FIC: High Hopes 6/7 || Arthur/Eames || NC-17
See PART ONE or MASTER POST for warnings etc.
Word Count for this part: ~5,700
*
VI: Secrets
Arthur stayed in Los Angeles for longer than was strictly necessary, but when everything continued to go according to plan, he booked a flight to New York.
He did his best not to think about Eames, but it was a struggle, and it bled through into his relationship with Hale; being with him didn't feel quite right anymore. Arthur would have resented Eames' ability to screw with him and his life without trying, except he really only had himself to blame. He'd learned early on in his life not to expect too much from people, and it frustrated and even scared him a little that despite knowing better, he kept expecting too much from Eames, as if he were a blind spot Arthur kept stumbling over, a scab he kept picking on despite knowing it would only make him bleed again.
He'd gotten over Eames once, or close enough; he could do it again. He had to face the facts. He had a life, and Eames wasn't a part of it -- had chosen not to be a part of it.
Eames could keep his distance; Arthur didn't care either way.
He was still trying to make himself actually believe that when, a couple of weeks after he'd left Dom in the sweet mercies of Phillipa and James, he received a text message from a number he didn't recognize.
darling, it said, the weather in naples is dreadful cheer me up. ps do u own a sword?
Arthur spent a couple of minutes staring at the message with some disbelieve before replying with,
How did you get this number?
Eames (because there wasn't anyone else it realistically could have been) quickly texted back with,
shouldnt insult ur intelligene luv. no sword?
Arthur refrained from making a snide comment about intelligence, because that would be petty and also? Inaccurate.
No sword.
:(
Arthur frowned a little as he emptied the message folders on his phone, unable to come up with a good reason for why Eames would a) need a sword, and b) ask Arthur about it, especially if he was in Naples like he'd said, while Arthur was across the Atlantic, something Eames had to be aware of.
He called Dom, just to be safe.
-
"He did ask about you," Dom said.
"You have been in touch with him, then." Arthur said, confirming his suspicions. He frowned, playing with the edges of the newspaper he'd been reading before making the call. A black and white picture of Robert Fischer stared up at him -- the business world was still in an uproar over the news concerning Fischer-Morrow. "He asked about me?"
"I gave him your contact information," Dom said, sounding distracted. Judging by the sounds coming through the line, he was trying to make dinner. "Phil, honey, give Miss Mickey back to your brother."
Arthur couldn't make out what Phillipa said, just the upset tone of her voice. In the background, James' wailing was starting to gain strength.
"Miss Mickey is James' friend," Dom was saying to her. "I'm sure she'll tell him herself if it bothers her that he keeps chewing on -- no, Phil, it's -- oh, fudge, the soup --"
Arthur bit his lip, torn between frustration and amusement.
"I'll... call you back, alright?" He suggested, because he was a good friend and could absolutely put his own, shallow needs aside in favor of Dom's sanity.
"Yes, yes, I think that would be --" Dom said, and, "James, no, hitting your sister will not solve --"
The line went dead, and Arthur half-wondered if Dom had accidentally dropped his phone in the aforementioned soup. He set his cell on the table, shaking his head.
"Bad news?"
Arthur looked over his shoulder at Hale, who'd come to stand in the kitchen doorway behind him.
"No," he said, hesitating for a moment. "Just the normal chaos in the Cobb household during dinner time."
It wasn't quite that simple, of course, something Arthur could give testimony to; his post-inception visits had given him first hand knowledge of how every situation and problem that came along was magnified by the fact that Dom had been gone for over two years. Building up routines and getting back to some semblance of normalcy would take time, but Arthur didn't feel the need to tell Hale about that.
Hale had met Dom exactly once, when Dom had taken a business trip to New York a few months before Mal's death. Hale knew that part of the reason Arthur had been away so often during the past couple of years had to do with Dom being unable to deal with his wife's death, but that was all. Arthur hadn't felt like sharing, and as far as he could tell, Hale hadn't gone digging for more information on his own, which Arthur appreciated.
"Mm," Hale said, and Arthur could tell he'd already lost interest in the phone call. He came to stand at Arthur's shoulder and scanned the newspaper where it was open on the table. "Such a shame, that whole spectacle with Fischer-Morrow," he mused.
"You wanted Fischer to take over instead of dissolving the company?" Arthur said, raising an eyebrow. "I though you were against corporate monopoly."
"Oh, yes," Hale said, moving to the deluxe coffee making monster that hated Arthur -- which was just insulting, considering his technical expertise -- but produced heavenly coffee for Hale. "I'm all for healthy competition. I only meant it's a shame I didn't see it coming. I'd have made a fortune. Coffee?"
"Yeah, thanks," Arthur said, turning the page so he didn't have to look at Fischer anymore. "And you already have a fortune."
Hale waved his hand at Arthur, dismissive. Then he glanced over his shoulder with a speculative look.
"Speaking of people who don't believe in ever having too much wealth," he said, "care to join me at a charity gala this weekend?"
Arthur raised an eyebrow, skeptical.
"You want me," he said, leaning back in his chair, "to be your plus one at an event you're probably just going to use as a cover for wheedling money out of people?"
"Don't sell yourself short, Arthur." Hale leaned against the counter and crossed his arms while he waited for the coffee machine to do his bidding, giving Arthur an appreciative look. "You'll make for an excellent arm candy. Besides, the upper echelon thrives on scandal. Not that showing up with a man will be much of a scandal, but it's just titillating enough in certain circles to get them talking."
"And somehow, convolutedly, me being distracting and fending off veiled questions about our sex life gives you the opportunity to talk to the right people," Arthur said with a wry smile.
"You know me so well," Hale said. Crooned, really, the jerk, like Arthur was a beloved pet who'd done a clever trick.
"With 'plans' like this, I wonder how you ever succeeded in gaining yourself a fortune in the first place," Arthur said, going back to reading his newspaper. "And you're talking like I've already said yes, which I haven't."
"Ah, but Arthur; would you really give up such a perfect opportunity to show off the new suit I paid for as a welcome back -- again -- present?" Hale said, and Arthur rolled his eyes, not looking up from the paper.
Hale pursed his lips disapprovingly. "Do I need to remind you that being on my bad side means getting good coffee around here is going to become a struggle for you?"
Well, Arthur thought, admitting defeat, it wasn't like he'd really expected Hale to play fair.
-
He didn't hear from Eames again until the night before the charity event, and then it was just another text with little to no meaning.
not in naples anymore if thats where youve sent ur assassins ;)
Arthur touched the screen with his thumb, and thought of not replying. Eventually he did, sending back,
Good to know.
There were no further messages from Eames.
Arthur hadn't expected any.
-
The new suit was nice, Arthur would give Hale that much. Other than that, he didn't expect much from the night out. He didn't hate such social gatherings, but they always reminded him of work more than anything else; before meeting Hale, Arthur had only ever attended rich people parties in dreams. He wasn't much of a people person, which might have explained why, awake or dreaming, he found such gatherings rather more boring than not.
It wasn't that he didn't like people -- he liked some of them just fine, however questionable his taste in friends and lovers might be -- but for a dreamer, getting lost in a crowd wasn't always a good thing, and Arthur had gotten torn apart by projections one too many times to ever be entirely comfortable in the midst of a large group of people. It wasn't a problem; he had no trouble telling reality from a dream. It was just an itch in the back of his mind, keeping him on his toes. The real problem was that no matter how much money he might have on his various bank accounts, these people -- these rich, upper class citizens -- they weren't his people. He could pretend with the best of them, but he didn't enjoy it.
Eames would probably have felt differently. The thought crossing his mind made him look at the people around him with more interest. He didn't think these were Eames' people either, but Eames was a people watcher, would never be bored just because he had little in common with those surrounding him.
It was because he was thinking of Eames that he at first thought his mind was playing tricks on him. It took a second, then a third look before he believed what he was seeing. He touched Hale's sleeve to get his attention and excused himself; Hale gave him an inquiring look but let him go, not willing to interrupt the conversation he was having with a couple of older gentlemen and their check books.
Arthur took care not to be obvious about it, circling around and stopping to exchange a word here and there with people Hale had pointed out to him beforehand. By the time he got to Eames, he was practically churning inside. This, here, was the last place he'd expected Eames to be. Arthur wanted to drag him off and demand to know what the hell he was doing there, maybe throttle him a little, but regrettably had more self-control than that.
"Fancy meeting you here," Arthur said when he finally paused next to Eames at one of the refreshment tables, keeping his voice low. "Mr...?"
"Whitley," Eames said, quirking an eyebrow. "Charles Whitley, at your service."
"Charmed," Arthur said through gritted teeth and replaced his flute of champagne for appearance's sake, looking at Eames from the corner of his eye while doing so. Eames fit in with the people around him in a way someone who didn't know him and had seen him fresh out of Mombasa would never have expected him to. It wasn't just that he was clean-shaven and was wearing an exquisite suit -- it was in the way he held himself, the haughty set of his eyebrows, the hint of arrogance in his upper lip.
"What are you doing here?" Arthur asked, making sure his voice didn't carry.
"So we're done with the pleasantries already?" Eames mused in a similar tone, his eyes sweeping over the people around them. "I came to see you, obviously."
Arthur didn't bother wondering how Eames had known he'd be here, or insulting them both by asking how he'd gotten an invite.
"You could've let me know in advance," Arthur said. "You have my number. And what's so important it couldn't wait until later?" He glanced back the way he'd come. He could just catch a glimpse of Hale, deep in discussion with the people Arthur had left him with. He turned back to Eames with an expression that demanded an answer; he didn't appreciate whatever game Eames was playing.
"Oh, it's not an emergency, you needn't worry," Eames said, moving the flute he was holding in his hand in tiny circles, making the champagne swirl within. "And I did let you know, did I not?"
Arthur scoffed.
"The text message? Hardly informative. Doesn't count. Even if you really were in Naples, knowing that wouldn't have done me any good."
Not unless Eames had used an alias Arthur was familiar with on his way from Naples to New York, anyway, but in an attempt to keep his emotional distance, Arthur hadn't been tracking him.
"Arthur, you wound me," Eames said. "Would I lie to you?"
"In a heartbeat," Arthur said. "Now, why are you really here, and why didn't you tell me you were coming?"
"You might've told me not to come," Eames said after a beat of silence, like he'd been contemplating on whether to tell the truth. "As it is, I wasn't counting on you acknowledging my presence here tonight."
Arthur pursed his lips. As if he could have gone on about his evening, pretending he hadn't noticed Eames skulking at the periphery of his vision. Eames was right about one thing, though -- he would have told Eames not to come. (He wouldn't have expected Eames to actually listen.)
"And now that I have?" He asked. Eames gave him a lingering look.
"I recon this would be an opportunity for us to have the conversation I came here for," he said, glancing over Arthur's shoulder. "Assuming you're not in a hurry to get back to your boyfriend?"
"He's --" Arthur cut himself off with a sigh. "Fine. Talk."
"No need to get snappy, darling," Eames murmured, sipping his champagne.
"Mr. Whitley," Arthur said.
"Fine, fine, have it your way," Eames said. He cleared his throat. "I've been thinking --"
"Lord have mercy," Arthur said, unable to help himself.
"Ye of little faith," Eames said, the corner of his mouth curling up. "While talking to Cobb," he continued, "It occurred to me that you might be in need of a partner. He's out of the business, or so he told me -- who knows how long that will last, but in the mean time, at the very least --"
Arthur blinked.
"You're here," he said, "To ask me to be your point man?"
"I'm not a half-bad extractor, as I'm sure you know," Eames said with a shrug. "I've been thinking about setting up a more permanent team for a while now, see how it turns out. Interested?"
It was such a bad idea, Arthur thought.
"This is such a bad idea," Arthur said.
"On the contrary, it's a brilliant idea," Eames argued. "It makes sense. Cobb might be retiring, but I know you won't. Are you really looking forward to being on point for different extractors from one job to the next?"
Such a bad idea, Arthur told himself again. Before he could reply, Eames caught sight of something over Arthur's shoulder and straightened almost unnoticeably. Arthur looked over and greeted Hale with a strained smile.
"Did you hook them?" Arthur asked when Hale came to a stop beside him, wondering about the discussion he'd ditched in order to talk to Eames.
"We'll see," Hale said, noncommittal. "Would've gone better if you'd been there to distract Mrs. Madelyn Goldstein when she came around to reclaim her husband."
"Sorry," Arthur said, even though he wasn't feeling particularly sorry. "I got caught up. This is Charles Whitley, we've met before. Mr. Whitley, meet Richard Hale."
"A pleasure," Eames said with a tight smile, offering his hand.
"Likewise, I'm sure," Hale said, shaking hands with him. He looked Eames over and raised his eyebrows ever so slightly, saying, "What is your business here, Mr. Whitley, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Oh, I don't mind at all," Eames said, his smile now showing teeth. "I'm afraid I've come to steal Arthur away from you."
Arthur's traitorous heart gave a little jump at that, but he ignored it, rolling his eyes instead.
"It's just work," he explained to Hale, who was looking between them with faint amusement and -- something else Arthur couldn't quite pinpoint.
"Is it?" Hale said, but it didn't sound much like a question. "Well, when you say steal him away, I do hope you don't mean right now. I have plans for him tonight."
"Do you now," Eames said, staring Hale down in a manner that bordered on hostile, and Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, wondering how this could be his life.
"It's not --" He started to say, and then didn't, because what was he thinking. He didn't owe Eames any explanations, and the compulsion to tell him, in front of Hale no less, that it's not like that; it's not what you think, was embarrassing to say the least. "I'll talk to you later, okay? And the proposition -- I'm not saying no, but I need to think about it."
"Yes, alright," Eames said after a pause that lasted a moment too long. He was slow to drag his less-than-friendly gaze away from Hale, and the smile he gave Arthur was wane. "Later."
"It was wonderful meeting you, Mr. Whitley," Hale said with studied politeness, nodding at Eames. "If you'll excuse us."
Arthur allowed himself to be drawn away by Hale's hand at the small of his back, but couldn't help looking over his shoulder at Eames one more time. Eames was staring after them, a still, solid figure among the milling people. He raised his glass fractionally when he saw Arthur looking, his eyes hooded. Arthur turned away, biting the inside of his lip.
"Charles Whitley, was it?" Hale said, like he knew the name was an alias.
"Yes," Arthur said. "Sorry about him."
"Haven't heard you apologizing on anyone's behalf, before," Hale said. "Is he an ex of yours?"
Arthur felt himself stiffen, unable to catch the reaction in time to do anything about it. Hale noticed, of course, glancing at him with a look that was almost apologetic.
"I don't mean to pry," he said, "but for future reference, the two of you are pretty obvious about it."
"It's nothing," Arthur said. "It's all in the past."
Hale shook his head but didn't say anything for a moment. He snagged a champagne flute from a passing waiter's tray while Arthur waited, wary; he knew these silences -- they never lasted.
"Did you know, Arthur," Hale said, looking at the pale liquid in his flute, "I rarely sustain interest in people over long periods of time. You've been something of an exception for me, and I think that's in part because you've never expressed any interest in staying."
"Hale --"
"I came to think you'd always come back to me -- but there was always the possibility that you wouldn't. And now --"
"Whatever it is you're trying to say, just say it," Arthur said, the taste of champagne souring the words on his tongue.
"His proposition, whatever it is -- you're going to say yes," Hale said, and Arthur looked at him sharply. "Oh, don't look at me like that. We haven't always been honest with each other, but I believe we know each other well enough to be honest about this. You're going to say yes. To him. And I don't think you'll be coming back to me anymore."
Arthur shook his head, looking away.
"You don't have to say anything," Hale told him, pensive. "It's enough that we both know the truth."
"It's more complicated than you make it out to be," Arthur said. "And if it's not..."
He trailed off, closing his eyes for a fleeting moment. If it was not...
"Let's talk about something else," he said, and drowned the rest of his champagne so he couldn't ask Hale what he was supposed to do, here. So he couldn't say: If I give him half-a-chance, he's going to break my heart again.
He wasn't ready for that conversation. Not with Hale -- not with anyone.
Mercifully, Hale complied, and for the span of the night, Arthur was able to pretend nothing had changed.
-
"If we do this," Arthur said three days later, his hands curled around a sub-par cup of Starbucks coffee, "It will be on a trial basis."
"Of course," Eames said, his own coffee sitting on the table between them, untouched.
And for better or for worse, that was that; they were a team.
-
Privately, Arthur called himself all kinds of fool for saying yes to Eames' proposition. The problem was that Hale had been right -- about some things, at least. It was stupid, but Arthur had never been very good at saying no to Eames. As it was, he knew, deep down, that when this partnership fell apart -- as it inevitably would -- it was going to be Eames who walked away; it was always Eames who left.
Going in, Arthur didn't have high expectations. Not only was he setting himself up for a fall, but from a purely professional point of view, the two of them were never going to work out in long term. Arthur was good at his job because he'd made a point of carving a place for himself and being on top of the food chain, and Eames was... Eames. They were both excellent at what they did, but when put together, they too often brought out the worst in each other. They weren't going to last six months, and Arthur wasn't sure why he was giving it a shot in the first place, except to maybe prove something to himself, once and for all.
Their first job, two months after incepting Fischer, was an easy one and went off without a hitch. It was almost insulting how smoothly they pulled off the extraction, just the two of them, except that was the point -- to test their new partnership with something simple before moving on to more challenging jobs.
The second one had more of an edge, but not by much. By the third, they were getting the hang of it, navigating each other with more ease. They counted the job as a success even though they'd ended up running through a maze of narrow streets and back alleys in Cairo due to an unfortunate case of miscommunication -- Eames' words, not his -- with the architect they'd hired for the job.
It was the planning stages that kept tripping them up; they had a different approach to most things and got annoyed with each other regularly. They fought, occasionally sending whatever extra team members the job needed scurrying out of the room, but when it came down to it, none of that mattered. In a dream, in executing a job, they were seamless, complimenting each other. Even when they fought while planning, there was something thrilling about it. Arthur didn't think it was just him; the way Eames' eyes flashed sometimes when they argued, Arthur could swear he was enjoying himself.
A small voice at the back of his head kept trying to tell him that, just maybe, he'd been wrong about their ability to work with each other long term. They fit together in ways he hadn't expected them to, and as time passed, he began to think their partnership was worth ignoring the way his heart ached and his skin flushed with want sometimes when Eames smiled at him or stood too close. They weren't lovers; they weren't friends; they were partners, and Arthur was slowly beginning to think that maybe he could trust Eames in this, if nothing else, and maybe it would be enough.
Then, as they were getting ready for their sixth job, he came back one evening to the little apartment in Lisbon one of his contacts had arranged for them, and found Eames alone and asleep, wires sneaking out from under his sleeve, the PASIV open and active on the floor next to him. Arthur felt his stomach lurch even as he reminded himself that it wasn't unusual for people to go under on their own, and that whatever reasons Eames had for doing so -- whether it was for work or for pleasure -- it was none of Arthur's business right now. He told himself to walk away. Talking with Eames could wait.
He stood there for a minute, trying to convince himself to leave. It wasn't working.
"Fuck it," Arthur muttered. He sat down on the ground next to Eames' chair and reached for the PASIV. He checked the settings and the somnacin levels, wiped his wrist with a disinfectant, and hooked himself up. He was being paranoid, but he'd already done this dance once with Dom -- he wasn't going to repeat his mistakes with Eames. He didn't care that it was a breach of privacy, or that his worry was irrational, given that Eames had showed no signs of having any of Dom's issues; seeing Eames like this reminded Arthur so much of the times he had seen Dom go under alone and had done nothing about it, that it made him feel sick. It made him want to be sure. If Eames wanted to continue their partnership, he'd better be willing to prove to Arthur that he wasn't keeping secrets.
Arthur lay down, blinking slowly at the ceiling as he was dragged under.
-
The first thing he saw was a hallway, stretching out in front of him. It looked like it belonged to a hotel, numbered doors on either side. Except when he took a closer look, the numbers didn't make any sense. Some looked like dates, others were upside down, and a few had letters mixed in. At the end of the hallway, double doors stood open, leading into a suite with wall-to-wall windows, sunlight streaming in unhindered.
As he moved closer, Arthur saw that the sitting room was empty. He could hear a murmur of voices coming from further in. Eames' he recognized. The other -- it sounded familiar, but it wasn't until he was standing in the doorway leading to the bedroom that he understood why.
It was his own.
He wasn't sure what he was seeing, didn't understand it; there was Eames, wearing the same clothes he did in reality, sitting on the bed, angled away from the doorway. He was saying something, but Arthur felt like his head was filled with white noise, could only make out the warm, fond tone of his voice. Kneeling on the bed next to him, facing the doorway and yet not appearing to notice Arthur, was a projection.
Arthur stared at it, him, this strange, adolescent version of himself. He looked painfully young, but more painful than that was the open expression on his face as he looked at Eames -- the want there, the adoration. Arthur rested a hand on the door frame and curled his fingers against it, his nails digging in.
Eames fell silent and twisted around like he'd sensed he was being watched. Their eyes met, and Arthur could see the moment Eames realized that Arthur wasn't a projection. Eames shot up from the bed like he'd been burned.
"Arthur," he barked. "What the hell?"
"What the --" Arthur cut himself off with a sharp inhale. "You're seriously asking me that?"
Eames ran a hand through his hair, agitated. The projection slid off the bed and went to him, reaching out to touch his hand.
"Mr. Eames?" The projection said, looking up at Eames with a tentative expression. Eames closed his eyes briefly and shook his head.
"Everything's fine, pet," he said, a rough quality to his voice.
Arthur was beginning to feel faint.
"I-- Have you been fucking him?" He blurted out.
"No!" Eames exclaimed, looking at Arthur with something akin to alarm. "Good Lord, no."
"Have you wanted to?" Arthur asked, forcing himself to let go of the door frame, uncurling his fingers with some difficulty.
"He's just a kid," Eames said.
"I used to be him," Arthur said. "You had sex with me."
"Point," Eames said, running the back of his hand over his mouth. "But I was not in my thirties at the time, and I was -- I wasn't who I am now."
The projection made an inquiring noise, frowning up at Eames.
"Right, let's --" Eames said, "Let's not do this here." He picked up the projection of Arthur's teenage self like it was nothing and deposited him on the bed. He cupped the projection's face in his hands, and the look in his eyes was -- tender. Arthur absolutely did not feel a spike of jealousy, because feeling jealous of an imagined version of himself would have been ridiculous.
"You," Eames told the projection. "Stay here."
The projection blinked, and then a slow smile blossoming on his face, wicked and sweet in equal measures.
"I will -- if you promise you'll come back soon," he said, nuzzling Eames' hand, not breaking eye contact. Arthur looked away, uncomfortable with the display. He couldn't have been that unselfconscious and forward at that age. Could he?
"And none of that, alright?" Eames said, stern. "Stay."
The projection pouted but stayed put when Eames stepped away and turned to Arthur. He scratched the back of his head, looking embarrassed.
"I'd, uh, appreciate it if we could talk in the sitting room. Or the hallway, if you'd prefer."
Arthur stepped away from the doorway with one last look at the boy who was sitting on the bed, leaning back on his hands and looking at Eames with singular focus. He cursed silently and turned away, walking across the sitting room and into the hallway. They could've just left the dream completely, but Arthur didn't feel like dealing with this particular mess in the waking world, as if it might make it -- real.
"He's being pretty provocative," he said, not turning to look at Eames.
"He's --" Eames said. "You. You've always been persistent."
"Is this about, you know, our first time being my first time," Arthur said, feeling inexplicably discomfited talking about it. "I mean, if it's not about sex, then what? Guilt?"
Eames didn't say anything, and Arthur spun around to face him.
"It is, isn't it?" Arthur demanded starting to get angry again. "You feel guilty about something that happened a decade ago, and -- and you come here to, what, not have sex with him -- me -- like it'll change history?"
"I don't expect it to change anything," Eames said. He stood there, his stance relaxed, his expression open and somehow sad, like he didn't expect Arthur to give him the benefit of the doubt but was willing to accept his judgement anyway. It made Arthur's chest ache. He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose.
"Goddamnit, Eames," he finally said without any heat, letting his arm fall back to his side. "I'm not looking for another Cobb. Whatever your issue is with what happened between us --"
"It isn't an issue," Eames interrupted him, snapping out of whatever gloom had held him still, and took a step forward. "He isn't going to start showing up during the jobs, Arthur, I swear."
"I don't know how comfortable I am, knowing he's in your head," Arthur admitted.
"You weren't supposed to know," Eames said, wincing when Arthur shot him a look. "That did nothing to help my case, huh?"
"Not really, no," Arthur said with reluctant amusement. The silence that fell between them then was just shy of awkward, and Arthur looked down at his shoes, putting his hands into his pockets. He startled at a fleeting touch against his cheek and his eyes flew up to meet Eames'. Eames snatched his hand back and clenched it into a fist. He cleared his throat.
"You said --" He looked away. "You weren't supposed to be back yet. Was there something you needed to talk about?"
He was changing the subject, but Arthur didn't blame him for it. Feeling almost relieved to go along with it for now himself, he said,
"I wanted to talk about the timeline for this job. The mark made a doctor's appointment we could use, but the timing doesn't work for me. It would be stupid to rush it and risk everything for a routine job like this, so we'll have to either be patient and wait for another chance, or give this one a pass. It's still early enough that we can back out without too much trouble, if it comes to that."
Eames didn't say anything for a moment.
"Time to go see the boyfriend?"
"Hale?" Arthur looked at Eames with a frown. "I wouldn't skip out on a job for something like that, and he's not my boyfriend."
"You broke up?" Eames said, his expression shifting into something Arthur couldn't decipher, but which nonetheless made his mouth dry.
"In a manner of speaking," he said, because considering how easy being with Hale had been, thinking about their relationship in conventional terms made it seem complicated.
"So," Eames said, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops. "What would this prior engagement of yours be, then?"
"James' birthday is on the twenty-third," Arthur said, shrugging. "I'm always there for their birthdays."
At least he tried to be, though work had prevented it a couple of times in the past. He'd always made up for it.
Eames looked down and ran his tongue over his bottom teeth, nodding.
"Alright," he said. "Not a big deal. We'll finish the job later."
"Okay," Arthur said, relieved -- not that he'd expected Eames to be difficult about it, but still. "Yeah. Thanks."
It wasn't until later that he realized that agreeing to doing the job later relied largely on the assumption that whatever was going on between them wouldn't end up with them going their separate ways. It was stupid and optimistic, and Arthur didn't like that his mind had gone there so easily. But he didn't voice his concerns, and he didn't say anything when Eames decided to tag along with him for James' birthday.
They'd have to talk at some point. They might as well do it with Dom and the kids around, acting as a buffer if it turned out they needed one.
And maybe they wouldn't. Maybe it'd turn out alright -- better than alright, if Eames --
Arthur cut himself off there with the ferocity of someone who'd been burned one too many times. Yet, in the back of his mind, and despite himself, he began to hope.
***
VII: The Forger's Heart
Word Count for this part: ~5,700
*
VI: Secrets
Arthur stayed in Los Angeles for longer than was strictly necessary, but when everything continued to go according to plan, he booked a flight to New York.
He did his best not to think about Eames, but it was a struggle, and it bled through into his relationship with Hale; being with him didn't feel quite right anymore. Arthur would have resented Eames' ability to screw with him and his life without trying, except he really only had himself to blame. He'd learned early on in his life not to expect too much from people, and it frustrated and even scared him a little that despite knowing better, he kept expecting too much from Eames, as if he were a blind spot Arthur kept stumbling over, a scab he kept picking on despite knowing it would only make him bleed again.
He'd gotten over Eames once, or close enough; he could do it again. He had to face the facts. He had a life, and Eames wasn't a part of it -- had chosen not to be a part of it.
Eames could keep his distance; Arthur didn't care either way.
He was still trying to make himself actually believe that when, a couple of weeks after he'd left Dom in the sweet mercies of Phillipa and James, he received a text message from a number he didn't recognize.
darling, it said, the weather in naples is dreadful cheer me up. ps do u own a sword?
Arthur spent a couple of minutes staring at the message with some disbelieve before replying with,
How did you get this number?
Eames (because there wasn't anyone else it realistically could have been) quickly texted back with,
shouldnt insult ur intelligene luv. no sword?
Arthur refrained from making a snide comment about intelligence, because that would be petty and also? Inaccurate.
No sword.
:(
Arthur frowned a little as he emptied the message folders on his phone, unable to come up with a good reason for why Eames would a) need a sword, and b) ask Arthur about it, especially if he was in Naples like he'd said, while Arthur was across the Atlantic, something Eames had to be aware of.
He called Dom, just to be safe.
-
"He did ask about you," Dom said.
"You have been in touch with him, then." Arthur said, confirming his suspicions. He frowned, playing with the edges of the newspaper he'd been reading before making the call. A black and white picture of Robert Fischer stared up at him -- the business world was still in an uproar over the news concerning Fischer-Morrow. "He asked about me?"
"I gave him your contact information," Dom said, sounding distracted. Judging by the sounds coming through the line, he was trying to make dinner. "Phil, honey, give Miss Mickey back to your brother."
Arthur couldn't make out what Phillipa said, just the upset tone of her voice. In the background, James' wailing was starting to gain strength.
"Miss Mickey is James' friend," Dom was saying to her. "I'm sure she'll tell him herself if it bothers her that he keeps chewing on -- no, Phil, it's -- oh, fudge, the soup --"
Arthur bit his lip, torn between frustration and amusement.
"I'll... call you back, alright?" He suggested, because he was a good friend and could absolutely put his own, shallow needs aside in favor of Dom's sanity.
"Yes, yes, I think that would be --" Dom said, and, "James, no, hitting your sister will not solve --"
The line went dead, and Arthur half-wondered if Dom had accidentally dropped his phone in the aforementioned soup. He set his cell on the table, shaking his head.
"Bad news?"
Arthur looked over his shoulder at Hale, who'd come to stand in the kitchen doorway behind him.
"No," he said, hesitating for a moment. "Just the normal chaos in the Cobb household during dinner time."
It wasn't quite that simple, of course, something Arthur could give testimony to; his post-inception visits had given him first hand knowledge of how every situation and problem that came along was magnified by the fact that Dom had been gone for over two years. Building up routines and getting back to some semblance of normalcy would take time, but Arthur didn't feel the need to tell Hale about that.
Hale had met Dom exactly once, when Dom had taken a business trip to New York a few months before Mal's death. Hale knew that part of the reason Arthur had been away so often during the past couple of years had to do with Dom being unable to deal with his wife's death, but that was all. Arthur hadn't felt like sharing, and as far as he could tell, Hale hadn't gone digging for more information on his own, which Arthur appreciated.
"Mm," Hale said, and Arthur could tell he'd already lost interest in the phone call. He came to stand at Arthur's shoulder and scanned the newspaper where it was open on the table. "Such a shame, that whole spectacle with Fischer-Morrow," he mused.
"You wanted Fischer to take over instead of dissolving the company?" Arthur said, raising an eyebrow. "I though you were against corporate monopoly."
"Oh, yes," Hale said, moving to the deluxe coffee making monster that hated Arthur -- which was just insulting, considering his technical expertise -- but produced heavenly coffee for Hale. "I'm all for healthy competition. I only meant it's a shame I didn't see it coming. I'd have made a fortune. Coffee?"
"Yeah, thanks," Arthur said, turning the page so he didn't have to look at Fischer anymore. "And you already have a fortune."
Hale waved his hand at Arthur, dismissive. Then he glanced over his shoulder with a speculative look.
"Speaking of people who don't believe in ever having too much wealth," he said, "care to join me at a charity gala this weekend?"
Arthur raised an eyebrow, skeptical.
"You want me," he said, leaning back in his chair, "to be your plus one at an event you're probably just going to use as a cover for wheedling money out of people?"
"Don't sell yourself short, Arthur." Hale leaned against the counter and crossed his arms while he waited for the coffee machine to do his bidding, giving Arthur an appreciative look. "You'll make for an excellent arm candy. Besides, the upper echelon thrives on scandal. Not that showing up with a man will be much of a scandal, but it's just titillating enough in certain circles to get them talking."
"And somehow, convolutedly, me being distracting and fending off veiled questions about our sex life gives you the opportunity to talk to the right people," Arthur said with a wry smile.
"You know me so well," Hale said. Crooned, really, the jerk, like Arthur was a beloved pet who'd done a clever trick.
"With 'plans' like this, I wonder how you ever succeeded in gaining yourself a fortune in the first place," Arthur said, going back to reading his newspaper. "And you're talking like I've already said yes, which I haven't."
"Ah, but Arthur; would you really give up such a perfect opportunity to show off the new suit I paid for as a welcome back -- again -- present?" Hale said, and Arthur rolled his eyes, not looking up from the paper.
Hale pursed his lips disapprovingly. "Do I need to remind you that being on my bad side means getting good coffee around here is going to become a struggle for you?"
Well, Arthur thought, admitting defeat, it wasn't like he'd really expected Hale to play fair.
-
He didn't hear from Eames again until the night before the charity event, and then it was just another text with little to no meaning.
not in naples anymore if thats where youve sent ur assassins ;)
Arthur touched the screen with his thumb, and thought of not replying. Eventually he did, sending back,
Good to know.
There were no further messages from Eames.
Arthur hadn't expected any.
-
The new suit was nice, Arthur would give Hale that much. Other than that, he didn't expect much from the night out. He didn't hate such social gatherings, but they always reminded him of work more than anything else; before meeting Hale, Arthur had only ever attended rich people parties in dreams. He wasn't much of a people person, which might have explained why, awake or dreaming, he found such gatherings rather more boring than not.
It wasn't that he didn't like people -- he liked some of them just fine, however questionable his taste in friends and lovers might be -- but for a dreamer, getting lost in a crowd wasn't always a good thing, and Arthur had gotten torn apart by projections one too many times to ever be entirely comfortable in the midst of a large group of people. It wasn't a problem; he had no trouble telling reality from a dream. It was just an itch in the back of his mind, keeping him on his toes. The real problem was that no matter how much money he might have on his various bank accounts, these people -- these rich, upper class citizens -- they weren't his people. He could pretend with the best of them, but he didn't enjoy it.
Eames would probably have felt differently. The thought crossing his mind made him look at the people around him with more interest. He didn't think these were Eames' people either, but Eames was a people watcher, would never be bored just because he had little in common with those surrounding him.
It was because he was thinking of Eames that he at first thought his mind was playing tricks on him. It took a second, then a third look before he believed what he was seeing. He touched Hale's sleeve to get his attention and excused himself; Hale gave him an inquiring look but let him go, not willing to interrupt the conversation he was having with a couple of older gentlemen and their check books.
Arthur took care not to be obvious about it, circling around and stopping to exchange a word here and there with people Hale had pointed out to him beforehand. By the time he got to Eames, he was practically churning inside. This, here, was the last place he'd expected Eames to be. Arthur wanted to drag him off and demand to know what the hell he was doing there, maybe throttle him a little, but regrettably had more self-control than that.
"Fancy meeting you here," Arthur said when he finally paused next to Eames at one of the refreshment tables, keeping his voice low. "Mr...?"
"Whitley," Eames said, quirking an eyebrow. "Charles Whitley, at your service."
"Charmed," Arthur said through gritted teeth and replaced his flute of champagne for appearance's sake, looking at Eames from the corner of his eye while doing so. Eames fit in with the people around him in a way someone who didn't know him and had seen him fresh out of Mombasa would never have expected him to. It wasn't just that he was clean-shaven and was wearing an exquisite suit -- it was in the way he held himself, the haughty set of his eyebrows, the hint of arrogance in his upper lip.
"What are you doing here?" Arthur asked, making sure his voice didn't carry.
"So we're done with the pleasantries already?" Eames mused in a similar tone, his eyes sweeping over the people around them. "I came to see you, obviously."
Arthur didn't bother wondering how Eames had known he'd be here, or insulting them both by asking how he'd gotten an invite.
"You could've let me know in advance," Arthur said. "You have my number. And what's so important it couldn't wait until later?" He glanced back the way he'd come. He could just catch a glimpse of Hale, deep in discussion with the people Arthur had left him with. He turned back to Eames with an expression that demanded an answer; he didn't appreciate whatever game Eames was playing.
"Oh, it's not an emergency, you needn't worry," Eames said, moving the flute he was holding in his hand in tiny circles, making the champagne swirl within. "And I did let you know, did I not?"
Arthur scoffed.
"The text message? Hardly informative. Doesn't count. Even if you really were in Naples, knowing that wouldn't have done me any good."
Not unless Eames had used an alias Arthur was familiar with on his way from Naples to New York, anyway, but in an attempt to keep his emotional distance, Arthur hadn't been tracking him.
"Arthur, you wound me," Eames said. "Would I lie to you?"
"In a heartbeat," Arthur said. "Now, why are you really here, and why didn't you tell me you were coming?"
"You might've told me not to come," Eames said after a beat of silence, like he'd been contemplating on whether to tell the truth. "As it is, I wasn't counting on you acknowledging my presence here tonight."
Arthur pursed his lips. As if he could have gone on about his evening, pretending he hadn't noticed Eames skulking at the periphery of his vision. Eames was right about one thing, though -- he would have told Eames not to come. (He wouldn't have expected Eames to actually listen.)
"And now that I have?" He asked. Eames gave him a lingering look.
"I recon this would be an opportunity for us to have the conversation I came here for," he said, glancing over Arthur's shoulder. "Assuming you're not in a hurry to get back to your boyfriend?"
"He's --" Arthur cut himself off with a sigh. "Fine. Talk."
"No need to get snappy, darling," Eames murmured, sipping his champagne.
"Mr. Whitley," Arthur said.
"Fine, fine, have it your way," Eames said. He cleared his throat. "I've been thinking --"
"Lord have mercy," Arthur said, unable to help himself.
"Ye of little faith," Eames said, the corner of his mouth curling up. "While talking to Cobb," he continued, "It occurred to me that you might be in need of a partner. He's out of the business, or so he told me -- who knows how long that will last, but in the mean time, at the very least --"
Arthur blinked.
"You're here," he said, "To ask me to be your point man?"
"I'm not a half-bad extractor, as I'm sure you know," Eames said with a shrug. "I've been thinking about setting up a more permanent team for a while now, see how it turns out. Interested?"
It was such a bad idea, Arthur thought.
"This is such a bad idea," Arthur said.
"On the contrary, it's a brilliant idea," Eames argued. "It makes sense. Cobb might be retiring, but I know you won't. Are you really looking forward to being on point for different extractors from one job to the next?"
Such a bad idea, Arthur told himself again. Before he could reply, Eames caught sight of something over Arthur's shoulder and straightened almost unnoticeably. Arthur looked over and greeted Hale with a strained smile.
"Did you hook them?" Arthur asked when Hale came to a stop beside him, wondering about the discussion he'd ditched in order to talk to Eames.
"We'll see," Hale said, noncommittal. "Would've gone better if you'd been there to distract Mrs. Madelyn Goldstein when she came around to reclaim her husband."
"Sorry," Arthur said, even though he wasn't feeling particularly sorry. "I got caught up. This is Charles Whitley, we've met before. Mr. Whitley, meet Richard Hale."
"A pleasure," Eames said with a tight smile, offering his hand.
"Likewise, I'm sure," Hale said, shaking hands with him. He looked Eames over and raised his eyebrows ever so slightly, saying, "What is your business here, Mr. Whitley, if you don't mind my asking?"
"Oh, I don't mind at all," Eames said, his smile now showing teeth. "I'm afraid I've come to steal Arthur away from you."
Arthur's traitorous heart gave a little jump at that, but he ignored it, rolling his eyes instead.
"It's just work," he explained to Hale, who was looking between them with faint amusement and -- something else Arthur couldn't quite pinpoint.
"Is it?" Hale said, but it didn't sound much like a question. "Well, when you say steal him away, I do hope you don't mean right now. I have plans for him tonight."
"Do you now," Eames said, staring Hale down in a manner that bordered on hostile, and Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, wondering how this could be his life.
"It's not --" He started to say, and then didn't, because what was he thinking. He didn't owe Eames any explanations, and the compulsion to tell him, in front of Hale no less, that it's not like that; it's not what you think, was embarrassing to say the least. "I'll talk to you later, okay? And the proposition -- I'm not saying no, but I need to think about it."
"Yes, alright," Eames said after a pause that lasted a moment too long. He was slow to drag his less-than-friendly gaze away from Hale, and the smile he gave Arthur was wane. "Later."
"It was wonderful meeting you, Mr. Whitley," Hale said with studied politeness, nodding at Eames. "If you'll excuse us."
Arthur allowed himself to be drawn away by Hale's hand at the small of his back, but couldn't help looking over his shoulder at Eames one more time. Eames was staring after them, a still, solid figure among the milling people. He raised his glass fractionally when he saw Arthur looking, his eyes hooded. Arthur turned away, biting the inside of his lip.
"Charles Whitley, was it?" Hale said, like he knew the name was an alias.
"Yes," Arthur said. "Sorry about him."
"Haven't heard you apologizing on anyone's behalf, before," Hale said. "Is he an ex of yours?"
Arthur felt himself stiffen, unable to catch the reaction in time to do anything about it. Hale noticed, of course, glancing at him with a look that was almost apologetic.
"I don't mean to pry," he said, "but for future reference, the two of you are pretty obvious about it."
"It's nothing," Arthur said. "It's all in the past."
Hale shook his head but didn't say anything for a moment. He snagged a champagne flute from a passing waiter's tray while Arthur waited, wary; he knew these silences -- they never lasted.
"Did you know, Arthur," Hale said, looking at the pale liquid in his flute, "I rarely sustain interest in people over long periods of time. You've been something of an exception for me, and I think that's in part because you've never expressed any interest in staying."
"Hale --"
"I came to think you'd always come back to me -- but there was always the possibility that you wouldn't. And now --"
"Whatever it is you're trying to say, just say it," Arthur said, the taste of champagne souring the words on his tongue.
"His proposition, whatever it is -- you're going to say yes," Hale said, and Arthur looked at him sharply. "Oh, don't look at me like that. We haven't always been honest with each other, but I believe we know each other well enough to be honest about this. You're going to say yes. To him. And I don't think you'll be coming back to me anymore."
Arthur shook his head, looking away.
"You don't have to say anything," Hale told him, pensive. "It's enough that we both know the truth."
"It's more complicated than you make it out to be," Arthur said. "And if it's not..."
He trailed off, closing his eyes for a fleeting moment. If it was not...
"Let's talk about something else," he said, and drowned the rest of his champagne so he couldn't ask Hale what he was supposed to do, here. So he couldn't say: If I give him half-a-chance, he's going to break my heart again.
He wasn't ready for that conversation. Not with Hale -- not with anyone.
Mercifully, Hale complied, and for the span of the night, Arthur was able to pretend nothing had changed.
-
"If we do this," Arthur said three days later, his hands curled around a sub-par cup of Starbucks coffee, "It will be on a trial basis."
"Of course," Eames said, his own coffee sitting on the table between them, untouched.
And for better or for worse, that was that; they were a team.
-
Privately, Arthur called himself all kinds of fool for saying yes to Eames' proposition. The problem was that Hale had been right -- about some things, at least. It was stupid, but Arthur had never been very good at saying no to Eames. As it was, he knew, deep down, that when this partnership fell apart -- as it inevitably would -- it was going to be Eames who walked away; it was always Eames who left.
Going in, Arthur didn't have high expectations. Not only was he setting himself up for a fall, but from a purely professional point of view, the two of them were never going to work out in long term. Arthur was good at his job because he'd made a point of carving a place for himself and being on top of the food chain, and Eames was... Eames. They were both excellent at what they did, but when put together, they too often brought out the worst in each other. They weren't going to last six months, and Arthur wasn't sure why he was giving it a shot in the first place, except to maybe prove something to himself, once and for all.
Their first job, two months after incepting Fischer, was an easy one and went off without a hitch. It was almost insulting how smoothly they pulled off the extraction, just the two of them, except that was the point -- to test their new partnership with something simple before moving on to more challenging jobs.
The second one had more of an edge, but not by much. By the third, they were getting the hang of it, navigating each other with more ease. They counted the job as a success even though they'd ended up running through a maze of narrow streets and back alleys in Cairo due to an unfortunate case of miscommunication -- Eames' words, not his -- with the architect they'd hired for the job.
It was the planning stages that kept tripping them up; they had a different approach to most things and got annoyed with each other regularly. They fought, occasionally sending whatever extra team members the job needed scurrying out of the room, but when it came down to it, none of that mattered. In a dream, in executing a job, they were seamless, complimenting each other. Even when they fought while planning, there was something thrilling about it. Arthur didn't think it was just him; the way Eames' eyes flashed sometimes when they argued, Arthur could swear he was enjoying himself.
A small voice at the back of his head kept trying to tell him that, just maybe, he'd been wrong about their ability to work with each other long term. They fit together in ways he hadn't expected them to, and as time passed, he began to think their partnership was worth ignoring the way his heart ached and his skin flushed with want sometimes when Eames smiled at him or stood too close. They weren't lovers; they weren't friends; they were partners, and Arthur was slowly beginning to think that maybe he could trust Eames in this, if nothing else, and maybe it would be enough.
Then, as they were getting ready for their sixth job, he came back one evening to the little apartment in Lisbon one of his contacts had arranged for them, and found Eames alone and asleep, wires sneaking out from under his sleeve, the PASIV open and active on the floor next to him. Arthur felt his stomach lurch even as he reminded himself that it wasn't unusual for people to go under on their own, and that whatever reasons Eames had for doing so -- whether it was for work or for pleasure -- it was none of Arthur's business right now. He told himself to walk away. Talking with Eames could wait.
He stood there for a minute, trying to convince himself to leave. It wasn't working.
"Fuck it," Arthur muttered. He sat down on the ground next to Eames' chair and reached for the PASIV. He checked the settings and the somnacin levels, wiped his wrist with a disinfectant, and hooked himself up. He was being paranoid, but he'd already done this dance once with Dom -- he wasn't going to repeat his mistakes with Eames. He didn't care that it was a breach of privacy, or that his worry was irrational, given that Eames had showed no signs of having any of Dom's issues; seeing Eames like this reminded Arthur so much of the times he had seen Dom go under alone and had done nothing about it, that it made him feel sick. It made him want to be sure. If Eames wanted to continue their partnership, he'd better be willing to prove to Arthur that he wasn't keeping secrets.
Arthur lay down, blinking slowly at the ceiling as he was dragged under.
-
The first thing he saw was a hallway, stretching out in front of him. It looked like it belonged to a hotel, numbered doors on either side. Except when he took a closer look, the numbers didn't make any sense. Some looked like dates, others were upside down, and a few had letters mixed in. At the end of the hallway, double doors stood open, leading into a suite with wall-to-wall windows, sunlight streaming in unhindered.
As he moved closer, Arthur saw that the sitting room was empty. He could hear a murmur of voices coming from further in. Eames' he recognized. The other -- it sounded familiar, but it wasn't until he was standing in the doorway leading to the bedroom that he understood why.
It was his own.
He wasn't sure what he was seeing, didn't understand it; there was Eames, wearing the same clothes he did in reality, sitting on the bed, angled away from the doorway. He was saying something, but Arthur felt like his head was filled with white noise, could only make out the warm, fond tone of his voice. Kneeling on the bed next to him, facing the doorway and yet not appearing to notice Arthur, was a projection.
Arthur stared at it, him, this strange, adolescent version of himself. He looked painfully young, but more painful than that was the open expression on his face as he looked at Eames -- the want there, the adoration. Arthur rested a hand on the door frame and curled his fingers against it, his nails digging in.
Eames fell silent and twisted around like he'd sensed he was being watched. Their eyes met, and Arthur could see the moment Eames realized that Arthur wasn't a projection. Eames shot up from the bed like he'd been burned.
"Arthur," he barked. "What the hell?"
"What the --" Arthur cut himself off with a sharp inhale. "You're seriously asking me that?"
Eames ran a hand through his hair, agitated. The projection slid off the bed and went to him, reaching out to touch his hand.
"Mr. Eames?" The projection said, looking up at Eames with a tentative expression. Eames closed his eyes briefly and shook his head.
"Everything's fine, pet," he said, a rough quality to his voice.
Arthur was beginning to feel faint.
"I-- Have you been fucking him?" He blurted out.
"No!" Eames exclaimed, looking at Arthur with something akin to alarm. "Good Lord, no."
"Have you wanted to?" Arthur asked, forcing himself to let go of the door frame, uncurling his fingers with some difficulty.
"He's just a kid," Eames said.
"I used to be him," Arthur said. "You had sex with me."
"Point," Eames said, running the back of his hand over his mouth. "But I was not in my thirties at the time, and I was -- I wasn't who I am now."
The projection made an inquiring noise, frowning up at Eames.
"Right, let's --" Eames said, "Let's not do this here." He picked up the projection of Arthur's teenage self like it was nothing and deposited him on the bed. He cupped the projection's face in his hands, and the look in his eyes was -- tender. Arthur absolutely did not feel a spike of jealousy, because feeling jealous of an imagined version of himself would have been ridiculous.
"You," Eames told the projection. "Stay here."
The projection blinked, and then a slow smile blossoming on his face, wicked and sweet in equal measures.
"I will -- if you promise you'll come back soon," he said, nuzzling Eames' hand, not breaking eye contact. Arthur looked away, uncomfortable with the display. He couldn't have been that unselfconscious and forward at that age. Could he?
"And none of that, alright?" Eames said, stern. "Stay."
The projection pouted but stayed put when Eames stepped away and turned to Arthur. He scratched the back of his head, looking embarrassed.
"I'd, uh, appreciate it if we could talk in the sitting room. Or the hallway, if you'd prefer."
Arthur stepped away from the doorway with one last look at the boy who was sitting on the bed, leaning back on his hands and looking at Eames with singular focus. He cursed silently and turned away, walking across the sitting room and into the hallway. They could've just left the dream completely, but Arthur didn't feel like dealing with this particular mess in the waking world, as if it might make it -- real.
"He's being pretty provocative," he said, not turning to look at Eames.
"He's --" Eames said. "You. You've always been persistent."
"Is this about, you know, our first time being my first time," Arthur said, feeling inexplicably discomfited talking about it. "I mean, if it's not about sex, then what? Guilt?"
Eames didn't say anything, and Arthur spun around to face him.
"It is, isn't it?" Arthur demanded starting to get angry again. "You feel guilty about something that happened a decade ago, and -- and you come here to, what, not have sex with him -- me -- like it'll change history?"
"I don't expect it to change anything," Eames said. He stood there, his stance relaxed, his expression open and somehow sad, like he didn't expect Arthur to give him the benefit of the doubt but was willing to accept his judgement anyway. It made Arthur's chest ache. He closed his eyes and pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose.
"Goddamnit, Eames," he finally said without any heat, letting his arm fall back to his side. "I'm not looking for another Cobb. Whatever your issue is with what happened between us --"
"It isn't an issue," Eames interrupted him, snapping out of whatever gloom had held him still, and took a step forward. "He isn't going to start showing up during the jobs, Arthur, I swear."
"I don't know how comfortable I am, knowing he's in your head," Arthur admitted.
"You weren't supposed to know," Eames said, wincing when Arthur shot him a look. "That did nothing to help my case, huh?"
"Not really, no," Arthur said with reluctant amusement. The silence that fell between them then was just shy of awkward, and Arthur looked down at his shoes, putting his hands into his pockets. He startled at a fleeting touch against his cheek and his eyes flew up to meet Eames'. Eames snatched his hand back and clenched it into a fist. He cleared his throat.
"You said --" He looked away. "You weren't supposed to be back yet. Was there something you needed to talk about?"
He was changing the subject, but Arthur didn't blame him for it. Feeling almost relieved to go along with it for now himself, he said,
"I wanted to talk about the timeline for this job. The mark made a doctor's appointment we could use, but the timing doesn't work for me. It would be stupid to rush it and risk everything for a routine job like this, so we'll have to either be patient and wait for another chance, or give this one a pass. It's still early enough that we can back out without too much trouble, if it comes to that."
Eames didn't say anything for a moment.
"Time to go see the boyfriend?"
"Hale?" Arthur looked at Eames with a frown. "I wouldn't skip out on a job for something like that, and he's not my boyfriend."
"You broke up?" Eames said, his expression shifting into something Arthur couldn't decipher, but which nonetheless made his mouth dry.
"In a manner of speaking," he said, because considering how easy being with Hale had been, thinking about their relationship in conventional terms made it seem complicated.
"So," Eames said, hooking his thumbs through his belt loops. "What would this prior engagement of yours be, then?"
"James' birthday is on the twenty-third," Arthur said, shrugging. "I'm always there for their birthdays."
At least he tried to be, though work had prevented it a couple of times in the past. He'd always made up for it.
Eames looked down and ran his tongue over his bottom teeth, nodding.
"Alright," he said. "Not a big deal. We'll finish the job later."
"Okay," Arthur said, relieved -- not that he'd expected Eames to be difficult about it, but still. "Yeah. Thanks."
It wasn't until later that he realized that agreeing to doing the job later relied largely on the assumption that whatever was going on between them wouldn't end up with them going their separate ways. It was stupid and optimistic, and Arthur didn't like that his mind had gone there so easily. But he didn't voice his concerns, and he didn't say anything when Eames decided to tag along with him for James' birthday.
They'd have to talk at some point. They might as well do it with Dom and the kids around, acting as a buffer if it turned out they needed one.
And maybe they wouldn't. Maybe it'd turn out alright -- better than alright, if Eames --
Arthur cut himself off there with the ferocity of someone who'd been burned one too many times. Yet, in the back of his mind, and despite himself, he began to hope.
***
VII: The Forger's Heart