[fic] Rapid Eye Movement - 2/5 (Eames/Arthur), Inception
Title: Rapid Eye Movement (2/5)
Rating: Hard R
Pairing/character(s): Eames/Arthur, Cobb
Word count: this part, ~5,200 (overall, ~28k)
Disclaimer: Recognize something? Isn’t mine.
Summary: “Do you still dream?”
Warnings: Sex, language, angst and some mention of violence.
Thanks to: ilovetakahana, laria_gwyn and brilligspoons for being such heroes. Remaining mistakes are mine.
It ended messy.
Eames could even say that it was Cobb who put an end to it. Sort of.
They were working on a particularly important case, and Cobb had come in the night before they were supposed to strike in order to give everything a final check. But what he found inside the apartment they’d rented for headquarters was Arthur pinning Eames down with his legs and body, throwing punch after punch at him.
And when Cobb shouted what the hell - they broke apart, breathing hard and not looking at each other. They didn’t have to. Eames knew Arthur had a deep cut in his lower lip and a nasty black eye, as he could feel his own face swollen and tasted the blood all over his teeth.
Eames didn’t wait for Cobb to say anything to them, to ask for an explanation, an apology. And Eames didn’t want to hear Arthur say anything else. So he left. He left his things and his jacket and walked out the doors without looking back. He didn’t know what Arthur would say to Cobb, and he couldn’t have cared less.
At least, that’s what Eames repeated to himself for a few blocks before he realized he was freezing his arse off out there. So, he swore. He cursed Arthur. Because Arthur wouldn’t go out without his goddamn coat. Because Arthur wouldn’t pin Eames down, not unless he intended to fuck his brains out. Arthur wouldn’t smash Eames’ face with his bare hands if Eames hadn’t thrown the first punch. Eames regretted that, now, of course. He had never meant to hurt Arthur in any way.
Yet he had. And the fact that Eames was hurt back every single time didn’t make him feel any better. After all, it had been his choice. He chose to know Arthur. He chose to come back and ask Arthur the most boring questions he could think of. Eames chose to smile instead of just smirking at him. He chose to care before he even knew Arthur well enough for it. Eames liked people in general, but Arthur, well. Eames knew Arthur was special. In some cliché, heartbroken meaning of special.
He had thought Arthur was special after working with him for the first time, but Eames only knew Arthur was somehow special for him exactly three weeks after that rainy night in Russia, the night they fucked in Arthur’s hotel room. Because Eames had done all that before; he went to bed with people he barely knew and fucked them, let them fuck him, and Eames was always perfectly capable of walking away without second thoughts haunting him. He had guessed things could be a little bit different with Arthur from the beginning, though. Because he didn’t want to just fuck Arthur to the point where neither of them could think or see straight. But since that was what Arthur wanted, that was what they had done.
And Eames thought about how he must have had misread the signs as Arthur turned his body just in time, right before Eames tried to kiss him. He thought that must had been just what it had looked like: a meaningless good time. And Eames was afraid he wouldn’t be able to deal with that in the morning after, with Arthur glancing down at him and asking Eames to forget about the whole thing. So Eames chose to deal with it in his own way.
He tried very hard to not to think about Arthur in the following weeks. Eames bought an airline ticket to Jamaica, lay on the beach and he leered, numbed by the heat and the sea breeze, as waves destroyed little sand castles. He met and slept with a gorgeous waitress for a couple of nights, enamored by the tone of her dark skin. But when they kissed, her lips pressing hard against his, Eames couldn’t help but wonder how Arthur’s would taste like. That made him a little bit worried, but he was able to shut out the thought, at least for the moment.
What made Eames bloody worried was being assaulted by the most ridiculous idea: Arthur, there, with him. Arthur bitching about the heat and telling Eames useless statistics data about sea creatures and global warming as they walked along the sidewalk. Somehow, Eames knew he would find that annoying, yet ridiculously charming. He already knew Arthur was special, and he was damn sure of it the morning Cobb called and Eames found himself on a plane in a matter of one hour and twenty-four minutes.
Eames knew because, when he fell asleep after a strong cocktail, he discovered himself being able to dream again. Dreaming just like he used to do. The kind of dream with shadowy figures in impossible shapes, played for all of our lost memories. Places and pictures filled with no sense but all meaning. Eames found himself dreaming, actually dreaming of the taste of Arthur’s lips, feeling the warmth of the bed he chose to walk away from. And as he woke up, no kick, no musical countdown, the plane ready to land, Eames took out a poker chip from his inner pocket, feeling its shape and weight, rubbing it against his knuckles, and then closing his fingers around it. Eames pressed a hand against his forehead, completely aware that he had never felt so scared before. Because it should take a lot more than an one night stand to trigger such reactions out of him. Eames knew dreams could be forged and all, but why, why would he come up with something that only could bring him trouble?
Eames knew the answer as he walked into an old five floor building in Évora, a couple of hours later. When Arthur immediately looked up from his desk at the sound of his voice. When Eames smiled at him and realized how hard Arthur was fighting to not smile back.
“Couldn’t stay away, huh?” Arthur dropped his gaze back to the open aluminum case over the table.
Eames didn’t reply. He shrugged off his jacket, placing it on the back of a chair. As he stepped closer, Eames noticed Arthur had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, so he could more easily maneuver a tiny screwdriver through the PASIV’s delicate gears. He also noticed there were small dirty oil stains spread over both of Arthur’s hands, which probably shouldn’t have looked as good as Eames thought they did. He felt hypnotized by the little dance of Arthur’s fingers, the childish way Arthur’s forehead wrinkled every time his hair fell in front of his eyes, how only the first button of Arthur’s shirt was undone, the tie still in place, like that was the closest Arthur would come to allowing himself to relax at work.
Once Arthur was finished and he took a piece of fabric to clean his hands, Eames’ reaction was immediate. He grabbed Arthur’s wrist and watched Arthur raise a calculated eyebrow at him. Arthur didn’t try to release himself, though.
“Do you mind?” He inquired, calm and polite, like he was merely asking Eames to please hand him the hammer.
“Very much.” Eames grinned in reply.
“You don’t strike me as the type of guy who likes to get his hands dirty, Mr. Eames,” Arthur warned him, the corner of his lips twisting in a half-smile.
He tugged Arthur’s hand close. “Depends on what’s at stake, darling.” And Eames would have kissed those oil-dirtied fingers if a voice hadn’t suddenly echoed from the entrance.
“Eames!” Cobb walked into the room, and Arthur reclaimed his hand from Eames’ grip so fast he almost fell onto the chair behind the desk. “Looks like you beat me.”
“I just got lucky at the airport,” Eames declared. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Arthur rubbing his hands on the piece of fabric so forcefully he would probably end up peeling his skin off.
“Glad you could join us.” Cobb gave Eames a vigorous handshake, handing him a folder filled with data and pictures. “I think our guy here is going to need an extra distraction. Sorry I couldn’t tell you much on the phone, he’s local but has some powerful contacts.”
“I see.” Eames took his eyes off the folder to look over his shoulder at Arthur, who still didn’t dare to look up at them. Arthur’s ears were scarlet to their tips. He smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll come up with something.”
As Cobb left the building about two hours later to check on a matter Eames didn’t take the trouble to listen to or to record, Arthur gaze up at him. His eyebrows were shaped in one single, obviously pissed off line.
“What were you thinking-” he started, but Eames cut him off, placing a fingertip over Arthur’s lips.
“What I was thinking, Arthur, was that maybe we should skip lunch time and sneak ourselves into that bathroom over there. Then, I’ll suck your dick.”
And Eames thought, afterwards, how the look on Arthur’s face could ever only be trumped by the sound of his own name being moaned somewhere above his head, the pressure of Arthur’s fingers digging into his shoulders and hair, the ceaseless shaking of Arthur’s legs after he came and Eames got up, pinning him against the door, putting Arthur’s shirt back in place, buttoning his trousers and fixing his tie with a lazy, satisfied smile.
They were able to work for the rest of the day without further incidents and when they left the building, hours later, they left together. They took a cab and went directly to the hotel room Eames had booked earlier, though they didn’t decide what to do until they found themselves alone, the door shut as a question hanging behind them. So Arthur decided he was starving and Eames ordered Chinese and tried not to laugh as Arthur refused to admit he just couldn’t handle the (dammit!) chopsticks and Eames just couldn’t hold it back anymore when Arthur started to make a fuss over Eames’ (but I’m serious) offer to feed him by hand and Arthur tried not to smile as Eames went down to ask for silverware from the hotel’s kitchen and pulled a face when soy sauce spilled on his (fuck!) shirt.
“Come here.” Eames offered Arthur his hand, and Arthur stared up at him and then back to his chest, like he had expected to see Eames handing him a magic solution for ruined tailored dress shirts. Eames rolled his eyes and grasped Arthur’s wrist, hauling him all the way to the bathroom.
They had gentle, wet, slow sex in the shower. Arthur’s face pressed against his crossed arms pressed against the hideous bathroom yellow tiles. Eames’ hands gripping Arthur’s hips, his cock sliding in and out of Arthur’s body. The groans, the curses coming out of Eames’ mouth, were lost in the warm skin of Arthur’s neck. The cries, the moans Arthur’s clenched teeth tried to keep down being released at the firm touch of Eames’ hand around his cock. Eames came first, biting the back of Arthur’s neck, his come running down Arthur’s thighs, Arthur following right after, his head falling back, eyelids slipping closed, hair dripping and Eames’ hand stroking him until the end. Arthur’s mouth was only a kiss away, but Eames didn’t dare. He softly sucked the spot where his teeth had just marked Arthur’s skin and moved them both under the stream of water.
They didn’t realize how tired they really were until they faced each other over the bed. Eames smiled, wearing only a pair of boxer shorts, and tugged out the end of the sheet, sliding himself under the covers and making room for Arthur. Arthur stared at him, his eyelashes heavy, his body looking smaller than it really was inside an old The Smiths T-shirt he had borrowed from Eames’ suitcase, before his hands hesitantly gripped his edge of the sheet and allowed himself to lay down beside Eames, though he kept a safe distance between them. Arthur’s lips twisted in some kind of tired, worn out smile and he closed his eyes without further resistance. Eames sunk his head on his own pillow and fought against sleep, trying to watch Arthur’s face, Arthur’s lips, just a little while longer.
Eames only realized he had been asleep when he woke up a few hours later, the lights of the street staining the darkness of their room, glancing at Arthur’s face across the bed, a mess of dark hair over the pillow, his mouth slightly open. Arthur twitched a bit in his sleep as Eames couldn’t help touching Arthur’s face with his fingertips, pulling them immediately back as he heard a small murmur from him. Eames noticed Arthur just wrinkled his forehead and bit his lower lip.
And yes, he thought about it, but Eames knew he shouldn’t steal a first kiss like you did with a secret from a manipulated dream. That kind of meaning shouldn’t dissipate itself into fog once you woke up. Eames held his hand only a few inches above Arthur’s skin and frowned as he saw Arthur grasping a pillow, twisting his face in unmistakable pain.
But Eames only knew for sure that Arthur was having a bad dream when Arthur’s body jolted, his eyes wide open, running from nowhere to Eames’ fingers, then to his face and finally locking onto Eames’ eyes. Arthur closed and opened his mouth but not a single sound came out.
Eames thought about retrieving his hand, but when he so much as tried to move his fingers away, he felt Arthur grabbing his wrist, keeping Eames’ hand in place. He held his breath and he tried not to blink, trying to read Arthur, trying to understand and, when he felt a light, almost imperceptible pull from Arthur’s hand, Eames tried really hard not to hope. Yet, when the last thing he glimpsed, right before closing his eyes, were Arthur’s parted lips, Eames couldn’t help but wonder that maybe, maybe hoping was the okay thing to do.
Arthur tasted just like waking up in the middle of the night, dying for nothing more than a glass of water. You drank and drank of it and even though you knew it was such an ordinary taste you also knew you had never tasted anything better in your entire life. Then, you would feel warm and lazy as you closed your eyes, as you were hit by this overwhelming anxiety to just sink back into oblivion.
Eames felt Arthur let go of his wrist to grab the back of his neck, pulling him closer, opening his mouth fully beneath his. He felt Arthur tilting his head under his fingertips, he felt Arthur’s tongue against his and Eames deepened the kiss, fisting a handful of Arthur’s hair.
Eames was on top of him when they broke apart, Arthur’s body hot, hard, ready under his. Eames opened his eyes, trying not to smile as he found a breathless, panting Arthur slipping a hand down between their bodies. Eames didn’t try to stop him, choosing to lower his head again, taking Arthur’s lip between his teeth and biting it gently as Arthur held their cocks. They kissed, touched, gasped against each other’s mouths, breathing in and out, their eyes shut, each of Eames’ senses crawling out of his skin, Arthur’s hand, Arthur’s lips, Arthur’s tongue and Eames grabbed Arthur’s hair, hard, when he came, crushing their mouths and kissing Arthur sloppily, trying to touch and breathe and breathe-
Eames felt the unsteady thump of Arthur’s heartbeat and noticed he had his head on Arthur’s chest. Eames didn’t know how his head had ended up there and he didn’t care. He only cared about listening to the soft sounds coming out of Arthur’s mouth, their breathing slowing together. To the shape of Arthur’s hand still stuck between their lower bodies. Eames smiled, because of course he couldn’t help it.
“I see you do like to get your hands dirty,” Eames sighed, happily.
And breathing over his hair, Arthur replied, shortly.
“Shut up.”
Eames laughed, hard, and he pulled Arthur closer, harder, into his arms.
Yes, Eames knew Arthur was special. He had known from the very beginning. He knew when Arthur didn’t smile back just after they were introduced. He knew when Arthur criticized him, when Arthur smiled for the first time, when Arthur first had a kind word for him. When Eames decided that this wasn’t a good idea because they worked together and that would be a hell of a lot of trouble. He knew when he realized he didn’t need to know Arthur to care. When he hurt him and felt bad and sad about it and his chest ached. Eames knew Arthur was special when he dreamt about him. When he woke up, scared to death and still certain that was okay, okay.
Eames knew Arthur was special because he was worth the trouble.
And that’s why Eames was finding it so fucking hard to let it go. To walk away and leave behind him all they had built for the past few months. It wasn’t much, really. It wasn’t even what you would have called a peaceful, quiet, loving existence. But it did matter. Every kiss. Every talk. Every fuck.
Every fight.
And how they did fight.
It wasn’t that bad, right there in the beginning. Eames teased Arthur, Arthur snapped back at him and Cobb frowned, curious, looking at them like they were just children, his eyes half-annoyed, half-soft. And they worked, sometimes together, sometimes apart. Cobb didn’t need a forger on every single job and Eames spent his weeks sometimes in Kenya, sometimes in Spain, sometimes in Brazil and Arthur always knew how to find him. And so they met, sometimes to work, sometimes to talk, always to fuck and to kiss. After the first month, the fights began.
Eames didn’t mind them, much, then. They were just silly little things, a harsh word, a misplaced gesture, a sideways look. He never thought about how just like all of Arthur’s small, insignificant details, those silly little things could find the tiniest breach to drift them apart. Eames didn’t mind the fights, then, because despite all of Arthur’s half-empty smiles and frequent annoyed glares, Eames could swear Arthur, in his own way, also thought Eames was special.
It was one night, eight months and one week after Évora, following a job where the dream collapsed a second after Cobb was able to extract the mark’s secret, that Arthur pinned Eames down in another hotel bed and fucked him into the mattress. Arthur fucked Eames hard, like he had to, like he needed to work all of the universe’s anger out of his system. Arthur fucked Eames like what had happened earlier was his fault, somehow. Eames didn’t understand Arthur’s rage and he couldn’t have cared less, because when Arthur grasped Eames’ hips, pounding into him faster and deeper, it felt good, good.
Once they finished, Arthur disappeared into the bathroom and Eames automatically reached for his poker chip on the nightstand. And he didn’t even notice Arthur was back until he felt a heavy gaze over him and he glanced up, meeting a pair of unsettling brown eyes. And Eames’ heart sunk a bit as he understood Arthur looked physically hurt just to be staring at him.
“What?” Eames put his totem away, speaking just a little bit more sharply than he really meant to. Because he was the one all bruised and sore and it was Arthur’s fault, not his.
“I know something happened,” Arthur choked in a small voice. “To you.”
Eames smiled at him, weakly, all his sharp indignity gone. Though they never had talked about Eames’ totem again, sometimes he did notice Arthur watching him, like he expected Eames to start to babble nonsense at any minute. They never talked much about Arthur’s totem either, and Eames never second-guessed Arthur’s sanity over that. Of course it would be too much to ask Arthur to pay him the same courtesy. Because Arthur was right. Something had happened to Eames and in some strange way, he knew that it did matter to Arthur. And that would be the most endearing thing Arthur had ever said to him if it hadn’t been so equally condescending. Eames let out a heavy sigh and grasped Arthur’s hand, making him slide onto the bed. He felt Arthur shifting a bit, like he just couldn’t relax into Eames’ arms anymore. He stroked Arthur’s hair and held him closer, putting his chin over Arthur’s shoulder. Eames felt cared for. And judged.
“Oh, Arthur, haven’t you heard?” Eames breathed, also tired. “Something happened to all of us.”
And that one wasn’t even a real fight. They had had real fights before. But Eames felt Arthur slowly walking away from him after that night. Unconsciously, Eames did the same. He thought he was just giving Arthur some space. And when they met again, a few weeks later, Arthur was so quiet and distant that Eames teased Arthur until he snapped, starting to yell over a lot of nothing.
So, no. Eames didn’t mind the fights and he didn’t think it was that bad. Every time they fought, Eames thought that it was okay, because the bad things mattered, too. As much as all the kisses, talks and fucks. Even if, of course, Eames had kissed, talked and fucked a lot of people in his life. Even if Eames had fallen in love more times than he could possibly count. Yes, Eames had said his share of I love you’s. Sometimes, he had even meant them.
He never said that to Arthur, though. Eames did think about it, a few times. He thought about how much he loved Arthur every time Arthur tucked his chin against the curve of his neck, when Arthur gasped his name against his mouth, when Arthur saved his arse from a dozen hostile projections, a Glock in his hand, his hair perfectly slicked back and a small shake of his head, which could be translated as a my pleasure, Mr. Eames. Yes, Eames did think of saying I love you, but when the words pierced through his throat and reached his lips, finally ready to come out, Arthur chose that precise moment to turn his head up at him. Arthur stared deep into Eames’ eyes.
“Do you still dream?” was what Arthur asked him, then.
And yes, Eames had kissed, talked to and fucked a lot of people in his life. However, he had never fought someone like he fought Arthur. Or like Arthur fought him. It was not that he felt mad about Arthur’s question, not at all. It was a reasonable question. Work always was the common place for them to go. They talked about what it was like being able to build their own dreams. They sat, just the two of them, at coffee shops in Chicago, Paris and Oslo and they shared one job experience or two. They even went under together a couple of times. Arthur would always be the dreamer and Eames didn’t mind sharing his subconscious with him. They went under when Cobb didn’t need either of them and they simulated car chases and ambushes to improve their skills and practice new tricks.
They never, however, talked to each other about their real dreams. Eames never asked what Arthur was dreaming about the night they shared their first kiss and Eames never told Arthur he was the one responsible for him being able to dream again. So, yes, Eames did think about saying I love you, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell Arthur he dreamt about him.
“Of course I do,” was what Eames replied, instead.
And when they fought, because Arthur needed to learn how to deal with a little chance, because Eames didn’t warn him he was going to be late, because, well, didn’t Arthur know everything already, because Eames should at least take the trouble to shave himself, because Arthur should try to speak the hell up about what was going on inside that thick skull of his, because Eames forgot to make a stupid hotel reservation, because Arthur obviously never had been introduced to Mr. Sense of Humor, because Eames should try to mind his own damn business, because Arthur for the last time insisted he’s okay, dammit, because Eames was so good at pointing out Arthur’s condescension, because Arthur was so good at pointing out Eames’ unreliability, because Eames hung up on his face, because Arthur didn’t want Cobb to know, because Eames had no right, because wasn’t Arthur a bloody coward, because Eames walked away first, because Arthur was never wrong, because Eames was always wrong, because-
When they fought, Arthur losing every bit of his precious self-control, becoming harsh and mean, Eames never raised his voice, his tone mingled in something between amused, disappointed and conformed. When they fought until they wore off each and every last argument and there was only a shoved door and empty self-promises of never turning back left, cooling and fading between them.
When they fought, all Eames could bring himself to think about was that maybe, maybe Arthur dreamt about him, too.
So they stayed away as much as they stayed close. Like being apart hurt as much as being together. They still kissed and fucked, frenetic little touches, but they barely spoke to each other in the last months. Eames tried. Arthur avoided. It was a job which went wrong, it was the rain, the sun, the traffic, the heat, the flight, the wind, the whole bloody world. Eames tried because he loved all of Arthur’s little head shakes, the good and bad ones.
But Eames didn’t know why or what Arthur was avoiding and he was too afraid to ask. Because the truth was that you could only push so far before something was irreparably broken and Eames knew he couldn’t keep pushing forever. Even if all their last fights sounded like they couldn’t get any worse. Somehow, they always did. Eames knew he and Arthur didn’t have much. Much time, much in common, apart from someone else’s dreams to share. He knew that they weren’t even on the same page. Eames knew they both lived for reading the same information in order to achieve entirely different goals.
Yet, he tried. He hoped. Eames told himself he was ready to wait, if he had to.
He wasn’t.
Eames kept pushing. He pushed it as far as it could get. He showed up, uninvited, at Arthur’s flat in L.A., a month and three days after a fight which ended with Eames telling Arthur to fuck the hell off. He had flown over half the globe and he was drunk and he bought Arthur a bouquet of red roses on his way from the airport. He didn’t know Arthur hated roses and he did ask if Arthur had missed him. Arthur shook his head and asked Eames to leave, please. Eames refused and they fought, again.
It was a clean, fresh night in Los Angeles and Eames forgot how much he loved Arthur. Because there they were. Thirteen and a half months after their first kiss, nine days before their last, right after another talk, another fight, a desperate fuck without one single kiss, and Arthur finally spoke out what Eames knew he’d been avoiding for so long, Arthur’s voice hollow and steady.
“It’s just... I can’t imagine a future for us.”
And Eames observed him for a few seconds, then Eames laughed. He laughed because suddenly he knew he just couldn’t take it anymore. Eames laughed because that was the only thing he could possibly do. He laughed like he was crying, all those small unselfconscious sounds, and he laid there with his back against the bedpost until soft little noises told him Arthur had finally fallen asleep. Just then Eames dared to look at him. He held back the desire to stroke Arthur’s dark hair off his face. Because even though Eames forgot he loved Arthur, Arthur still would be everything Eames thought of him. Smart, hard, impossible to read. Arthur still would be the most insecure person Eames had ever known. Eames closed his eyes and thought about how sad that all was. He snorted, bitterly, for himself.
“It’s only because you have no imagination, darling.”
Painful as it all was, Eames supposed their fistfight had been a pretty obvious, not to mention suitable last straw. And he did think about leaving the city that exact same night, leaving his jacket and all of his things behind. Eames didn’t want to face Arthur. Not after he had punched the mouth he dreamt about kissing. After Arthur had hit him back, hard and with no regret. Eames knew Arthur didn’t regret what he had said in L.A., only a few days back. Eames knew Arthur meant every word. Even after they had crossed half the world so they could meet Cobb for a new job, Eames still couldn’t shake off the tone of Arthur’s voice telling him they didn’t have a future. And when Eames grabbed him by his collar for a quick kiss as Arthur sat at his side in the cab, he didn’t know that that would be their last one for a long time.
He hadn’t imagined that Arthur would be hitting him with all the strength he had in only a matter of days. And he could never have imagined that Arthur thought Eames obviously should feel the same way about them, too. But that was what Arthur yelled at him. That was what hit Eames, hard, and that was what had driven him to hit back. Eames didn’t have the words to hurt Arthur, though, so he used his fist instead. Because Arthur had every right to choose how he felt, even if he chose to feel nothing. He had every bloody right. As Eames had a choice when he chose to walk away after their first night and he had chosen to hold Arthur closer, holding him in his arms, following their second. They both had every right to be stupid and selfish in their own, but Arthur had no fucking right to tell Eames how Eames should feel. No right to yell that Eames shouldn’t even have had hoped for them.
Eames knew Arthur was special, he knew he loved him, even if he tried to forget those things, every now and then. Eames also knew he wouldn’t betray the only thing they still had, the common place for them to go.
So Eames showed up in the rented apartment, ready for work, the next day. He faced Arthur, his bruised lower lip, his black eye hidden behind sunglasses, his hair slicked back, his clothes obliviously impeccable. Cobb didn’t say a thing, he didn’t seem relieved or worried. They finished the job as they had trained to do, Cobb gave him his share and Eames walked away, first.
He couldn’t sleep on the plane, after. Eames kept thinking about the day he found out, half-surprised and a bit amused, that Arthur’s favorite color was red. When Eames didn’t believe him as Arthur confessed that he hadn’t had a high school sweetheart.
Back to part I | Part III
Rating: Hard R
Pairing/character(s): Eames/Arthur, Cobb
Word count: this part, ~5,200 (overall, ~28k)
Disclaimer: Recognize something? Isn’t mine.
Summary: “Do you still dream?”
Warnings: Sex, language, angst and some mention of violence.
Thanks to: ilovetakahana, laria_gwyn and brilligspoons for being such heroes. Remaining mistakes are mine.
It ended messy.
Eames could even say that it was Cobb who put an end to it. Sort of.
They were working on a particularly important case, and Cobb had come in the night before they were supposed to strike in order to give everything a final check. But what he found inside the apartment they’d rented for headquarters was Arthur pinning Eames down with his legs and body, throwing punch after punch at him.
And when Cobb shouted what the hell - they broke apart, breathing hard and not looking at each other. They didn’t have to. Eames knew Arthur had a deep cut in his lower lip and a nasty black eye, as he could feel his own face swollen and tasted the blood all over his teeth.
Eames didn’t wait for Cobb to say anything to them, to ask for an explanation, an apology. And Eames didn’t want to hear Arthur say anything else. So he left. He left his things and his jacket and walked out the doors without looking back. He didn’t know what Arthur would say to Cobb, and he couldn’t have cared less.
At least, that’s what Eames repeated to himself for a few blocks before he realized he was freezing his arse off out there. So, he swore. He cursed Arthur. Because Arthur wouldn’t go out without his goddamn coat. Because Arthur wouldn’t pin Eames down, not unless he intended to fuck his brains out. Arthur wouldn’t smash Eames’ face with his bare hands if Eames hadn’t thrown the first punch. Eames regretted that, now, of course. He had never meant to hurt Arthur in any way.
Yet he had. And the fact that Eames was hurt back every single time didn’t make him feel any better. After all, it had been his choice. He chose to know Arthur. He chose to come back and ask Arthur the most boring questions he could think of. Eames chose to smile instead of just smirking at him. He chose to care before he even knew Arthur well enough for it. Eames liked people in general, but Arthur, well. Eames knew Arthur was special. In some cliché, heartbroken meaning of special.
He had thought Arthur was special after working with him for the first time, but Eames only knew Arthur was somehow special for him exactly three weeks after that rainy night in Russia, the night they fucked in Arthur’s hotel room. Because Eames had done all that before; he went to bed with people he barely knew and fucked them, let them fuck him, and Eames was always perfectly capable of walking away without second thoughts haunting him. He had guessed things could be a little bit different with Arthur from the beginning, though. Because he didn’t want to just fuck Arthur to the point where neither of them could think or see straight. But since that was what Arthur wanted, that was what they had done.
And Eames thought about how he must have had misread the signs as Arthur turned his body just in time, right before Eames tried to kiss him. He thought that must had been just what it had looked like: a meaningless good time. And Eames was afraid he wouldn’t be able to deal with that in the morning after, with Arthur glancing down at him and asking Eames to forget about the whole thing. So Eames chose to deal with it in his own way.
He tried very hard to not to think about Arthur in the following weeks. Eames bought an airline ticket to Jamaica, lay on the beach and he leered, numbed by the heat and the sea breeze, as waves destroyed little sand castles. He met and slept with a gorgeous waitress for a couple of nights, enamored by the tone of her dark skin. But when they kissed, her lips pressing hard against his, Eames couldn’t help but wonder how Arthur’s would taste like. That made him a little bit worried, but he was able to shut out the thought, at least for the moment.
What made Eames bloody worried was being assaulted by the most ridiculous idea: Arthur, there, with him. Arthur bitching about the heat and telling Eames useless statistics data about sea creatures and global warming as they walked along the sidewalk. Somehow, Eames knew he would find that annoying, yet ridiculously charming. He already knew Arthur was special, and he was damn sure of it the morning Cobb called and Eames found himself on a plane in a matter of one hour and twenty-four minutes.
Eames knew because, when he fell asleep after a strong cocktail, he discovered himself being able to dream again. Dreaming just like he used to do. The kind of dream with shadowy figures in impossible shapes, played for all of our lost memories. Places and pictures filled with no sense but all meaning. Eames found himself dreaming, actually dreaming of the taste of Arthur’s lips, feeling the warmth of the bed he chose to walk away from. And as he woke up, no kick, no musical countdown, the plane ready to land, Eames took out a poker chip from his inner pocket, feeling its shape and weight, rubbing it against his knuckles, and then closing his fingers around it. Eames pressed a hand against his forehead, completely aware that he had never felt so scared before. Because it should take a lot more than an one night stand to trigger such reactions out of him. Eames knew dreams could be forged and all, but why, why would he come up with something that only could bring him trouble?
Eames knew the answer as he walked into an old five floor building in Évora, a couple of hours later. When Arthur immediately looked up from his desk at the sound of his voice. When Eames smiled at him and realized how hard Arthur was fighting to not smile back.
“Couldn’t stay away, huh?” Arthur dropped his gaze back to the open aluminum case over the table.
Eames didn’t reply. He shrugged off his jacket, placing it on the back of a chair. As he stepped closer, Eames noticed Arthur had rolled his sleeves up to his elbows, so he could more easily maneuver a tiny screwdriver through the PASIV’s delicate gears. He also noticed there were small dirty oil stains spread over both of Arthur’s hands, which probably shouldn’t have looked as good as Eames thought they did. He felt hypnotized by the little dance of Arthur’s fingers, the childish way Arthur’s forehead wrinkled every time his hair fell in front of his eyes, how only the first button of Arthur’s shirt was undone, the tie still in place, like that was the closest Arthur would come to allowing himself to relax at work.
Once Arthur was finished and he took a piece of fabric to clean his hands, Eames’ reaction was immediate. He grabbed Arthur’s wrist and watched Arthur raise a calculated eyebrow at him. Arthur didn’t try to release himself, though.
“Do you mind?” He inquired, calm and polite, like he was merely asking Eames to please hand him the hammer.
“Very much.” Eames grinned in reply.
“You don’t strike me as the type of guy who likes to get his hands dirty, Mr. Eames,” Arthur warned him, the corner of his lips twisting in a half-smile.
He tugged Arthur’s hand close. “Depends on what’s at stake, darling.” And Eames would have kissed those oil-dirtied fingers if a voice hadn’t suddenly echoed from the entrance.
“Eames!” Cobb walked into the room, and Arthur reclaimed his hand from Eames’ grip so fast he almost fell onto the chair behind the desk. “Looks like you beat me.”
“I just got lucky at the airport,” Eames declared. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Arthur rubbing his hands on the piece of fabric so forcefully he would probably end up peeling his skin off.
“Glad you could join us.” Cobb gave Eames a vigorous handshake, handing him a folder filled with data and pictures. “I think our guy here is going to need an extra distraction. Sorry I couldn’t tell you much on the phone, he’s local but has some powerful contacts.”
“I see.” Eames took his eyes off the folder to look over his shoulder at Arthur, who still didn’t dare to look up at them. Arthur’s ears were scarlet to their tips. He smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll come up with something.”
As Cobb left the building about two hours later to check on a matter Eames didn’t take the trouble to listen to or to record, Arthur gaze up at him. His eyebrows were shaped in one single, obviously pissed off line.
“What were you thinking-” he started, but Eames cut him off, placing a fingertip over Arthur’s lips.
“What I was thinking, Arthur, was that maybe we should skip lunch time and sneak ourselves into that bathroom over there. Then, I’ll suck your dick.”
And Eames thought, afterwards, how the look on Arthur’s face could ever only be trumped by the sound of his own name being moaned somewhere above his head, the pressure of Arthur’s fingers digging into his shoulders and hair, the ceaseless shaking of Arthur’s legs after he came and Eames got up, pinning him against the door, putting Arthur’s shirt back in place, buttoning his trousers and fixing his tie with a lazy, satisfied smile.
They were able to work for the rest of the day without further incidents and when they left the building, hours later, they left together. They took a cab and went directly to the hotel room Eames had booked earlier, though they didn’t decide what to do until they found themselves alone, the door shut as a question hanging behind them. So Arthur decided he was starving and Eames ordered Chinese and tried not to laugh as Arthur refused to admit he just couldn’t handle the (dammit!) chopsticks and Eames just couldn’t hold it back anymore when Arthur started to make a fuss over Eames’ (but I’m serious) offer to feed him by hand and Arthur tried not to smile as Eames went down to ask for silverware from the hotel’s kitchen and pulled a face when soy sauce spilled on his (fuck!) shirt.
“Come here.” Eames offered Arthur his hand, and Arthur stared up at him and then back to his chest, like he had expected to see Eames handing him a magic solution for ruined tailored dress shirts. Eames rolled his eyes and grasped Arthur’s wrist, hauling him all the way to the bathroom.
They had gentle, wet, slow sex in the shower. Arthur’s face pressed against his crossed arms pressed against the hideous bathroom yellow tiles. Eames’ hands gripping Arthur’s hips, his cock sliding in and out of Arthur’s body. The groans, the curses coming out of Eames’ mouth, were lost in the warm skin of Arthur’s neck. The cries, the moans Arthur’s clenched teeth tried to keep down being released at the firm touch of Eames’ hand around his cock. Eames came first, biting the back of Arthur’s neck, his come running down Arthur’s thighs, Arthur following right after, his head falling back, eyelids slipping closed, hair dripping and Eames’ hand stroking him until the end. Arthur’s mouth was only a kiss away, but Eames didn’t dare. He softly sucked the spot where his teeth had just marked Arthur’s skin and moved them both under the stream of water.
They didn’t realize how tired they really were until they faced each other over the bed. Eames smiled, wearing only a pair of boxer shorts, and tugged out the end of the sheet, sliding himself under the covers and making room for Arthur. Arthur stared at him, his eyelashes heavy, his body looking smaller than it really was inside an old The Smiths T-shirt he had borrowed from Eames’ suitcase, before his hands hesitantly gripped his edge of the sheet and allowed himself to lay down beside Eames, though he kept a safe distance between them. Arthur’s lips twisted in some kind of tired, worn out smile and he closed his eyes without further resistance. Eames sunk his head on his own pillow and fought against sleep, trying to watch Arthur’s face, Arthur’s lips, just a little while longer.
Eames only realized he had been asleep when he woke up a few hours later, the lights of the street staining the darkness of their room, glancing at Arthur’s face across the bed, a mess of dark hair over the pillow, his mouth slightly open. Arthur twitched a bit in his sleep as Eames couldn’t help touching Arthur’s face with his fingertips, pulling them immediately back as he heard a small murmur from him. Eames noticed Arthur just wrinkled his forehead and bit his lower lip.
And yes, he thought about it, but Eames knew he shouldn’t steal a first kiss like you did with a secret from a manipulated dream. That kind of meaning shouldn’t dissipate itself into fog once you woke up. Eames held his hand only a few inches above Arthur’s skin and frowned as he saw Arthur grasping a pillow, twisting his face in unmistakable pain.
But Eames only knew for sure that Arthur was having a bad dream when Arthur’s body jolted, his eyes wide open, running from nowhere to Eames’ fingers, then to his face and finally locking onto Eames’ eyes. Arthur closed and opened his mouth but not a single sound came out.
Eames thought about retrieving his hand, but when he so much as tried to move his fingers away, he felt Arthur grabbing his wrist, keeping Eames’ hand in place. He held his breath and he tried not to blink, trying to read Arthur, trying to understand and, when he felt a light, almost imperceptible pull from Arthur’s hand, Eames tried really hard not to hope. Yet, when the last thing he glimpsed, right before closing his eyes, were Arthur’s parted lips, Eames couldn’t help but wonder that maybe, maybe hoping was the okay thing to do.
Arthur tasted just like waking up in the middle of the night, dying for nothing more than a glass of water. You drank and drank of it and even though you knew it was such an ordinary taste you also knew you had never tasted anything better in your entire life. Then, you would feel warm and lazy as you closed your eyes, as you were hit by this overwhelming anxiety to just sink back into oblivion.
Eames felt Arthur let go of his wrist to grab the back of his neck, pulling him closer, opening his mouth fully beneath his. He felt Arthur tilting his head under his fingertips, he felt Arthur’s tongue against his and Eames deepened the kiss, fisting a handful of Arthur’s hair.
Eames was on top of him when they broke apart, Arthur’s body hot, hard, ready under his. Eames opened his eyes, trying not to smile as he found a breathless, panting Arthur slipping a hand down between their bodies. Eames didn’t try to stop him, choosing to lower his head again, taking Arthur’s lip between his teeth and biting it gently as Arthur held their cocks. They kissed, touched, gasped against each other’s mouths, breathing in and out, their eyes shut, each of Eames’ senses crawling out of his skin, Arthur’s hand, Arthur’s lips, Arthur’s tongue and Eames grabbed Arthur’s hair, hard, when he came, crushing their mouths and kissing Arthur sloppily, trying to touch and breathe and breathe-
Eames felt the unsteady thump of Arthur’s heartbeat and noticed he had his head on Arthur’s chest. Eames didn’t know how his head had ended up there and he didn’t care. He only cared about listening to the soft sounds coming out of Arthur’s mouth, their breathing slowing together. To the shape of Arthur’s hand still stuck between their lower bodies. Eames smiled, because of course he couldn’t help it.
“I see you do like to get your hands dirty,” Eames sighed, happily.
And breathing over his hair, Arthur replied, shortly.
“Shut up.”
Eames laughed, hard, and he pulled Arthur closer, harder, into his arms.
Yes, Eames knew Arthur was special. He had known from the very beginning. He knew when Arthur didn’t smile back just after they were introduced. He knew when Arthur criticized him, when Arthur smiled for the first time, when Arthur first had a kind word for him. When Eames decided that this wasn’t a good idea because they worked together and that would be a hell of a lot of trouble. He knew when he realized he didn’t need to know Arthur to care. When he hurt him and felt bad and sad about it and his chest ached. Eames knew Arthur was special when he dreamt about him. When he woke up, scared to death and still certain that was okay, okay.
Eames knew Arthur was special because he was worth the trouble.
And that’s why Eames was finding it so fucking hard to let it go. To walk away and leave behind him all they had built for the past few months. It wasn’t much, really. It wasn’t even what you would have called a peaceful, quiet, loving existence. But it did matter. Every kiss. Every talk. Every fuck.
Every fight.
And how they did fight.
It wasn’t that bad, right there in the beginning. Eames teased Arthur, Arthur snapped back at him and Cobb frowned, curious, looking at them like they were just children, his eyes half-annoyed, half-soft. And they worked, sometimes together, sometimes apart. Cobb didn’t need a forger on every single job and Eames spent his weeks sometimes in Kenya, sometimes in Spain, sometimes in Brazil and Arthur always knew how to find him. And so they met, sometimes to work, sometimes to talk, always to fuck and to kiss. After the first month, the fights began.
Eames didn’t mind them, much, then. They were just silly little things, a harsh word, a misplaced gesture, a sideways look. He never thought about how just like all of Arthur’s small, insignificant details, those silly little things could find the tiniest breach to drift them apart. Eames didn’t mind the fights, then, because despite all of Arthur’s half-empty smiles and frequent annoyed glares, Eames could swear Arthur, in his own way, also thought Eames was special.
It was one night, eight months and one week after Évora, following a job where the dream collapsed a second after Cobb was able to extract the mark’s secret, that Arthur pinned Eames down in another hotel bed and fucked him into the mattress. Arthur fucked Eames hard, like he had to, like he needed to work all of the universe’s anger out of his system. Arthur fucked Eames like what had happened earlier was his fault, somehow. Eames didn’t understand Arthur’s rage and he couldn’t have cared less, because when Arthur grasped Eames’ hips, pounding into him faster and deeper, it felt good, good.
Once they finished, Arthur disappeared into the bathroom and Eames automatically reached for his poker chip on the nightstand. And he didn’t even notice Arthur was back until he felt a heavy gaze over him and he glanced up, meeting a pair of unsettling brown eyes. And Eames’ heart sunk a bit as he understood Arthur looked physically hurt just to be staring at him.
“What?” Eames put his totem away, speaking just a little bit more sharply than he really meant to. Because he was the one all bruised and sore and it was Arthur’s fault, not his.
“I know something happened,” Arthur choked in a small voice. “To you.”
Eames smiled at him, weakly, all his sharp indignity gone. Though they never had talked about Eames’ totem again, sometimes he did notice Arthur watching him, like he expected Eames to start to babble nonsense at any minute. They never talked much about Arthur’s totem either, and Eames never second-guessed Arthur’s sanity over that. Of course it would be too much to ask Arthur to pay him the same courtesy. Because Arthur was right. Something had happened to Eames and in some strange way, he knew that it did matter to Arthur. And that would be the most endearing thing Arthur had ever said to him if it hadn’t been so equally condescending. Eames let out a heavy sigh and grasped Arthur’s hand, making him slide onto the bed. He felt Arthur shifting a bit, like he just couldn’t relax into Eames’ arms anymore. He stroked Arthur’s hair and held him closer, putting his chin over Arthur’s shoulder. Eames felt cared for. And judged.
“Oh, Arthur, haven’t you heard?” Eames breathed, also tired. “Something happened to all of us.”
And that one wasn’t even a real fight. They had had real fights before. But Eames felt Arthur slowly walking away from him after that night. Unconsciously, Eames did the same. He thought he was just giving Arthur some space. And when they met again, a few weeks later, Arthur was so quiet and distant that Eames teased Arthur until he snapped, starting to yell over a lot of nothing.
So, no. Eames didn’t mind the fights and he didn’t think it was that bad. Every time they fought, Eames thought that it was okay, because the bad things mattered, too. As much as all the kisses, talks and fucks. Even if, of course, Eames had kissed, talked and fucked a lot of people in his life. Even if Eames had fallen in love more times than he could possibly count. Yes, Eames had said his share of I love you’s. Sometimes, he had even meant them.
He never said that to Arthur, though. Eames did think about it, a few times. He thought about how much he loved Arthur every time Arthur tucked his chin against the curve of his neck, when Arthur gasped his name against his mouth, when Arthur saved his arse from a dozen hostile projections, a Glock in his hand, his hair perfectly slicked back and a small shake of his head, which could be translated as a my pleasure, Mr. Eames. Yes, Eames did think of saying I love you, but when the words pierced through his throat and reached his lips, finally ready to come out, Arthur chose that precise moment to turn his head up at him. Arthur stared deep into Eames’ eyes.
“Do you still dream?” was what Arthur asked him, then.
And yes, Eames had kissed, talked to and fucked a lot of people in his life. However, he had never fought someone like he fought Arthur. Or like Arthur fought him. It was not that he felt mad about Arthur’s question, not at all. It was a reasonable question. Work always was the common place for them to go. They talked about what it was like being able to build their own dreams. They sat, just the two of them, at coffee shops in Chicago, Paris and Oslo and they shared one job experience or two. They even went under together a couple of times. Arthur would always be the dreamer and Eames didn’t mind sharing his subconscious with him. They went under when Cobb didn’t need either of them and they simulated car chases and ambushes to improve their skills and practice new tricks.
They never, however, talked to each other about their real dreams. Eames never asked what Arthur was dreaming about the night they shared their first kiss and Eames never told Arthur he was the one responsible for him being able to dream again. So, yes, Eames did think about saying I love you, but he couldn’t bring himself to tell Arthur he dreamt about him.
“Of course I do,” was what Eames replied, instead.
And when they fought, because Arthur needed to learn how to deal with a little chance, because Eames didn’t warn him he was going to be late, because, well, didn’t Arthur know everything already, because Eames should at least take the trouble to shave himself, because Arthur should try to speak the hell up about what was going on inside that thick skull of his, because Eames forgot to make a stupid hotel reservation, because Arthur obviously never had been introduced to Mr. Sense of Humor, because Eames should try to mind his own damn business, because Arthur for the last time insisted he’s okay, dammit, because Eames was so good at pointing out Arthur’s condescension, because Arthur was so good at pointing out Eames’ unreliability, because Eames hung up on his face, because Arthur didn’t want Cobb to know, because Eames had no right, because wasn’t Arthur a bloody coward, because Eames walked away first, because Arthur was never wrong, because Eames was always wrong, because-
When they fought, Arthur losing every bit of his precious self-control, becoming harsh and mean, Eames never raised his voice, his tone mingled in something between amused, disappointed and conformed. When they fought until they wore off each and every last argument and there was only a shoved door and empty self-promises of never turning back left, cooling and fading between them.
When they fought, all Eames could bring himself to think about was that maybe, maybe Arthur dreamt about him, too.
So they stayed away as much as they stayed close. Like being apart hurt as much as being together. They still kissed and fucked, frenetic little touches, but they barely spoke to each other in the last months. Eames tried. Arthur avoided. It was a job which went wrong, it was the rain, the sun, the traffic, the heat, the flight, the wind, the whole bloody world. Eames tried because he loved all of Arthur’s little head shakes, the good and bad ones.
But Eames didn’t know why or what Arthur was avoiding and he was too afraid to ask. Because the truth was that you could only push so far before something was irreparably broken and Eames knew he couldn’t keep pushing forever. Even if all their last fights sounded like they couldn’t get any worse. Somehow, they always did. Eames knew he and Arthur didn’t have much. Much time, much in common, apart from someone else’s dreams to share. He knew that they weren’t even on the same page. Eames knew they both lived for reading the same information in order to achieve entirely different goals.
Yet, he tried. He hoped. Eames told himself he was ready to wait, if he had to.
He wasn’t.
Eames kept pushing. He pushed it as far as it could get. He showed up, uninvited, at Arthur’s flat in L.A., a month and three days after a fight which ended with Eames telling Arthur to fuck the hell off. He had flown over half the globe and he was drunk and he bought Arthur a bouquet of red roses on his way from the airport. He didn’t know Arthur hated roses and he did ask if Arthur had missed him. Arthur shook his head and asked Eames to leave, please. Eames refused and they fought, again.
It was a clean, fresh night in Los Angeles and Eames forgot how much he loved Arthur. Because there they were. Thirteen and a half months after their first kiss, nine days before their last, right after another talk, another fight, a desperate fuck without one single kiss, and Arthur finally spoke out what Eames knew he’d been avoiding for so long, Arthur’s voice hollow and steady.
“It’s just... I can’t imagine a future for us.”
And Eames observed him for a few seconds, then Eames laughed. He laughed because suddenly he knew he just couldn’t take it anymore. Eames laughed because that was the only thing he could possibly do. He laughed like he was crying, all those small unselfconscious sounds, and he laid there with his back against the bedpost until soft little noises told him Arthur had finally fallen asleep. Just then Eames dared to look at him. He held back the desire to stroke Arthur’s dark hair off his face. Because even though Eames forgot he loved Arthur, Arthur still would be everything Eames thought of him. Smart, hard, impossible to read. Arthur still would be the most insecure person Eames had ever known. Eames closed his eyes and thought about how sad that all was. He snorted, bitterly, for himself.
“It’s only because you have no imagination, darling.”
Painful as it all was, Eames supposed their fistfight had been a pretty obvious, not to mention suitable last straw. And he did think about leaving the city that exact same night, leaving his jacket and all of his things behind. Eames didn’t want to face Arthur. Not after he had punched the mouth he dreamt about kissing. After Arthur had hit him back, hard and with no regret. Eames knew Arthur didn’t regret what he had said in L.A., only a few days back. Eames knew Arthur meant every word. Even after they had crossed half the world so they could meet Cobb for a new job, Eames still couldn’t shake off the tone of Arthur’s voice telling him they didn’t have a future. And when Eames grabbed him by his collar for a quick kiss as Arthur sat at his side in the cab, he didn’t know that that would be their last one for a long time.
He hadn’t imagined that Arthur would be hitting him with all the strength he had in only a matter of days. And he could never have imagined that Arthur thought Eames obviously should feel the same way about them, too. But that was what Arthur yelled at him. That was what hit Eames, hard, and that was what had driven him to hit back. Eames didn’t have the words to hurt Arthur, though, so he used his fist instead. Because Arthur had every right to choose how he felt, even if he chose to feel nothing. He had every bloody right. As Eames had a choice when he chose to walk away after their first night and he had chosen to hold Arthur closer, holding him in his arms, following their second. They both had every right to be stupid and selfish in their own, but Arthur had no fucking right to tell Eames how Eames should feel. No right to yell that Eames shouldn’t even have had hoped for them.
Eames knew Arthur was special, he knew he loved him, even if he tried to forget those things, every now and then. Eames also knew he wouldn’t betray the only thing they still had, the common place for them to go.
So Eames showed up in the rented apartment, ready for work, the next day. He faced Arthur, his bruised lower lip, his black eye hidden behind sunglasses, his hair slicked back, his clothes obliviously impeccable. Cobb didn’t say a thing, he didn’t seem relieved or worried. They finished the job as they had trained to do, Cobb gave him his share and Eames walked away, first.
He couldn’t sleep on the plane, after. Eames kept thinking about the day he found out, half-surprised and a bit amused, that Arthur’s favorite color was red. When Eames didn’t believe him as Arthur confessed that he hadn’t had a high school sweetheart.
Back to part I | Part III