him in.
“I have something to give you,” Arthur said once the door had been shut and locked behind him. He crossed to the bed, put the duffel bag down and unzipped it to reveal the handguns Yves had helped them smuggle into Vyborg.
“I trust that Yves fulfilled his end of the bargain,” Eames said as he sat down on the side of the bed beside Arthur.
“Pretty much.” Arthur pulled out Eames’ holstered SIG P220 and USP Compact from the duffel bag, laid them on the bed over the covers. The spare magazines in their carriers followed.
“Thank you,” Eames said after he had looked both the guns over. Both of the guns had been shipped unloaded for safety reasons, but they were otherwise in good condition.
“No problem.” Arthur zipped the duffel bag back up but hesitated as though unwilling to leave.
“There’s a problem, isn’t it?” Eames asked after he had put both guns down on the nightstand.
Arthur sat down on the bed beside him and pulled the duffel bag onto his lap. “You’ve been kind of distracted lately, and it isn’t just jet lag,” he said after a few moments of silence.
“Is that so?” Eames asked. He had not thought it that obvious, but Arthur was one of the most perceptive people he knew. Nothing got past him - it was why he was the best point man in the business.
“You haven’t flirted at me since Helsinki,” Arthur said with a quick smile and a shake of his head. “Something’s off, I’m just not sure what it is.”
“Are you sure it’s isn’t just hormones? Ariadne seems rather fonder of you than usual.”
Arthur made a slight face of annoyance. “Don’t try to change the subject, Eames. You know there’s nothing going on between us, and even if there was I know that wouldn’t have stopped you from flirting anyway.”
Eames smiled as he swung his legs up onto the bed and stretched himself out. The firm denial confirmed his suspicions more than any display of affection could. “I think she likes you and I know for a fact that she’s your type.”
Arthur stood up and slung the duffel bag back onto his shoulder, his expression pensive. “Ariadne being my type still doesn’t make it a good idea,” he said softly, “it’s not good procedure for any kind of job.”
“This isn’t a normal job, Arthur,” Eames said. “We’re on our own, answer to no one and we are letting my insane ex set the timetable and handle negotiations with the mob. I doubt we have any semblance of procedure left.” He smiled ruefully despite himself, felt a slight relief as Arthur grinned in reply.
“Maybe,” Arthur said as he reached out to open the door.
“If it helps you should know that I’m right here in the event that she turns you down,” Eames said.
“I should probably be relieved that you’re saying inappropriate things to me again,” Arthur said, “but that’s pretty cold comfort, as it comes.” He looked back at Eames, all seriousness again as he turned the doorknob. “I’m worried that your past with Christian is going to complicate things.”
“I don’t think it’s so much the past as much as how much he’s changed in the present,” Eames said. “I’ll be all right. I just need some time to get used to how things are now.” He shifted in bed, pondered raiding the mini-bar in his room. There had to be decent Scotch in there somewhere.
Arthur nodded, opened the door. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” he said before the door clicked shut behind him. So am I, Eames thought as he stared up at the ceiling of his room, a vague ache rattling the fragile equilibrium somewhere between his chest and gut.
Christian had arranged for the team to meet Nikolai’s people at a private tearoom the next day. The formal setting of the meeting demanded appropriate dress, and he had risen to the occasion by putting on a funereal-looking black suit with a matching tie.
“Isn’t that a little Reservoir Dogs?” Eames asked him as they waited in the lobby for the elevator.
“Only if I get to be Mr. Blond,” Christian said. A humorless smile played over his face in the uncomfortable beat of silence that followed. It was all too easy to imagine Christian taking someone’s ear off with a straight razor, especially when he looked like this.
You don’t even like that song, Eames wanted to say when a soft ding signaled the elevator arriving at their floor. “Who would I be then?” he asked as the doors slid shut.
“Mm.” Christian glanced thoughtfully at him and then shrugged easily. “Mr. White,” he said.
“Not Mr. Pink?” Eames asked.
“Arthur would be a better Mr. Pink,” Christian said as the elevator doors slid open.
Arthur had been the first to finish getting ready and he had been waiting in the lobby for the others to come downstairs one by one. He was exquisitely dressed as usual, this time in a three-piece suit the color of morning fog. “I’d love to know why I heard my name mentioned there,” he said as they stepped out of the elevator, his gaze vaguely curious.
“We were just discussing Quentin Tarantino. Chris thinks you would make a good Mr. Pink,” Eames explained.
“Why do I have to be Mr. Pink?” Arthur asked. The look on his face suggested that he knew the answer already.
“Because you are the most professional one in this group,” Christian said. He reached into his jacket for a pair of sunglasses and Eames caught a glimpse of red, obscene and vivid against the white of his shirt.
“Did you spill something?” Eames asked.
“No. It’s supposed to be there,” Christian undid his suit jacket, tugged the lapel aside to give them a better look, and Eames noticed that he was not carrying a sidearm.
Arthur craned his neck for a better look at the red blot. “You have a sequined bloodstain on your shirt,” he said, his voice flat with disbelief.
Christian shrugged, rubbed at his forearm though the sleeve of his shirt and jacket. “Think of it as a message that I want sent.”
“What, that you like sparkly things?” Eames asked half-seriously. Another one of those frozen smiles flickered across Christian’s face as he buttoned his suit jacket back up, but he did not answer.
Vladimir picked the team up at the Astoria and drove them to the meeting with Nikolai. They were ushered into the tearoom with cordial hospitality and seated at a table around an enormous brass samovar. Waiting for them was an old man in a slightly shabby blue suit, the fabric worn shiny from time and wear. A puckered scar wound its way around his neck, and blurry tattoos marked the knuckles of both his hands. He looked to the world like a broken old man, but Eames knew at a glance that he was much more than that. Only the toughest lived to wear their scars, and he wore his authority with a casual ease. A pair of bodyguards sat to his left and right, and two more minders stood by the door of the tearoom once everyone had been seated.
< “Soloviev,”> the old man said in a raspy croak, < “I trust you are well.”>
< “About as well as can be expected, Nikolai Nikitich,”> Christian said with a respectful nod.
< “So what brings a marked man to Piter, and with such company?”> Nikolai waved casually at one of his bodyguards, who got up then to stand silently by Christian’s chair.
< “The same thing that you are looking for. The settling of a debt.”> If he was intimidated by the gesture he did not show it. Instead he poured himself a measure of zavarka - a concentrated tea infusion - and diluted it with hot water from the samovar.
“You mean the debt that you are owing me for my son’s life?” Nikolai asked, his voice sinking to a strangled whisper as he switched to English. Shit, Eames thought as he caught the glint of steel in the bodyguard’s hand, saw him hold the knife to Christian’s neck. He found himself reaching under the table into his trouser pocket, his fingertips brushing against the checkered grip of his USP Compact in its pocket holster.
“I am here to settle the debt Sergey owes you for Dmitri’s life.” Christian dipped a spoonful of honey into his tea and stirred, his movements exaggeratedly casual. A cold sweat ran down Eames’ back under his shirt as he watched the edge of the knife dimple the skin above Christian’s shirt collar. There was no way he could draw and fire safely, not while they were surrounded like this. Yusuf and Arthur were stony-faced, Ariadne pale as a sheet. Petra blinked and drew a Ziganov Black out of the pack she kept in her purse, tapped it out and held it to her bruise-colored lips.
“How do you propose you do that? Or are you as much of a liar as your old master is?” Nikolai demanded. There was a soft ping in the background as one of the mobsters lit Petra’s cigarette for her, the gallant gesture incongruous against the tattoos and broken nose, the knives and the tension.
“Take your hand off your gun, Michael,” Christian said without even looking at Eames, “This is a matter for me to settle, not yours.” He put the teaspoon down on the saucer and then picked up his teacup, and the bodyguard lifted the knife slightly so he could sip his tea. Tiny droplets of blood welled up in the scratch where the knife had been, rolled down to stain the collar of his shirt. He took a long sip of his tea and then put the teacup down.
“Firstly,” Christian said, “Sergey conspired with Ivan Woodruff to sell me out. They both owe me a hand.” He reached into his jacket with the hook prosthetic, his movements slow and careful. The bodyguard pressed the knife-edge against his throat again, but all that came was a soft rustle as he drew a folded manila envelope out of an inside pocket and laid it carefully on the tablecloth. “My friends have a score to settle with Vanya, and they are willing to go through Sergey to get him. The resulting power vacuum can only work to your advantage.”
“I could just have you killed now and deal directly with them instead,” Nikolai hissed, and Christian smiled coldly, shook his head.
“We don’t work like that,” Arthur said, spreading both his hands on the tablecloth. “He goes unharmed, or the deal is off.” Ariadne reached under the table for Eames’ right hand and he squeezed her fingers in his own, as much for his own reassurance as hers.
“Besides, I’m dying,” Christian said as he picked up the envelope with his left hand, held it out to Nikolai’s other bodyguard. “These medical reports say that it could be a matter of years or months, but my liver is failing. You know as well as I do it’s going to be a long, painful death, and while you’re fairly creative I don’t think anything you can do to me is going to compare to what I’m going to get anyway.”
Nikolai picked up the envelope, read its contents with the long-sighted squint of the elderly. There was a phlegmy wheeze that Eames realized was laughter as he put the papers down. “Clever. If I kill you, I’m giving you an easy way out.”
“Exactly.” Christian smiled, picked up his teacup and took another sip before he spoke in Russian again. < “Besides, if you’re going to slit my throat now you should probably have your man wrap a tea towel around my neck to save the upholstery.”>
< “Like your father used to do?”> Nikolai asked, waving his bodyguard away. Eames let out a breath he did not realize he was holding, and let go of Ariadne’s hand.
< “I learned from the best,”> Christian said a little sadly as the thug took his knife off his neck and sat back down.
The trip back to the Astoria passed in stony silence, and nobody spoke until Ariadne cornered Christian in the upstairs elevator lobby on the way back to their hotel rooms. She slapped him hard, once, and then burst into tears.
“What the fuck was that bluff all about?” she asked, her tiny frame trembling with suppressed fury. “Our lives aren’t yours to gamble.”
Christian put his hand to his mouth and looked down at the blood on his fingers - she had hit him hard enough that he had cut his lip on his teeth. “Your lives were never in danger,” he said after a brief, stunned silence. “Nikolai’s grudge was with me alone.”
“Well, how do you think I felt watching them get ready to kill you?” Ariadne hissed, her voice barely audible through her angry tears. “Your life isn’t yours to throw away either.” Arthur came up behind her and tucked an arm around her shoulder, nodded curtly at Christian, who echoed the gesture as though half-asleep.
“I’m sorry,” he said hollowly as Ariadne sagged against Arthur’s shoulder, the doubt and confusion naked in his gaze.
“We’ll talk about this later,” Arthur said as he bundled Ariadne into his arms and then walked her back to her room.
“Ariadne was worried about you, you know,” Petra whispered after they had gone. She dabbed gently at Christian’s cut lip with a clean handkerchief that she had borrowed from Yusuf, pressed it into his hand and closed his fingers around it before she, too, left the lobby.
Christian held the square of linen tightly in his fist. “I don’t understand,” he said half to himself, his voice beginning to shake as his self-control started to unravel from the stress. He shut his eyes wearily, shook his head, and then turned as though to leave. Eames caught him by the wrist before he could, his fingers closing around the carbon-fiber socket of the prosthetic under his sleeve. Christian froze at the touch, his eyes wild and alert, but he did not pull away.
“I would really appreciate it, Christian, if you told us the next time you were going to do anything that suicidal,” Eames said wearily, his own anger dying for lack of fuel before it could even flare, taste of salt in his mouth, stinging in his eyes and nostrils. Christian stared at him mutely, too tired to fight or argue. They stood uneasily in the hallway for a few moments before Christian wrenched his wrist free of Eames’ grip and stalked silently back to his room.
Author: Mel Wong, @ chn_breathmint on Livejournal and AO3.
Characters/Pairings: Eames, Arthur, Ariadne, Yusuf, OCs. Eames/Arthur flirting, Arthur/Eames attraction, Arthur/Ariadne attraction (and vice versa), Ariadne/Eames attraction (and vice versa), eventual Eames/Arthur/Ariadne OT3, Eames/OC ex-relationship, Arthur/OFC ex-relationship, Yusuf/OC relationship (eventually.)
Status: WIP
Rating: R for language, graphic violence, sexuality, drug use, other nasty stuff.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Inception or its characters.
Word Count: 6493
Summary: This is the fic I’ve spent 50k words winding up to - Eames and Arthur finally enact their mission of payback, but to get to their targets they have to go through the Russian mafia first.
Warnings: Gentlemen, behold! Gun porn! Graphic descriptions of unpleasant things happening to people; psych issues (PTSD is serious business), high-octane nightmare fuel, drug use, general underworld seediness.
Notes: Thank you to skiriki and algren for the help and to heronymus_waat for the beta. Words in < > brackets denote conversation taking place in a language other than English that the POV character does in fact understand. Chlorpromazine is the generic name for Thorazine (Largactil to the rest of the world), an antipsychotic drug, and yes, the driver is in fact a shout-out to Eastern Promises.
Eames thought it was funny how it was possible to know the break in a man’s voice and the taste of his skin and come away knowing only how he liked his coffee afterwards. Christian had always been like a mysterious artifact from a lost civilization, physical and tangible and real, but utterly mute about his past, and he had talked more about himself in the last few days than he had ever done so in the eighteen months they had lived together. Eames wondered how he had missed some of those details in hindsight, but he was now old and wise enough to know that there are none so blind as those who will not see, and he had spent most of those eighteen months in a willful sort of blindness.
Lunchtime meetings at Christian’s house became a regular part of their mission planning even though they were still short a team member. Petra had been too busy to meet up with everyone in Helsinki and had promised to link up with the team in Vyborg, once they had crossed the Russian border. Their itinerary was complete - the only thing they needed at this point was confirmation of their meeting in St. Petersburg, and that came late one afternoon two days before they were scheduled to leave.
Christian got a phone call just before four, and he had paced barefoot and restless across the kitchen floor while he spoke tersely to his caller in Russian. Eames was not familiar enough with the thieves’ cant used to know the details of the conversation, but it was obvious enough who was on the other end.
“My contacts just called to say that Nikolai’s agreed to meet us on neutral ground,” Christian said after he concluded the phone call. “Sidearms are permissible, but nothing more.”
“I don’t know how you talked him into it, but at least he’s letting us keep the guns,” Arthur said as he made a note in his Moleskine. He had set up a temporary HQ in Christian’s house and a corner of the kitchen table was now permanently reserved for a sheaf of folders and a slightly scuffed Toughbook.
Eames turned his poker chip over in his fingers, practiced the two-finger switch as he mulled the news over. “I’m still rather concerned about this being a trap.” He paused, glanced up at Christian. “How many of his people did you stab, again?”
“You know I do not keep count of that.” Christian stared down into his coffee mug; let his hair fall over his face. “It’s unprofessional,” he said.
Arthur gave Eames a warning look. Keep your personal drama out of this, we’re here to work, it read. “Word from Nicole is that Nikolai’s in no position to argue,” he said, attempting to steer the conversation back on track. “Forgive me if I don’t get this entirely right,” he continued, “but I understand that seeking Nikolai’s backing is mostly a formality, seeing how Sergey’s people are edging him out of his turf.”
Christian drained his coffee cup, still avoiding Eames’ stare. “Yes and no,” he said. “We are probably going to start a mob war with our interventions, even if our intent is only to clean up after Woodruff. It is not something we can avoid - our actions are going to change the balance of power, and I would rather have it benefit someone than anyone.”
“The devil you know, eh?” Yusuf said from behind a copy of the International Herald Tribune.
“Unfortunately I know them all, and I know he’s the least bad of all our alternatives.”
“Do they still call you the Ghost?” Eames glanced at Christian, who met his gaze this time. He could see the memories flitting behind those eyes, of the times they had held the extraction world by the ankles and shaken it until the money fell out. Those times were too good to last. Nothing lasts forever.
“I wouldn’t know,” Christian said at last in his sandpaper voice. He looked away after that tense moment, his expression frozen over again.
Yusuf put his paper down and raised a brow at Christian. “I had thought ghosts were just urban legends,” he said.
There was a taut silence as Christian looked down at the polished wood of the tabletop, a quiet that thrummed in the air until Eames sighed and spoke up. “You would think so because they’re bloody rare, that’s what,” he said as he started to explain what it was that ghosts did.
Eames himself had thought it impossible until he had met Christian during a failed inception job. Ghosts were, according to the extractor who had hired them in the first place, rather like forgers whose talents were innate and not trained, but their roles in an extraction could not have been more different. Forgers were mercurial shapeshifters and conmen who could become anyone in dreams. Ghosts were the inverse; they were very specialized extractors whose identities had become so eroded that they were more a person-shaped void in a shared dream than an actual entity. This unstable self-image made them invisible to projections as long as they remained discreet.
“To use Cobb’s favorite analogy,” Arthur said as Eames finished his brief explanation, “if a mark’s projections are like white blood cells, then a ghost is a retrovirus that co-opts the mark’s own antigen coating so the immune system doesn’t catch on.”
“The required psychological profile does not sound healthy,” Yusuf had said, a little doubtfully. Eames could see that Ariadne shared Yusuf’s misgivings; it was obvious from Cobb and his murderous projection of Mal that it was difficult enough to keep track of reality in dreamshare without bringing the specter of psychological instability into it.
“It isn’t,” Christian said blandly, his mouth a little too thin and taut for the tone of his voice. “Most ghosts don’t last very long. They usually burn out spectacularly, kill themselves because they think they’re still dreaming or self-medicate into addiction and overdose.”
“What about therapy or medications?” Ariadne asked after a few moments of thought.
“Therapy would be why I refer to myself as an ex-ghost,” Christian said after a while. “The goal of therapy and medication is to treat the underlying personality disorder that allows an extractor to ghost in the first place. It’s a fine line to tread. I had to be insane enough to ghost, but not so insane that I couldn’t function. I wound up with a drug habit just to cope, and that led to a lot of stupid risk-taking behavior.”
“That explains everything now,” Eames said drily, and Christian punched him gently on the arm in response, his green eyes alight with a bittersweet amusement.
“So you don’t ghost any more?” Ariadne asked.
“I’m just an ordinary extractor now, and in the event that I start ghosting again it probably means I need my medication dosages adjusted.” Christian picked up one of his many pill bottles and shook it idly, listened to the pills rattling around inside. “That or a short stay in a nice padded room where I cannot hurt myself.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Eames said, thinking now of the bad days as well as the good, of Christian’s insecurity and brittleness and of holding him all night until he calmed down.
“Well, if it does happen a little chlorpromazine never hurt anyone,” Yusuf said. Ariadne frowned at him, her expression vaguely frustrated as her mind drew a blank on the generic name.
“Thorazine,” Arthur said helpfully in response to her puzzled look. Christian smiled, shook his head gently at Yusuf and then got up to refill the coffee cups.
“Can we really trust your contacts, Christian?” Ariadne asked him after he sat back down at the table. “I mean, I’m new to all this, but I’m fairly sure walking into a meeting with people who probably want you dead isn’t a good idea.”
“If Nikolai had wanted me dead I would have been found floating facedown in the Baltic Sea a long time ago,” Christian said. He cracked the knuckles of his left hand and then rubbed idly at his right forearm through the sleeve of his shirt, his mouth taut from pain. He had not bothered wearing the prosthetic today and had pinned his sleeve up instead.
“Are you all right?” Yusuf asked.
Christian nodded absently in reply. “I am just trying to fool my brain into thinking my hand is still there. The pain is not too bad, but it feels always like my hand has fallen asleep."
“So why has he not tried?” Eames asked, probing gently for any kind of response, “I’d expect a man like Nikolai to want revenge for his dead son.”
Christian’s head snapped up as he looked back up at Eames, his expression hard and defiant; a look that Eames understood instantly. He was willing to explain some aspects of his past now, but other, darker things still lay submerged in the space behind his eyes. “I was working on Sergey’s orders. Later he discarded me and let Woodruff set me up in Dubai. Nikolai is not the kind of man who will leave a gun because an enemy has used it to shoot at him. Not especially if it’s the only weapon he may have to hand.”
“Why is that?” Ariadne asked. She appeared genuinely interested despite her uncertainty on the topic.
“Politics and economics, mostly,” Christian shrugged. “A lot of the vory v zakone - the thieves-in-law, they are losing ground to the New Russians with university degrees, oil and gas money, political clout. Nowadays you’re more likely to see corrupt police running the protection rackets, not the brothers. Big business money got involved when dreamshare went underground, and the newcomers have been taking over the organizations from within.”
“There are similar schisms in organized crime everywhere,” Arthur said. He sipped at his coffee and then put the cup down. “Younger, more educated types get into fields the old guard don’t even consider as a possibility, and then they have more money and power than the traditionalists, but far fewer rules.”
Eames tilted his head, smiled cynically. “No honor among thieves, eh?” In his personal experience, big business money almost always signified a willingness to use and discard assets in a manner that spoke of human beings reduced to base economic units in a mental ledger.
“It depends on the thief in question. My father and I, we both worked for Sergey’s father before he took over. Mikhail would never have betrayed one of his own unless they sold him out first. Sergey, not so much. He has a business degree from Harvard. I suppose he learned to cheat and steal from the best.” The cadence of Christian’s speech slowed as he translated mentally into English before he spoke.
“The US mortgage industry can testify to that,” Arthur said. There was a soft creak as he tipped his chair back and rocked on the spot like a bored schoolboy.
“Or, you know, Iceland’s entire economy,” Yusuf said with a wicked smile.
“The darker side of business school and economics,” Ariadne said, and Eames remembered the university transcripts he had acquired when he did the background check, and the microeconomics survey class she had taken as an undergraduate. “One can use economies of scale and market research for good or for very bad. Things are just what they are.”
“Amen,” Arthur let the chair drop back on all four of its legs with a soft screech, shifted uneasily in a way that made Eames wonder if the old injury to his hip was hurting him again.
“So yes, I would trust Nikolai, at least for that first meeting in St. Petersberg,” Christian said, returning to the original topic of their discussion. “What happens after, we shall see. I expect that if things don’t go well he’ll probably give us enough time to get out of the city before he sends hit men after us.” Eames knew Finnish humor well enough to know that he was joking, but his expression was dead enough that the others would have no idea whether he was serious or simply indulging a pessimistic streak.
They left Helsinki for Vyborg two days later, and Christian was still making phone calls and answering text messages while their train pulled out of Rautatieasema - the central station. Ariadne had asked him if there was something wrong after the fifth phone call, and he shook his head and smiled crookedly at her.
“Nothing to worry about,” he said. “It is my next-door neighbor asking me things like how much she needs to feed Oscar every day.”
“I didn’t think your next-door neighbor spoke Russian,” Ariadne said mildly.
Christian looked at her, grinned his approval. “Sharp,” he said, and the look he shot to Eames suggested that the fib had been more of a test than an actual lie. “I was just talking to a few contacts, setting up a safeguard in case things go wrong at the meeting.”
“Isn’t that just a little paranoid?” Ariadne asked.
“It’s not paranoia if they’re really out to get you,” Arthur said without lifting his gaze from his copy of Jonathan Strange and Mister Norrel.
“And you wonder why I prefer not to go into the field,” Yusuf said.
Petra met them at Vyborg as promised, and she had not changed much from the last time Eames had seen her over four years ago. Her hair was now red and she had a few more piercings, but she still wore bruise-colored lipstick and metal-band t-shirts, and he smiled to notice the unlit Ziganov Black tucked behind her ear like a pencil.
She waved to them at the station platform and then gave Eames a brief hug and a polite kiss on the cheek. “Good to see you, you cheating bastard,” she had said by way of greeting. She greeted Christian with another hug and a kiss, which he took with a long-suffering grace born of long acquaintance. She let go of Christian’s neck after a minute and glanced over at Arthur, who had just retrieved an unremarkable-looking duffel bag from a locker in the train station. “Is that Eames’ new boyfriend?” she asked in a loud stage whisper.
“That’s Arthur,” Christian said with his usual lack of affect, but wicked amusement gleamed in his eyes as he turned also to look in Arthur’s direction.
“The Arthur?” Petra whispered, as she looked him over. “He’s a lot cuter than I expected. What is he, seventeen?”
“I can hear you, you know,” Arthur said over his shoulder as Petra shook hands with Ariadne, and he rolled his eyes in mock exasperation over Ariadne’s giggles.
“I have no idea how you got involved with these guys, but it’s nice to have another woman on the job. You have no idea how boring it is without someone to talk girly stuff with.” Petra said warmly. It amused Eames to see them standing next to each other - Petra was nearly as tall as Arthur, which only served to highlight Ariadne’s delicate build.
“Your English is almost American-sounding,” Ariadne said after she had let go of Petra’s hand. “Where did you learn it?”
“South Park and trashy romance novels,” Petra said with a wicked grin, “Oh, and my undergraduate degree at Cal Tech.”
“I’m surrounded by smart people,” Ariadne groaned.
Arthur poked Ariadne gently on the shoulder with his free hand. “Says Professor Miles’ brightest protégé.”
Ariadne blushed self-consciously, frowned in Arthur’s direction. “Yeah, but I’m one of his architecture students and that’s not exactly a hard science.”
“If you’re good enough for his standards you’re probably smarter than most of us here,” Petra said kindly before she walked over to Yusuf, who had kept himself on the periphery of the group the whole time.
“You,” she said, slapping him on the shoulder, “What are you doing hiding from me?”
“I wasn’t hiding. I knew you’d get to me eventually,” said Yusuf, and Eames could not help but laugh at his old friend’s utter discomfort. He knew that professional rivalry had something to do with it, but it also sounded as though Petra enjoyed teasing Yusuf more than he enjoyed being teased.
“Um, Eames, what’s going on?” Ariadne whispered over to the others as she watched Yusuf squirm.
“They, um, have a past,” Christian said softly before Eames could answer. “I never got a straight answer out of either of them, so you’ll have to ask them yourself.”
“Like you and Eames?” she asked with a knowing look in his direction.
Eames shrugged, smiled to cover the ache of nostalgia somewhere behind his heart. “If they have a past Yusuf has never told me about it,” he said after a brief pause. “Perhaps they’re just friendly rivals.”
“I don’t know,” Ariadne murmured. “I think they like each other, they just show it differently. Like you and Arthur,” she said in a stage whisper for Arthur’s benefit.
“I never claimed to like Eames,” Arthur said as he adjusted the strap of the duffel bag on his shoulder, “I just work with him.” The smile on his face betrayed his real thoughts on the situation; they had come to something of an understanding in the fallout following the job in Singapore, and Eames was fairly confident that it still held even if Arthur chose to protest the fact in public.
“Keep telling yourself that, huh?” Ariadne asked, her expression knowing and wicked, and Christian shook his head gently as he watched Arthur’s ears turn red.
“Ariadne’s a nice girl,” Christian murmured softly to Eames as they boarded the express train to St. Petersburg an hour later. She had entered the compartment ahead of them and was no longer in earshot.
Eames adjusted the strap of his overnight bag on his shoulder as the train lurched into motion, shot a glance over at Christian once he was sure of his footing. “You’re not going to get rid of me by pairing us up, you know.”
“She’s too nice to deserve anything like that,” Christian said, straight-faced for a beat. Eames snorted, smiled ruefully at him as he shook his head and smiled a little, his eyes wistful behind the ice. A messy hank of hair fell over his face but he made no attempt to brush it away. “No. I’d like to keep her if I could.”
Eames raised an eyebrow in askance. “Like a pet?” he asked.
“Like a sister.” Christian mouthed the words as he turned to leave, but Eames read the words on his lips and caught him by the sleeve of his jacket, pulled him down to his level. The train rocked gently around them as he stopped and waited for Eames to speak again.
“Did you have a sister?” Eames asked him, as gently as he could, “You’ve never talked about your family, not even while we were together.”
Christian tugged his sleeve out of Eames’ grasp and straightened up out of his reach. His expression was unreadable, his eyes hidden behind strands of hair that gleamed gold in the afternoon sunlight. “There is no-one left to talk about,” he said before he left to join the others.
Their arrival in St. Petersburg had not gone unnoticed. Nikolai had sent a driver - his name was Vladimir - down to the train station to collect them in a Mercedes R350. He had greeted Christian with grave courtesy and helped Petra and Ariadne with their luggage, but a glance at the man told Eames that he was probably more than just a driver. Elaborate prison tattoos crawled across his knuckles and above the collar of his shirt, and while Eames didn’t understand the iconography the Russians used he knew enough to guess that Vladimir probably ranked higher than the average mob soldier. He would have put even money on the man being armed even now.
Well, two can play at that game; Eames thought. He smiled faintly as the sight of Arthur’s seeming obliviousness as he read his novel with the duffel bag in his lap. They had left their handguns with Yves back in Paris before they had boarded the commercial flight to Helsinki, and the arms dealer had, for a fee, arranged for the equipment to be cached discreetly across the Russian border. The duffel bag didn’t contain all of the guns they had actually cached, but it did hold their sidearms and backup guns, including Ariadne’s Skyph. In the event that this chauffeur was also an assassin he would have Arthur’s Glock 17 to contend with at the very least.
Eames climbed into the Mercedes with Ariadne beside him, and he felt her reach for his hand after they had seated themselves. Her fingers were cold and clammy with anxiety but she had adopted the marble calm of a statue and feigned it well. She smiled briefly up at him when he squeezed her hand reassuringly and then turned to look out at the city streets through the smoked glass windows. Eames could see no tension in the set of Vladimir’s shoulders but his eyes were hard and bright in the rear-view mirror, and he kept as much of an eye on them as he did on the road.
Vladimir dropped them off at the Astoria on St. Isaac’s Square, and Ariadne let herself sag wearily once the black SUV was no longer in line of sight.
“Are you all right?” Christian asked. He reached out to steady her with his left hand. There was something distant about the way he stood, as though he were holding her at arms’ reach in case she tried to hug him.
“Yeah. It was just a little nerve-wracking,” she said, her voice faintly shaky as she rubbed at her face with a hand.
Christian nodded in sympathy. “Russian drivers are maniacs,” he said. He let go of Ariadne as Arthur stepped up to tuck an arm around her shoulders. She looked oddly fragile right now, as though the anxiety had sapped her physically, left her less substantial than she had been before.
“Russian drivers don’t scare her. She knows Paris drivers,” Eames said as Ariadne leaned briefly against Arthur’s shoulder and then straightened up, herself again. They had gotten close since Paris, Eames thought, and for a brief moment he felt a faint twinge in his chest, something that wasn’t quite jealousy but was uncomfortably close, nevertheless.
“You didn’t have to worry,” Christian told them. “I was keeping an eye on him from the front passenger seat. If he had tried to start something he would not have lived to finish it.” That was not a boast. Eames knew Christian’s speed and skill with the knife, and he was probably almost as good with his left hand as he had been with his right.
“That’s reassuring, I guess,” Ariadne said doubtfully.
“I will not let anybody hurt you,” he told her. “That’s a promise, and Michael can tell you that I keep my promises.” That was the truth - Christian was more likely to avoid making promises than to break them, and Eames could not help but think of the wistfulness in his face earlier, when he had wished for a sister like Ariadne.
“What do you think is going to happen tomorrow?” Ariadne asked him, a little nervously.
“That depends on the mood Nikolai is in when we see him,” Christian said with a shrug and a half-hearted, lopsided smile.
The journey from Helsinki and the tense drive to the hotel had left Eames stiff and sore, and he retreated to his room once the formalities of check-in were done with. A hot shower helped him work most of the stiffness out of his back and shoulders but also left him feeling drained of energy, and he was pondering a nap when he heard a polite knock on the door. He sighed quietly to himself, pulled on some clothes and then looked through the peephole. Arthur stood in the hallway outside with the duffel bag hanging off his shoulder, and Eames stepped away from the door and let him in.
“I have something to give you,” Arthur said once the door had been shut and locked behind him. He crossed to the bed, put the duffel bag down and unzipped it to reveal the handguns Yves had helped them smuggle into Vyborg.
“I trust that Yves fulfilled his end of the bargain,” Eames said as he sat down on the side of the bed beside Arthur.
“Pretty much.” Arthur pulled out Eames’ holstered SIG P220 and USP Compact from the duffel bag, laid them on the bed over the covers. The spare magazines in their carriers followed.
“Thank you,” Eames said after he had looked both the guns over. Both of the guns had been shipped unloaded for safety reasons, but they were otherwise in good condition.
“No problem.” Arthur zipped the duffel bag back up but hesitated as though unwilling to leave.
“There’s a problem, isn’t it?” Eames asked after he had put both guns down on the nightstand.
Arthur sat down on the bed beside him and pulled the duffel bag onto his lap. “You’ve been kind of distracted lately, and it isn’t just jet lag,” he said after a few moments of silence.
“Is that so?” Eames asked. He had not thought it that obvious, but Arthur was one of the most perceptive people he knew. Nothing got past him - it was why he was the best point man in the business.
“You haven’t flirted at me since Helsinki,” Arthur said with a quick smile and a shake of his head. “Something’s off, I’m just not sure what it is.”
“Are you sure it’s isn’t just hormones? Ariadne seems rather fonder of you than usual.”
Arthur made a slight face of annoyance. “Don’t try to change the subject, Eames. You know there’s nothing going on between us, and even if there was I know that wouldn’t have stopped you from flirting anyway.”
Eames smiled as he swung his legs up onto the bed and stretched himself out. The firm denial confirmed his suspicions more than any display of affection could. “I think she likes you and I know for a fact that she’s your type.”
Arthur stood up and slung the duffel bag back onto his shoulder, his expression pensive. “Ariadne being my type still doesn’t make it a good idea,” he said softly, “it’s not good procedure for any kind of job.”
“This isn’t a normal job, Arthur,” Eames said. “We’re on our own, answer to no one and we are letting my insane ex set the timetable and handle negotiations with the mob. I doubt we have any semblance of procedure left.” He smiled ruefully despite himself, felt a slight relief as Arthur grinned in reply.
“Maybe,” Arthur said as he reached out to open the door.
“If it helps you should know that I’m right here in the event that she turns you down,” Eames said.
“I should probably be relieved that you’re saying inappropriate things to me again,” Arthur said, “but that’s pretty cold comfort, as it comes.” He looked back at Eames, all seriousness again as he turned the doorknob. “I’m worried that your past with Christian is going to complicate things.”
“I don’t think it’s so much the past as much as how much he’s changed in the present,” Eames said. “I’ll be all right. I just need some time to get used to how things are now.” He shifted in bed, pondered raiding the mini-bar in his room. There had to be decent Scotch in there somewhere.
Arthur nodded, opened the door. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry,” he said before the door clicked shut behind him. So am I, Eames thought as he stared up at the ceiling of his room, a vague ache rattling the fragile equilibrium somewhere between his chest and gut.
Christian had arranged for the team to meet Nikolai’s people at a private tearoom the next day. The formal setting of the meeting demanded appropriate dress, and he had risen to the occasion by putting on a funereal-looking black suit with a matching tie.
“Isn’t that a little Reservoir Dogs?” Eames asked him as they waited in the lobby for the elevator.
“Only if I get to be Mr. Blond,” Christian said. A humorless smile played over his face in the uncomfortable beat of silence that followed. It was all too easy to imagine Christian taking someone’s ear off with a straight razor, especially when he looked like this.
You don’t even like that song, Eames wanted to say when a soft ding signaled the elevator arriving at their floor. “Who would I be then?” he asked as the doors slid shut.
“Mm.” Christian glanced thoughtfully at him and then shrugged easily. “Mr. White,” he said.
“Not Mr. Pink?” Eames asked.
“Arthur would be a better Mr. Pink,” Christian said as the elevator doors slid open.
Arthur had been the first to finish getting ready and he had been waiting in the lobby for the others to come downstairs one by one. He was exquisitely dressed as usual, this time in a three-piece suit the color of morning fog. “I’d love to know why I heard my name mentioned there,” he said as they stepped out of the elevator, his gaze vaguely curious.
“We were just discussing Quentin Tarantino. Chris thinks you would make a good Mr. Pink,” Eames explained.
“Why do I have to be Mr. Pink?” Arthur asked. The look on his face suggested that he knew the answer already.
“Because you are the most professional one in this group,” Christian said. He reached into his jacket for a pair of sunglasses and Eames caught a glimpse of red, obscene and vivid against the white of his shirt.
“Did you spill something?” Eames asked.
“No. It’s supposed to be there,” Christian undid his suit jacket, tugged the lapel aside to give them a better look, and Eames noticed that he was not carrying a sidearm.
Arthur craned his neck for a better look at the red blot. “You have a sequined bloodstain on your shirt,” he said, his voice flat with disbelief.
Christian shrugged, rubbed at his forearm though the sleeve of his shirt and jacket. “Think of it as a message that I want sent.”
“What, that you like sparkly things?” Eames asked half-seriously. Another one of those frozen smiles flickered across Christian’s face as he buttoned his suit jacket back up, but he did not answer.
Vladimir picked the team up at the Astoria and drove them to the meeting with Nikolai. They were ushered into the tearoom with cordial hospitality and seated at a table around an enormous brass samovar. Waiting for them was an old man in a slightly shabby blue suit, the fabric worn shiny from time and wear. A puckered scar wound its way around his neck, and blurry tattoos marked the knuckles of both his hands. He looked to the world like a broken old man, but Eames knew at a glance that he was much more than that. Only the toughest lived to wear their scars, and he wore his authority with a casual ease. A pair of bodyguards sat to his left and right, and two more minders stood by the door of the tearoom once everyone had been seated.
< “Soloviev,”> the old man said in a raspy croak, < “I trust you are well.”>
< “About as well as can be expected, Nikolai Nikitich,”> Christian said with a respectful nod.
< “So what brings a marked man to Piter, and with such company?”> Nikolai waved casually at one of his bodyguards, who got up then to stand silently by Christian’s chair.
< “The same thing that you are looking for. The settling of a debt.”> If he was intimidated by the gesture he did not show it. Instead he poured himself a measure of zavarka - a concentrated tea infusion - and diluted it with hot water from the samovar.
“You mean the debt that you are owing me for my son’s life?” Nikolai asked, his voice sinking to a strangled whisper as he switched to English. Shit, Eames thought as he caught the glint of steel in the bodyguard’s hand, saw him hold the knife to Christian’s neck. He found himself reaching under the table into his trouser pocket, his fingertips brushing against the checkered grip of his USP Compact in its pocket holster.
“I am here to settle the debt Sergey owes you for Dmitri’s life.” Christian dipped a spoonful of honey into his tea and stirred, his movements exaggeratedly casual. A cold sweat ran down Eames’ back under his shirt as he watched the edge of the knife dimple the skin above Christian’s shirt collar. There was no way he could draw and fire safely, not while they were surrounded like this. Yusuf and Arthur were stony-faced, Ariadne pale as a sheet. Petra blinked and drew a Ziganov Black out of the pack she kept in her purse, tapped it out and held it to her bruise-colored lips.
“How do you propose you do that? Or are you as much of a liar as your old master is?” Nikolai demanded. There was a soft ping in the background as one of the mobsters lit Petra’s cigarette for her, the gallant gesture incongruous against the tattoos and broken nose, the knives and the tension.
“Take your hand off your gun, Michael,” Christian said without even looking at Eames, “This is a matter for me to settle, not yours.” He put the teaspoon down on the saucer and then picked up his teacup, and the bodyguard lifted the knife slightly so he could sip his tea. Tiny droplets of blood welled up in the scratch where the knife had been, rolled down to stain the collar of his shirt. He took a long sip of his tea and then put the teacup down.
“Firstly,” Christian said, “Sergey conspired with Ivan Woodruff to sell me out. They both owe me a hand.” He reached into his jacket with the hook prosthetic, his movements slow and careful. The bodyguard pressed the knife-edge against his throat again, but all that came was a soft rustle as he drew a folded manila envelope out of an inside pocket and laid it carefully on the tablecloth. “My friends have a score to settle with Vanya, and they are willing to go through Sergey to get him. The resulting power vacuum can only work to your advantage.”
“I could just have you killed now and deal directly with them instead,” Nikolai hissed, and Christian smiled coldly, shook his head.
“We don’t work like that,” Arthur said, spreading both his hands on the tablecloth. “He goes unharmed, or the deal is off.” Ariadne reached under the table for Eames’ right hand and he squeezed her fingers in his own, as much for his own reassurance as hers.
“Besides, I’m dying,” Christian said as he picked up the envelope with his left hand, held it out to Nikolai’s other bodyguard. “These medical reports say that it could be a matter of years or months, but my liver is failing. You know as well as I do it’s going to be a long, painful death, and while you’re fairly creative I don’t think anything you can do to me is going to compare to what I’m going to get anyway.”
Nikolai picked up the envelope, read its contents with the long-sighted squint of the elderly. There was a phlegmy wheeze that Eames realized was laughter as he put the papers down. “Clever. If I kill you, I’m giving you an easy way out.”
“Exactly.” Christian smiled, picked up his teacup and took another sip before he spoke in Russian again. < “Besides, if you’re going to slit my throat now you should probably have your man wrap a tea towel around my neck to save the upholstery.”>
< “Like your father used to do?”> Nikolai asked, waving his bodyguard away. Eames let out a breath he did not realize he was holding, and let go of Ariadne’s hand.
< “I learned from the best,”> Christian said a little sadly as the thug took his knife off his neck and sat back down.
The trip back to the Astoria passed in stony silence, and nobody spoke until Ariadne cornered Christian in the upstairs elevator lobby on the way back to their hotel rooms. She slapped him hard, once, and then burst into tears.
“What the fuck was that bluff all about?” she asked, her tiny frame trembling with suppressed fury. “Our lives aren’t yours to gamble.”
Christian put his hand to his mouth and looked down at the blood on his fingers - she had hit him hard enough that he had cut his lip on his teeth. “Your lives were never in danger,” he said after a brief, stunned silence. “Nikolai’s grudge was with me alone.”
“Well, how do you think I felt watching them get ready to kill you?” Ariadne hissed, her voice barely audible through her angry tears. “Your life isn’t yours to throw away either.” Arthur came up behind her and tucked an arm around her shoulder, nodded curtly at Christian, who echoed the gesture as though half-asleep.
“I’m sorry,” he said hollowly as Ariadne sagged against Arthur’s shoulder, the doubt and confusion naked in his gaze.
“We’ll talk about this later,” Arthur said as he bundled Ariadne into his arms and then walked her back to her room.
“Ariadne was worried about you, you know,” Petra whispered after they had gone. She dabbed gently at Christian’s cut lip with a clean handkerchief that she had borrowed from Yusuf, pressed it into his hand and closed his fingers around it before she, too, left the lobby.
Christian held the square of linen tightly in his fist. “I don’t understand,” he said half to himself, his voice beginning to shake as his self-control started to unravel from the stress. He shut his eyes wearily, shook his head, and then turned as though to leave. Eames caught him by the wrist before he could, his fingers closing around the carbon-fiber socket of the prosthetic under his sleeve. Christian froze at the touch, his eyes wild and alert, but he did not pull away.
“I would really appreciate it, Christian, if you told us the next time you were going to do anything that suicidal,” Eames said wearily, his own anger dying for lack of fuel before it could even flare, taste of salt in his mouth, stinging in his eyes and nostrils. Christian stared at him mutely, too tired to fight or argue. They stood uneasily in the hallway for a few moments before Christian wrenched his wrist free of Eames’ grip and stalked silently back to his room.